He wasn’t looking for a stranger. He was looking for himself.
The doctors had given him six months. That was two years ago. Since then, every morning had begun the same way: brew the kehwa, open the laptop, and scroll through the names of the dead. It had started as a morbid joke— Let’s see if I made the list today —but it had become scripture. He knew the rhythm of grief now. On Mondays, the page was full. By Friday, sparse. The language was always formal, a parade of “beloved husbands,” “pious souls,” and “deeply mourned by.” Daily Excelsior Epaper Obituary Today
Aged 58. Left behind husband, daughter in Canada, and a loyal pug named Kulfi. Cremation at 4 PM, Shamshan Ghat, Jammu. He wasn’t looking for a stranger
Today, however, the cursor trembled over a name he recognized. That was two years ago
Amar sat back. Sunita Balraj lived three doors down. He had seen her just yesterday, hanging bedsheets on her terrace, her silver hair catching the afternoon light. She had waved. He had waved back. Now, between the rising of the sun and the loading of a PDF, she had become a noun. A data point. An obituary .
He folded the paper, slipped it into an envelope, and addressed it to the editor of the Daily Excelsior . Not for publication. Just for keeping.
He found his own reflection in the dark screen instead. And for the first time in two years, he smiled.