The 135th death.

[Text by Pooja Tripathi; photo by Remya Menon]

This morning Pooja Tripathi, a well-known chronicler of city lives and loves, was found dead at her wooden cottage in the hills. Ms Tripathi leaves behind a books-filled home, as well as an unopened bottle of wine, and a vast collection of ethnic rings and silk sarees. Her survivors include her sixteen dogs. A book by late author Amrita Pritam was found beside her.

Ms Tripathi had left beside a note on her blog about the details of her last rites—it pointedly asked the mourners to desist from reciting any poem by Sahir Ludhiyanvi. Instead, she wants the following lines to be inscribed on her tomb:

When dreams die
Where do the ashes go
Do they turn into
The crumpled voices
The unbounced echoes
The solitary desires
The unlit whispers
The silent screams
A nightmarish stream
The withdrawal of tides
And moonlit eyes
The indifferent faces
The unhealed cracks
When dreams die
Where do the ashes go

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.

Be well wherever you are