My loved ones
My Father - In Loving Memory
My father, Bhaskar Bhattacharjee, is someone I look up to. He truly is my Superman. I believe that if I ever reach even a fraction of what he was, I will consider myself successful.
He devoted his life to public service as an officer in the Indian Audit and Accounts Department (IAAD). In a setting where corruption was often normalised, he stood firm for a cause he deeply believed in: service to the nation. His leadership was marked by empathy and compassion, and in the toughest of times, he led by example. In hindsight, he was a perfect fit for his job; IAAD, much like the Government Accountability Office in the United States, requires the highest level of integrity.
At home, he was a husband to my mother and a father to me, two roles he performed with great dedication. I can only wish that every son gets a father like him. One would assume, given his position, a Group A government job that is considered very prestigious in India, that he would have set very high expectations for me. It was, however, quite the contrary. He asked me not to focus too much on books, but rather to live life. On the subject of career after school, which is very sensitive in India, he put only one condition: that I should follow my heart, but that it should hopefully be at a public institution, as he could only support that financially. However, he did wish that I would come to like medicine, as he wanted me to help the people back home, since we come from a poor region with limited medical infrastructure.
As they say, all good things come to an end. At the beginning of 2016, a storm hit our happy family. He was diagnosed with an aggressive pancreatic cancer, and that shattered us. I was barely a teen then, but I had to step into big boots and support my family. In an attempt to give him the best shot at life, I remember looking up the best cancer hospitals in the world, and Johns Hopkins Hospital came up among the top choices. I wrote several emails to the hospital, going back and forth with details. My mother and I spent days and nights in the corridors of hospitals and clinics, barely getting any sleep.
The chemotherapy showed some response initially, which led to an attempt at surgery. But during the surgery, the doctors made the unfortunate discovery that the cancer had spread significantly, which, in simple terms, meant that nothing much could be done to save him beyond that point. After two years of fiercely fighting the cancer, he took his last breath in November 2018. That was the last time I was able to call someone Dad.
It is said that time heals all wounds, but I feel his absence will be felt forever. My time with my father was short, but it was beautiful, and I am grateful for it.
My Mother
