Our Self-Written Obituaries – Suhasini Soumitra Barman, Calcutta
The 227th death.
[Text and photos sent by Suhasini Soumitra Barman]
Drunk on memories, laughter and wine, Suhasini Soumitra Barman left for home last night. Back to her father, best friend, partner-in-crime; her whole universe rolled into one. With their crazy sense of humour and love for all things mischievous, they must be up to some insane prank right now. And in all probabilities, they must already be ready with a hit-list——her sister might be the usual soft target (they’ve missed this beloved ritual for quite a while now). And one can bet on it that they must be brunching together this morning because nobody loved food as much as these two did.
Impulsive, reckless and steadfastly kind, her favourite person often fondly called her Stargazer, for her infinite love towards the same and for him of course (you’re the brightest star in my constellation, she’d often tell him). Her 30 best friends have been duly assigned a day each to dust her books and make sure that they’re neat (OCD, you see). She loved hills, music, poetry and Agha Shahid Ali dearly and wanted her grave to reek of the same as well.
Yes, I remember it,
the day I’ll die, I broadcast the crimson,
so long ago of that sky, its spread air,
its rushing dyes, and a piece of earth
bleeding, apart from the shore, as we went
on the day I’ll die, past the guards, and he,
keeper of the world’s last saffron, rowed me
on an island the size of a grave. On
two yards he rowed me into the sunset,
past all pain. On everyone’s lips was news
of my death but only that beloved couplet,
broken, on his:
“If there is a paradise on earth
It is this, it is this, it is this.”
— Agha Shahid Ali
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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You say that these roses and tulips are permanent here;
no, they are travellers all, like the waves of the breeze.
Where is the new truth which we seek, and do not find?
Mosque, school and tavern, all alike are barren.
Learn a word from your own self, and in that word burn,
for in this convent all lack Moses’ fire.
speak not of the striving for purity of these monastery—dwellers,
they are all dishevelled of hair, blankets unwashed.
What temples they have fashioned within the Sanctuary,
these unitarians of one thought, but all split in two!
The problem is not that the hour of feasting has passed,
the problem is that they are all without sweetmeats and boon-companion!
– Ghazal of Zinda Rud, from Allama Iqbal’s Javed Nama