On 15 February, 2012, at 8.45pm (California, U.S.A. Time), my only sister passed away, after a bout of cancer.

Three brothers, one sister. She was the eldest, at 77 years.

She was one of the fittest women I knew. Always ready for a brisk walk, always helping others, always eating and drinking right, always a smile on her face. Never a harsh word for anyone. 

Earlier, she had moved away from a drunk/ abusive husband and lived happily with her sons in San Jose, California for the last 15 years or so, doing voluntary service for old folks in her region. 

Three months ago, the doctors operated to remove a kidney which was affected by cancer - an aggressive strain. Two months later it was found to have spread from the remaining kidney to the abdomen and then the lungs. We were told that no cure was possible. 

I arrived one day before she passed away. She was already in hospital and there was talk of moving her to the hospice. My older niece and nephew are both in the medical profession. 

My usually cheery sister of rosy-cheeks and her eternal trade-mark smile, looked very pale when I saw her. I hugged her. She smiled and in a whisper asked how my daughters and grandchildren were. She spoke in whispers in between drifting off to sleep. 

Kim, the nurse in charge, informed us that she had a very strong heart and good blood pressure and was otherwise very fit for her age. We knew that already. 

"She could last a week, even six months, but the cancer had got her." 

It sounded very final. 

I spent three hours with her - held her hand, massaged and rubbed her feet. She was sipping water every so often and drank some soup. She was even able to hold the glass to drink, even though sedated with pain killers. My niece, her daughter, stayed with her for the night - her two sons ands daughters and grandchildren had been constantly by her side for the past two weeks from the point she had been admitted. 

My oldest brother was also with us. He had arrived a few days before me, while I was tied up conducting a wedding in Kuala Lumpur. My sister has a very special bond with him because she used to babysit him when she herself had barely learned to walk. They are about four years apart age-wise. They have always been very close. I am the youngest and not as close, because by the time I was born she had married and moved away with her husband overseas. 

But I am the "baby brother" and always enjoyed a special place in her heart. She was very proud of me for the work that I do - kirtan in the mainstream. She made it a point to attend all my programs in the Bay area of California, whenever my group came here - over the last dozen years. 

Having had a long flight that day, I had a good sleep and we went to her bedside by about 9 in the morning. 

Her breathing was laboured and she was drifting in and out of sleep as she was sedated. We were assured that she was not in pain. Kim, the nurse-in-charge, asked me if I was the final family member she had wanted to see. I know she had been waiting for me. 

Her breathing had become raspy in her now very shallow lungs which were slowly filling with fluid; it could no longer be drained as her lungs had become spongy. As the day passed on, her breathing became more laboured and audible. The morphine relaxed her and another pain killer was applied under her tongue, allowing her breath to ease momentarily before it became laboured again. 

As I walked in and sat down beside her and held her hand, she held my gaze with a slight smile. I squeezed her hand and she squeezed back. I nodded and said 'Waheguru' softly. Her lips moved and she formed the words 'Waheguru'. We held the gaze and repeated 'Waheguru'. I nodded and smiled as we went on. She nodded ever so slightly. 

I leaned over close and whispered in her ear, "Bibi, you should go now." 

I choked on the words, but I wanted her to know that it was okay to go. I looked at her, she just looked at me and I thought I saw a tear. She dozed off but her breathing continued to be laboured. 

I sat at her feet and rubbed them. She drifted in and out of consciousness from time to time, holding the gaze of one of us for a while. 

Then as if woken from a slumber, she asked her son to raise the bed and turn her on her side. As the bed was raised, she looked at me at the foot of her bed and held my gaze briefly. She asked her son in a whisper whether she could put her feet on the ground once again. Sadly, we had to tell her that that was not possible. 

We sat her up. My nephew asked if she wanted her back rubbed - something she liked. She shook her head. She asked for water and she was still able to hold the cup to drink but she was becoming drowsy with the pain killers though her laboured breathing continued. 

Just after noon, two other sons turned up and sat by her bed. She acknowledged their arrival. My brother and I stepped out and as we did, my niece asked me not to allow anyone, relatives or friends, in any more as my sister was not in a condition to receive any visitors. Her breathing was laboured and we decided that she needed to be with her children. 

We sat outside and stopped all visitors except when her grandson came in. We noticed that Kim, the nurse, who had been coming in to check every two hours, was now coming in and administering pain killers and checking blood pressure and heart beat every hour. By the evening she was coming in to check every half hour. 

I asked her, on one of her visits, the burning question ... "I think she will leave tonight. She is at peace with herself and the loved ones she needs around her are all here. She is at peace," she repeated. 

My brother and I went out to eat something and were back by 8.30 pm. My brother went in and took her hand, squeezed it - there was no response. At 8.45 pm a long breath in, slight pause and as it expelled, there was complete peace on her face ... 

My brother kept holding her hand, but everyone in the room moved - as if knowing that she was gone. 

My brother and I placed her hands by her side and closed her slightly open mouth and eyes. Everyone shed silent tears and we wished her well. 

In our culture, brothers send away their sister when she marries. We both felt that we had sent her away on her final journey. There was peace on her face, a slight sweat on her brow and her complexion changed to a slightly pale colour. But, she could have just been sleeping peacefully. 

My Bai Ji and I stood stroking her hair and ensuring that her eyes and mouth remained closed. There was an overwhelmoing sense of pure love and yes, sadness, but acceptance, that as we all will, one day, she was on her way on her next journey. Our sister was no longer with us. She had happily departed as is ordained for all of us ...

We stood by her, stroking her hair and touching her face. Time stood still. Everyone sat or stood still. Each bound in their own personal thoughts and reflections. We must have stayed like that for a long time. No one wanted to move ... until two nurses came in to check her pulse, etc., to certify her death. 

She will be missed in physical form but she will always be with us in spirit. 

A momentous day for me. A day I watched Death the whole day and saw it doing its work ... and a saintly human being, my lovely sister, warmly embracing it without any fear. 

My sister's cremation is on Tuesday, February 21, at 1:30 pm (California Time), at the Hayward Crematorium (close to the Fremont Gurdwara Sahib). Her final 'service' is a 48-hour akhand paatth at her local San Jose Gurdwara starting on Sunday, Februry 19 afternoon at 5 pm, finishing after the cremation on Tuesday, February 21 afternoon/ evening. I will do kirtan at the conclusion of the service on Tuesday.

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