Our Self-Written Obituaries – Prachi Bhutada, Pune
The 165th death.
[Text by Prachi Bhutada; photos by Anand Desai]
Prachi Bhutada wanted to be everything. What she ended up being was: too much. Of that she was embarrassed, you could tell.
She was loud, like her grandmother. She spoke before she thought, like her mother. She cried often and out loud, like she laughed, unlike her father.
She had suffered a lack of a childhood. She was born an adult to take care of her mother’s schizophrenia and her father’s sufferings but had become childlike by the end of her short life. She drank wine at every excuse of an occasion, only wore skirts she could swirl in and colored her hair red. She wrote a lot and she read books that tore her heart apart; they made her realize she wasn’t alone.
She hated the word ‘unfair’.
In the diary where she stored her thoughts of death, we found no fear. In it, she wrote: Don’t let my father go bald, give everything I own to Ruchi. Tell mummy: for her, I’d do it all over. Tell kaka to sing ‘Chiraiyya’ at the funeral, tell Goldie he is a good boy and have my grave say–She was too much, but she would have it no other way.
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.