Our Self-Written Obituaries – Anubhi Chandola, Mussoorie
The 252nd death.
[Text and photo sent by Anubhi Chandola]
In a distant and cold Himalayan town, Anubhi Chandola breathed her last, cuddled in her favorite green blanket with eyes staring nonchalantly at the wooden ceiling above.
On the table her coffee mug lay cold, tinted by the brown of her lips. Her room smelled of whiskey and sex when they found her. Her lifelong love for cinema was evident from the film stills that hung over the fireplace, looking down at her like lovers who long for the return of their beloveds.
The cold winds that blew from the west indicated that perhaps her spirit scuttled back to look at the 27- year- old weak and frail body it once called home. She had never been much of a believer but scribbled notes scattered all over the place revealed how she knew death was finally coming. A respite from painful life, some would say. The curtains, the upholstery and everything in the room reeked of cigarettes, allegorical of the ferocious love affair that started when she was 21. On her bedside rested a copy of If and Do Not Go Gentle Into That Goodnight; symbolic of how she lived and how she wanted to be remembered. She died as she had lived – away from the bigotry of society.
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 firstname.lastname@example.org.