Our Self-Written Obituaries – Siddhartha Singh, Vaishali, Delhi Region
The 241st death.
[Text and photo sent by Siddhartha Singh]
He died at 49, just sort of half a century of something he hoped was worth something.
Siddhartha Singh was a prolific poet, but not a penny richer or smarter because of it. He was just good enough to be a lawyer. He died loving the woman who chose to live by his side after knowing everything he was and wasn’t capable of. In the end, she can probably say that she loved him just as much as he loved her. In any case, his life was a cornucopia of dilemmas and incrementally worse choices.
In the end, he is remembered by two poems he wrote, one of which has been lost due to the medieval nature of its origins–on a paper napkin in a crowded Tamilian breakfast joint between a plate of Idli-Chutney and filter coffee. One remembers only three lines from the lost verse–“What was left to him was in his hands / he could see but not feel, the tantalising presence of silver crested freedom/at last, in the ordinariness of life, on a loaf of bread…”
May be they loved it because they didn’t know what it was about. The other one was good but for the sake of his memory, it’s probably best not to regurgitate it here. Actually, it was a rather long poem, from a rather long man. He was 49 and he had probably lived too long. Close verse. Remember to not remember him in your prayers. He didn’t believe in them.
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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