The only death I was close enough to witness was my grandmother’s. She lived in Shimanthoor, a village near Mangalore, India most of her life and farmed crops for a living. 2 years before she passed, she was diagnosed with stomach cancer and moved to Mumbai so my mother could care for her. When her cancer worsened, my grandmother decided that she needed to be in Shimanthoor. A few months after they took her there, my mother called me on a video call. My grandmother was non verbal by this point and I didn’t know if she could recognize me. I was at work talking on the phone on the terrace of my office. I cried in the bathroom afterwards.

That night, I kept turning in bed. Grandparents passing away can feel like procedure. She was the last of my four grandparents still alive. I saw her a few times a year, knew some of her stories but the most important thing I knew was that my mother loved her mother to bits. I could see that my mother was having a very hard time coping with the inevitable. I took a few days off from work and flew to Mangalore airport, then took a cab to Shimanthoor.

My grandmother had stopped eating. She looked like she was in a lot of pain and I don’t think she really knew I was there. I always thought she loved my elder brother, R more. R was the first grandchild she had. So I am sure for her he occupied a very special place in her memory. I was the first granddaughter though and my mother was happy that I was there. My mother and her two brothers were by her side too. They knew it was time.

When the day came, my uncles were distracting themselves with chores. One was sweeping the floor, the other pulling weeds in the garden. My grandmother was in a room on the ground floor in the home she built. At some point in the afternoon, my mother wailed and called out to me. She couldn’t figure out if my grandmother was breathing. I realised that she was but the time between her breaths had gotten longer. So I held her hand and took her last breaths with her.

Everytime she took a breath, I would start counting and restart when she took her next one. First, they were 10 seconds apart, then 15, then 20. Slowly, the distance kept increasing. I watched as my grandmother fought. She was in pain, but she was fighting. Fighting for a last chance at life. I don’t know how I knew, she wasn’t saying anything but she wanted to stay. She was home, surrounded by her family. But there is nothing peaceful about death. Nobody dies peacefully, I realised.

I kept holding her hand as the breaths got further and further. And eventually stopped. I then looked at my mother and hugged her as she sobbed. The next few days, rituals and relatives took over the house. As relatives discussed how it was for the best and she wasn’t in pain, I silently disagreed. My grandmother would have disagreed too.

On the day, my grandfather died, I remember being in this same house surrounded by my family. My grandmother somehow, looking after everything, holding my hand to climb up stairs, but limping to welcome guests, feeding them, being in charge. My mother is very similar. Defiant. But on this day, as the women gathered to help my grandmother dress in her final clothes for her last rites, my mother almost fainted out of despair. I realised she was just a child too. Lost without her mother.