SELF-OBIT: By Neha Dasgupta


For Neha (1984-2069)

Written by a friend

If I were to reduce her to a stroke of a watermelon-coloured splash in a painting, it would make you wonder whether that is a sign of revolt, anger or celebration. Her writing evoked a kind of nostalgia that is only reserved for transient moments in life that sometimes appear unreal.

She tried, through her words to create a pattern but just like her, they were bold, striking, tender, unfamiliar souls dressed as words. Sometimes helpless, she would be shallow and alien-like.

In conversation, she could never hesitate to tell the world off, be a little odd in her unabashed ways to come forward and poke holes. No wonder she did well as a journalist.

If I could call her back, I’d probably warn her for being so dramatic and unsettling in her criticism of the world but in my tug, she would forget all that was said and walk on. Her distractions were far too many. The neighbourhood dogs miss the old lady and her incoherent songs. The family misses her.
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