The 102nd death.
[Text by Aishwarya Kandpal; photo by Unknown]
My 45th death.
November 19, 2055.
Slurp. Sniff. Slurp.
The huge Mishka sat next to a most demurely seated figure, head down on the grand piano, seemingly wondering why her master wouldn’t respond despite her vain attempts of the wondrously vehement licking. Five minutes later, she stretched her old paws on the grass and stared at what remained of the master with the equivalent of a dog’s expression of glum- droopy eyes blinking periodically.
“Aishwarya Kandpal passes away. Snow covered body found head down on her grand piano in the middle of her small strawberry orchard. The death is probably a result of her late evening skinny-dipping in a nearby lake,” the local newspaper read.
“The storyteller, as she was popularly known in the contemporary arts circle, is survived by her retriever, Mishka, a husband who has arrived from 7,000 miles away, a greying partner who she lived with, and a friend called Moshe. Nobody knows Moshe’s real name but what we do know is that Moshe is Ms Kandpal’s old and beloved friend,” the article continued. “More claimants to her body (and the grand piano and the retriever) have been showing up, one after the other, hanging their heads in despair as if the world had plunged into darkness for a day.”
Men are mostly typical, if nothing, you know.
Ms Kandpal lived a life of absolute contentment and even in her death, her face wore a smile that most thought was rather eerie. At 45, she was as jolly as a prancing butterfly in the wild mountains of Třeboň, the Czech town she lived in. She laughed heavily and cried even louder, only to be followed by rapturous fits of laughter. Her favorite pastime was sitting under peach trees and reading stories to anyone who asked for them. Her great teak library housed books by Jim Corbett and Ruskin Bond, two of her favorite men and fellow mountain products, apart from hardbound collections of Haruki Murakami, Anaïs Nin and Premchand. Quite erratic in her ways, Ms Kandpal would beat her hands and fall to the floor when overtly excited. That is how most townsmen remember her. In her spare time, she hustled other people’s sheep to grazing grounds with a cheery Mishka in tow.
We look forward to solving Ms Kandpal’s case from her unfinished book on her husband from 7,000 miles away, her greying partner and the mysterious friend Moshe.
Could someone suggest us if there’s a way that Damien Rice’s Amie could play inside her coffin until the next eternity?
Our Self-Written Obituaries invites people to write their obituary in 200 words. The idea is to share with the world how you will like to be remembered after you are gone. (May you live a long life, of course!) Please mail me your self-obit at firstname.lastname@example.org.