Ashok Chatterjee. My father who is no more. What shall I write about him? I have been thinking all the time about it over the last twelve days, yet when I sit down to write it seems to me that I either have to write a whole book or it will be nothing at all that makes much sense. Maybe the dam will burst someday. Right now, I can only sigh that we did not get the time of life together. I hope my daughter would be able to say we did, she and I, when I am gone.
Meanwhile, a photograph of his when he was barely 36. Imagine, eighteen years younger than I am now! And one of me below, as I look now. Remembering my father.