My baby sister, my purkhin
On June 3, 2026, I lost my youngest sister.
She was one of my twin sisters, nine years younger than me. Because of that age gap, she remained, in my eyes, a baby until the day she passed away. No matter how old she became, I still saw her as the little sister whose hand I used to squeeze gently out of affection.
Although she was the youngest among us, we jokingly called her a “purkhin”— an ancestor in Hindi – because of her passion for family and religious traditions. Her nickname may sound ordinary to outsiders, but in our family it was a sacred thread that carried laughter, tenderness, history, and identity.
When a sibling dies, we lose a witness to our life. Parents know our beginning, children know our later years, friends know selected chapters. But siblings often know the unedited manuscript. They know the family jokes, childhood rooms, festivals, illnesses, quarrels, and a thousand small details that will never enter a biography.
I have lost a sibling before too; an older sister who was like a mother to me. In a large family, relationships do not always fit neat categories. A sister can be a protector, critic, nurse, mother, philosopher, and friend. Therefore, when she dies, we do not grieve a single role; we grieve a constellation of relationships.
Siblings: The ‘forgotten mourners’
Sibling grief is often underrecognized. International support group The Compassionate Friends notes that grieving adult siblings are often referred to as the “forgotten mourners,” with most of society’s compassion being directed towards the parents, partners or children of the departed.
Adult siblings too may need spaces where they can talk with others who understand this particular loss.
The death of a sibling is not a minor loss. Dr. Christina Hibbert, a clinical psychologist writes that bereaved siblings may experience guilt, abandonment, anxiety, physical symptoms, and family fallout.
When a sibling dies, people sometimes condole with statements like, “At least she lived a full life,” “You still have your own family,” “Be strong.” While such words of support may be well-intentioned, they can make the bereaved sibling’s grief feel unseen.
When philosophy is not enough
I have often wondered how to handle grief. Philosophically, I know the answer. As a student of Vedanta, I know that life and death belong to the realm of name and form. The wave rises and falls, but the ocean remains. The body comes and goes, but the Atman (soul) is not destroyed.
The Bhagavad Gita teaches me that the true Self is not born, nor does it die.
“For the soul there is neither birth nor death at any time.”
Bhagavad Gita, Chapter 2, Verse 20
But knowing philosophy is one thing, practicing it when the heart is broken is another. The Gita may console the intellect, but grief first knocks on the body and the heart. The throat tightens, the eyes fill, the mind replays old scenes, and the heart asks questions that no philosophy can immediately answer.
Our spiritual traditions give us the map, but managing grief takes actual walking.
The power of tears
A few years ago, I came across a quote that stayed with me:
“Don’t cry because it’s over. Smile because it happened.”
The quote must not be taken literally. It would be heartless to ask a grieving person not to cry. Tears are the language of love when words are too small. If we love deeply, we will hurt deeply.
There is an old social falsehood that men don’t cry. I reject it completely. Crying is not a weakness. A man who cannot cry when emotionally overwhelmed is not stronger, but imprisoned.
Harvard Health notes that emotional crying may release oxytocin and endorphins, which can help ease emotional and physical pain. To suppress natural tears out of fear of ridicule is to worship a cruel stereotype.
If Lord Rama could grieve for his wife Sita, why should an ordinary man pretend to be made of stone?
The goal here is not to avoid crying. The goal is to not drown in our tears. After tears have played their rightful part, let gratitude enter the room.
Steering our emotions
Modern psychology reminds us that grief is not a straight road. The Kübler-Ross model describes grief’s five stages as denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. But in practice, these are not stations that everyone stops at in that order. David Kessler, author on grief and loss, emphasizes that the five stages are tools for understanding grief, not stops on a linear timeline.
The Katha Upanishad’s chariot metaphor is also helpful in managing grief. The metaphor represents the body as the chariot, the senses as the horses, the mind as the reins, the intellect as the charioteer, and the self as the passenger. In grief, the horses may panic, memories could run wild; regret, guilt, loneliness, all tug in different directions.
