Our Self-Written Obituaries – Vishab Thappa, Jammu
The 183rd death.
[Text and photos sent by Vishab Thappa]
They found him dead with a book of short stories by Sadat Hasan Manto on his chest. Vishab Thappa’s body was cold when they touched him. He was reading Thanda Gosht before dying, it seems. Vishab Thappa, the writer of poems and some short stories left the word on the same day as he came.
Sunday.
He was born in Jammu on a chilly morning of December the fifth, blue with cold and he died in a story, far far away from home, in a hot April afternoon, blue with cold.
He is survived by his scattered shards in his room, a wrist watch which has stopped at 6:45, a fountain pen, a bottle of ink (red), stacked pages which are full with words (his), books which rise up to the ceiling, a few letters which one is observant enough, can find hidden in between the pages of books, and debts of love and words which cannot be written off.
He has given instructions; I want to rest under the ground with the company of my words and shade of a tree near Chenab.
Little did he know that people could die of word overdose.
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 mayankaustensoofi@gmail.com.
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