Memoire - Letters to my father
Writing about my father " Baba" feels like touching something sacred. Yet I take this bold first step to offer homage to the man who quietly shaped every part of who I am. My earliest memory exists from before I was born—carried to me through my mother’s retelling, repeated so often it became my own. When he learned that his second child would be a girl—a child he had dreamed of for months—he chose a name for me: Sangita , meaning music in Bengali, my mother tongue. He loved music deeply, though he claimed no musical gift of his own, and he hoped his daughter would carry what he could not. But when I arrived and he first looked at me, he called me Ami . Why, he never knew—or perhaps never said. And Ami is what I remained to him, even as his mind slowly began to lose its long fight against dementia. Our bond was quiet and natural, something that existed without effort. Like all close relationships, it had its moments of strain, yet it never loosened its hold on u...