The 275th death. [By Manavi Mahajan] On the eve of her birthday, she went to bed early with no one to wish her at midnight and never woke up. She died at the exact time she was born. Manavi was 31 and a fighter, fighting her desire to stay in bed everyday but today was the day she wonderfully lost. She was happy with her mundane job and her small apartment full of plants, that gave her hope. She was organized and loved spending time cleaning. An amateur reader, she loved mythological fiction. She was also into poetry that she read avidly and seldom wrote too. She was an artist in her own mysterious life. She loved mountains. It made her reaffirm

The 274th death. [By Muiz] Here lies Muiz. Naked and impervious to the scorching sun. Muiz, 21, was found dead this Monday morning at his parents' home. Cause of death--chronic delusions. A half-cheerful soul, never sure of himself, lived simple. One slice of ambition with half a knob of banality spread on top--his favourite breakfast. His funeral service was attended by one cat, two ravens and an equally empty shell of a man as he himself was. Perhaps it was a soliloquy from the grave they had been waiting for, an end to his Mythos. He once told me that he was afraid, afraid that his life too would be engulfed by oblivion. Maybe that's why he always acted bigger than himself. I

The 273rd death. [By Lavanya] If Lavanya were to write her own obituary, she’d probably just weave together a mismatched lattice of her favourite poems, euphemising her death in her own metaphorically poetic fashion. Her camera roll was filled with pictures of the skies at their pinkest, and her notes were full of poems she wrote impulsively on nights she either felt too much or nothing at all. The last song she listened to before she died was called, ironically enough, Carry On, and the last thing she looked up on google was ‘origami for beginners’. She loved to paint her old art files with flowers from her grandfather's garden, albeit ineptly, and had been trying to learn a Bryan Adams on her

The 272nd death. [By Sruthi Ramanarayanan] Fact. Sruthi hated standing in front of open refrigerator doors or walking on ice. She hated layers hence she couldn’t handle the cold. She drowned in the North Atlantic Ocean while scaling the rocks of Forchu Lighthouse in Nova Scotia. Well, atleast that’s what they reported but in reality, cause of death was hypothermia. While she wasn't much of a climber, she did know how to swim. Wanderlust and a lack of inspiration took her to the eastern point of the Great White North. And on one fateful night, 2 of her favourite hobbies were in full swing- wine and a sunset. So she chased the sun and scales the coves until she was admits the symphony of

The 271st death. [By Gursimran K. Bakshi] Gursimran took a quick nap under the shade of a tree on a sunny day. That was where she was last found. She did not leave behind any handwritten letters because she felt quite distant from everyone. Perhaps, she did not want to be remembered. She was born an extrovert. But died as an introvert, who found comfort in Khalid Hosseini’s novels. She often dreamed of visiting Hosseini’s Afghanistan, the land of pomegranate fields and a friendship like that of Hassan and Amir. But she was aware that land and a friendship like that no longer existed. On her good days, she would be seen sipping a cup of chai and exploring the world of

The 270th death. [By Lisa] Today, I died: January 30,2022. I died today, leaving behind my 99-year-old father, two sisters, and Trenton. Trenton, the terrier, is wondering why I am no longer walking, laughing and kissing with him. My father is wondering too. I just disappeared, as far as they know. Over the past several years, due to the ubiquity and lethality of the coronavirus, I had spent my days photographing the surrounds of my home rather than going far afield. I had become increasingly impressed with the local landscape’s similarity to what I imagine was present when dinosaurs inhabited this earth. I had also cooked more imaginatively, discovering how to mix together unexpectedly compatible ingredients, such as fennel, green beans and anchovies.

The 269th death. [By Esha Jamal] It was On the wind of yesterday That her fragrance came to me When that closed book Fell from my hands Strewing forgotten petals Of a long pressed rose From between its pages It was then That I remembered her Eyes that yearned For once they too had dreamt But when dreams remained dreams And time kept passing They were Like everything else Disburdened From everyday And as memory Stole out From where Her hands had last Imprisoned it It was then That I remembered her For few now did And few then did Forgotten Before she was gone... 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

The 268th death. [By Ameer Hamza] "The life i craved for, was the life i hated most." Here lived Ameer Hamza, in the filthy streets of Gujranwala in Pakistan. He was a nerd, always immersed in books. His life was full of hopes, that he didn't hope, love that he didn't love. His favourite writer was Kafka and he was in the same conditions that were discovered by Kafka; Kafakesque. He loved poetry but always afraid that his poetical attitude was disturbing his family's dream for him. He never lived with his own will. He asked what does he want but got no answer. Fortunately, he stumbled upon a subject that was meant for him--philosophy. And the question like "who am i? What

The 267th death. [By Pahuna] People close to her called her Pahu. Her last wish was to roam the streets of Delhi and explore the architecture and bookshops, like a free soul. She always knew she belonged there. She would watch a movie, almost everyday. Usually romance or feel-good or romcom movies. She had one hell of a talent for crying while watching almost any movie. Pahuna means ‘guest’. She was not afraid to die, but afraid that one day she would be a guest to the people close to her. In fact, she found the concept of death interesting actually. Like how each civilization had a common notion of an after-life. Like how every significant moment in one’s life reels back minutes

The 266th death. [By Harshal Padmakar] "if only my silences could speak, they would talk endlessly about soo many things... " Harshal who was 22 years old was found dead today in his room. The cause of death is unknown, maybe he watched too many movies. He was found with a Murakami book on his lap, an Ali Sethi song playing on his phone, a movie playing on his laptop and lots of crumbled paper filled with verses from his favorite poets. Oddly enough, the entire room was smelling of roses. Harshal was a management student with the most unorganized room in the world. He was a Dreamer, who dreamt of travelling the world, making a movie, Writing a book, Singing for his lover