Our Self-Written Obituaries – Prachi Nagpal, Rohini, Delhi
The 222nd death.
[Text and photo sent by Prachi Nagpal]
As Virginia Woolf said that a woman needs a room and some money to be a writer. Prachi Nagpal didn’t know what would become of her, but she surely knew she would have her own room. She had been shifting houses for a long time, and always felt dislocated as Mr. Biswas. She thought, “What does it mean to not own a physical space in this modern world? It actually means nothing.” And, the questions came up fluttering to her from all the angles of the world like “What do you want to be?”, “Who are you?” and this cacophony subsumed the voice of nothing, of nobody, that she thought she was.
But, she had always been intrigued by such questions and often asked herself , “Who am I?” and in a minute, she knew, she was that dislocated meaning that she interpreted out of every book.
She knew her death would come to her when she owns a house. She knew one dies only when he/she is satisfied with the life. So, she died on her chair this morning, while reading her favourite book, Madame Bovary, with the keys of her house placed on the table adjacent to her seat.
But, when she’s finally dead with or without a meaning, on a land that she owned, perhaps, that has given meaning to her entire life of dissatisfaction. The meaning that it’s not worthwhile to make a fuss about something so much. It’s not worthwhile to love Kafka and also giving certitudes to life. Because, in the end, one dies and is lost forever even in the spaces that he/she owns.
But, since her face looked beautiful instead of pale, the assumption goes as if she still believed a woman needs to own a room, where she could die and be lost to lose meaning once again.
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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