I still remember how my grandmother left this world. I was young, probably around 15 years old. That night, my grandmother had her favourite food; she seemed happy and satisfied. Before I fell asleep, she was humming a song that I never understood, but always loved the tune of it and her voice. 

Then when I opened my eyes around 2 am, she was near the bathroom, tightly holding the doorknob, her body was giving up. I ran to hold her, ‘dadi’, I said and slowly she left the doorknob. Now her body was on me. I slowly sat down on the ground making sure that nothing should hurt her. In my lap rested her head. I tried talking to her, she was breathing and it was loud, very loud. Her head was slipping away from my lap, I tightly held her head. She coughed and some blood appeared on her lips, the air around us became silent. It felt as if the time stopped, there was no chirping of the crickets, no mosquitos buzzing around me. I waited for her to breathe again, but there was no more sound of exhaling and inhaling.

Maybe I just wanted to see how she left us, maybe a recap or slow motion. But she never breathed again. All I remember is her resting face in my lap.