Our family doctor, Paramananda Bhattacharjee, passed away a
few days ago. He was about 74, had been undergoing treatment for cancer for
years, and had been very depressed and fearful throughout the Covid scare. He
had not been attending his chamber for a long time, and we had slowly fallen
out of touch, though I had tried to keep track of how he was doing. Alas, none
in his family bothered to let me know so that I could say a last goodbye in
time, though they live virtually next door, and I am sure they all knew how
much he meant to me…
He and our family went back more than forty years, since before he got married, and now his two sons are grown up. We and he owed too many mutual favours to count. I shall always remain grateful for everything he did for me. Though he was an excellent physician – I have always held that his power of diagnosis was near miraculous – he was more like a wise and respected elder brother to me than a doctor. When I say his death leaves behind a vacuum which will be hard to fill, I am not mouthing an empty platitude. May his soul hear me, and rest in peace. It is hard that I had to hear of his passing from casual neighbourhood chatter, and it will hurt for all the years I live.
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