The charioteer’s job is not to kill the horses, but to steady them.
Healing begins when we feed the body, calm the breath, comfort the mind, guide the intellect, and rest in the witnessing Self.
‘Smile because it happened‘
This is where the adage “smile because it happened” becomes meaningful; I cry because she is gone, but I also smile because she came into my life. I smile because I had the privilege of calling her my baby sister. I smile because I once held that hand. I smile because our lives overlapped in this mysterious universe.
In grief, our action is to remember lovingly and carry forward the good qualities of the person we lost. If my sister brought warmth, I could become warmer. If she brought humor, I can laugh more kindly. If she carried family bonds, I can strengthen them. In this way, memory becomes service.
There is also a Buddhist lesson in impermanence. The flower fades, but its fragrance is not meaningless. A sunset disappears, but no one says it was worthless. Human life is like that. Its beauty is not canceled by its brevity.
Holding sadness with love
Children should not be taught to hide grief. We should explain death gently and truthfully: “We are sad because we loved her. Crying is okay. Remembering is okay. Asking questions is okay.”
Children can draw a picture, write a note, light a candle, plant a flower, or share a happy memory. They should see adults grieve honestly but not hopelessly. This teaches them to not fear sadness and to hold it with love.
Research on bereaved siblings suggests that support from friends, peers, and teachers can help grieving children and adolescents adjust after losing a sibling. Parents should inform the child’s school if appropriate, watch for changes in sleep, appetite, grades, anger, withdrawal, or anxiety, and make sure the child has safe adults to talk to.
Parents should not force a child to “be brave” by being silent. Do not say, “Don’t cry.” Say, “I am crying too because I miss her.” At the same time, maintain routines—meals, sleep, school, play. Routine is the bank that helps the river of grief flow without flooding the whole village.
Carrying love forward in grief
For adults, several practices help.
- First, create a small space for active grief. Keep a photograph, letter, watch, recipe, voice message, or any object that links you with the person. Such objects are like bridges of memory.
- Second, speak the person’s name. Many people avoid mentioning the dead because they fear causing pain. But silence can hurt more. To say, “I remember her,” is to acknowledge that she still belongs to the family story.
- Third, mark important days. Birthdays, death anniversaries, festivals, and family gatherings may hurt. Give them a ritual. Cook a dish she enjoyed. Donate to a cause. Read a prayer. Tell one funny story. Ritual gives grief a container.
- Fourth, seek the right support. Other bereaved siblings may understand what outsiders miss. Groups like The Compassionate Friends offer online communities and support spaces for bereaved parents, grandparents, and siblings over age 18. A grief counselor can help when guilt, regret, anger, or depression becomes too heavy. Seeking help is not a sign of weak faith. Even a brave warrior like Arjuna needed Lord Krishna to counsel him in a time of grief and confusion.
- Fifth, practice self-compassion. Sibling relationships are rarely perfect. There may have been arguments, distance, misunderstandings, or words left unsaid. After death, the mind becomes a cruel editor, highlighting every omission. But no human relationship is complete. We love imperfectly because we are human. Forgiveness must include oneself.
From grief to gratitude
Finally, let grief slowly become gratitude. Raw grief says, “I lost her.” Mature grief says, “I was blessed to have her.” Raw grief clings to the empty chair. Mature grief also remembers the laughter that once filled it.
Perhaps we do not ever get over the death of a sibling. We grow around it, like a tree grows around a wound in its trunk. The mark remains, but the tree continues to give shade.
My youngest sister was my baby sister, my purkhin, and a living thread in the fabric of my life. I can no longer hold her hand, but I can still hold her memory. I can still smile because she happened. And when tears come, I will not be ashamed of them.
The Gita teaches us that the soul is eternal. Life teaches that the heart still breaks.
Wisdom lies in honoring both truths.
