The 265th death. [By Deepannita Misra] Here lies Deepannita Misra, 25, who laughed and cried a little, gulped down her tears with two shots of bitter espresso, and passed away peacefully on the morning of 22nd November. It was a terrifically mundane day. It was also her birthday. She looked good though – wearing a dark lipstick with no other signs of makeup, basking in sufficient warmth and sunlight filtering in through her hollow 2bhk rented apartment. She was hollow inside-out. Those who knew her testified that she had been embezzled out of emotions worth millions of rupees a long time ago. She revealed shortly before her death that she had fallen prey to this grave crime. They didn’t know who the culprit

The 264th death. [By Sumaiya Arshad] "We carry the tragedy, the legacy, the kindness and the sins." -Sumaiya Arshad Sumaiya was an English professor by profession and a poet in her free time. You could find her baking with her cats every evening in her small apartment that overlooked Delhi's blurry skyline. She loved going to art galleries and the city's monuments for peace and inspiration. Her house always smelled like cakes and coffee and its walls had framed roses and prints of her work. Her first poem was published when she was 17 and that's when her dream for literature was born. She published her first anthology "The Bittersweet Potpourri" at 21 and a photo book titled "I saw it all" at 25. Her

The 263rd death. [By Harsh Roy] Harsh Roy died at the tender age of 21, in the colorless room of a hospital in South Delhi, his hand being held by his love. In his last moments, he was being yelled at for not revealing his sickness until it was too late, but he went away peacefully, knowing her anger was coming from a place of love. He was a student, alone and quiet, drowned in literature. His room was a mess filled with books, out of which Dostoyevsky and Murakami stood out. He was also immeasurably in love with nature and writing. Deeply influenced by music and art, he believed they were the meaning of life. A person, no matter how alone

The 262nd death. [By Pavel Catalina] Catalina Pavel, a writer and a lover of Kerala, was found dead at the beginning of Edavappathi, at her place in Malabar, her second home, most probably while watching the sun setting over the Arabian Sea. On her desk: her diary and Madhavikkutty's poetry, the remains of her afternoon black coffee and the beginning of a letter written to someone close. The ink stains still fresh. The smell of the coffee still persistent in the room. In her letter she was actually expressing her wish to be buried under a coconut tree facing the sea. She smiled one day when she found out this wish in one of Kamala Das' books as well. For her Kamala was, in

The 261st death. [By Amitayush Yadav] He once quoted Arundhati Roy and asked "Where do dreams go, when the dreamer dies?" Now that he himself has set off on the eternal journey, we wonder what must have happened to his dreams? Twenty-two-year old lad who answered to the name of Amitayush (Betu, at home), passed away on the morning of 25th January, 2021. On a close observation of his room, certain notables were found--Ten sticky notes, four of which had question marks on them while other six had exclamations; a pile of books having a hat on the top; few posters pinned on the corner wall carrying lines from the movies TAMASHA, THE NAMESAKE and FIGHT CLUB; a honeydew blend cigarette in the upper

The 260th death. [By Sneha Roy] Sneha Roy, a poet and photographer, was found dead on 12th June in Shillong while writing the last of her letters in the attic. The letter was not revealed as it was solely intended for some fellow poet. Virginia Woolf's suicide note was found in the pockets of her cloak. Her personal diary where she documented her life was found burnt beside her typewriter with shiuli flowers scattered all over the floor, as informed by her lover. She was well known for writing 4 books and directing 2 films. The best known poetry collection among them was 'The Cacophonic Screams'. "The reminiscence of an unloved soul will break apart the burial ground to emerge eternal with all

The 258th death. [By Varun Dhingra] Varun Dhingra, the well-unknown center of his make-believe universe, passed away, in his favorite writer's words, at the viable-diable age of 33, in his ramshackle room on the roof at his parents' house in West Delhi. He died alone and semi-conscious, as he had lived, in the company of his many books and few possessions. Notable among these was an antique wooden box containing a tola of hasheesh and a pouch of American Spirit tobacco, which had earned him the infamous (yet appropriate) moniker of "Charsi". The dusty, smoke-filled room was full of old travel photographs and older books, a few wall clocks none of which had worked for the last 1.5 decades (18 till I die

The 257th death. [By Usha Ramaswamy] Usha Ramaswamy died on 27th September in a house filled with love, light and laughter. Swapna, a friend who knew her well, said that she passed away because she knew that she was not making a difference any more. A teacher by chance, she took every opportunity to learn from her students; she had no qualms in saying ‘I don’t know this’ or ‘I made a mistake’. Her lessons were unconventional and she wove newsreports, advertisements, whatsApp forwards, and poetry into them. She thrived, thanks to her circle of friends and family, each of whom influenced her deeply, and whose imprint could be found in the lessons she taught. She took to travelling at a late stage in life and

The 256th death. [By Manami Chakravorty] Manami Chakravorty loved window seats and enjoyed travelling in metro and local trains, silently observing different people with different lives, coexisting together. She weaved stories around strangers. She kept wondering about everything and hence was usually lost. For most of her life, Ms Chakravorty confused happiness with peace. She thought every non-living thing was an individual. For her, the yellow taxis were men in their mid-thirties, tired of their average lives; and cream biscuits were some happy kids, unaware of the cruelty of this world. She strongly believed in the power of kindness and in the healing power of books and ghazals. She had this conclusion--life is like a strict teacher, who punishes you brutally to make you

The 255th death. [By Aysha Naurein] Aysha Naurein was a dreamer. She saw big, wild dreams, the kind that people would consider over-ambitious and unrealistic if she spoke about it. So she didn’t. She feared living an ordinary life, not living life to the fullest. She worried if maybe life didn’t turn out to be as remarkable as she wanted it to be. No one will know how many of her dreams she actually realized, if she lived the life she saw in her head. Aysha wasn’t someone frequently hanging out with friends or active in a group chat on Whatsapp. She had a lot of acquaintances but her ride-or-die circle was small, and once you’re in, you’ll hardly ever be out. She