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 us. Growing up in India as a girl—and a rebel—would have been unimaginable without him beside me. From the very beginning, he made sure there was no difference between my brother and me.

He cared for the home with ease and placed my education above all else. His belief in learning, especially in science and mathematics, often kept us awake late into the night, accompanied by big arguments and his steady attention to my grades. I understood only much later that this came from love. When, in sixth grade, I began to meet his expectations with my own resolve, the tension softened. As long as I tried with my whole heart, we lived in quiet understanding.

Years later, I see how my care-free choices unsettled those around me—relatives, family friends, neighbors who watched closely and judged quickly. Through it all, he stood beside me, steady as a steel rod, sometimes facing others head-on so I wouldn’t have to. He wanted me to be me, a quiet act of defiance in a society that rarely allows women such freedom.

To many, I was too much—too loud, too headstrong, unsuitable for marriage. To him, I was simply independent, intelligent, and deeply certain of my own path. He spoke often about career women and the dignity of self-reliance. He taught me that household skills could be learned when needed, as he had learned them himself, but that a life beyond the home was essential for fulfillment.

When it came time to choose my life partner, his faith in me never wavered. He promised his support regardless of what anyone said. My only measure of love was simple: the man had to earn Baba’s respect. Every boyfriend knew that his blessing wasn’t just approval—it was a quiet passing of trust.

This letter is to tell him that I achieved many of the things he once hoped for me. Yet the one desire that mattered most—to be with him in his final breath—was never fulfilled. This absence is something I will never outgrow. I carry it with me still, and I know it will remain even at my own deathbed.

It was COVID. Borders closed. Flights stopped. And yet, even now, I tell myself there must have been a way. I could have foreseen it. I could have brought him closer, found a way to be his comfort in those final years. I did not. And for that, I live with regret.

If you are watching me, Baba, you already know this. Still, I want to say it aloud: I am sorry. I will always be sorry. I wish, in some quiet way, to live as simply as you did—to sit with my mistakes, as you once did with grace.

If there are other lives, I wish to find you in all of them and never replace you with another Baba. Your simplicity, your humility, your honest, low-profile life remain my greatest inspiration. I was never as patient or as saintly as you, but I carry you forward in my own imperfect way.

Through this memoir, I return to you. And perhaps, in telling our story, I will learn—at last—to forgive myself.