Harmesh Kohli passed away on the morning of April 8. It was her 80th birthday. As is normal on reaching a landmark decade, wishes had been pouring in on the family WhatsApp group from midnight onwards. But Harmesh was unwell, gravely so, and couldn’t sleep a wink the whole night. A restless malaise had grown, then tightened its grip on her gradually for the past fortnight; that night had been unusually difficult. A day earlier, the family had called up a nursing home but, with all resources directed towards fighting coronavirus, no doctor was available. A nurse heard out the symptoms, told them it could be intestinal gas, and prescribed medicines. On the night before her death, Harmesh had, with premonitory lucidity, told her daughter how to deal with her belongings.