Dear Amrita,
How does a father feel when his daughter, after years of hard work, achieves something extraordinary? How does he control his emotions when he learns that not only has she conquered Radiology, but she has also topped the entire country? The pride, joy, and disbelief all swirl together in a moment he will never forget.
Today, as I reflect on the news, your entire life journey flashes before my eyes—how it all began in the comfort of Sevagram, and how it evolved into something so extraordinary. The first part of your journey, my dear, was a gentle one. Born in Sevagram, you grew up here, attended school, and then rode just a few miles to college. Life was simple, surrounded by the warmth of home and the steady support of your parents. The hostels, the hospital, the classrooms, were so nearby.
But everything changed when you earned MBBS and moved to Delhi. Marrying Sahaj and leaving Sevagram behind, you faced new challenges. Sahaj was away in Chandigarh, focused on his own career, and you were left to navigate the demanding path of your DNB in Radiology. Living with your in-laws for three long years, they treated you with love, almost as if you were their own daughter. But despite their care, there was a loneliness you had to endure alone.
The hospital where you worked during your DNB residency—Mata Chanan Devi Hospital—was far from home. An hour-long Metro ride from Ashok Nagar to Janakpuri, struggles with auto rickshaws, and long duty hours made life tough. You didn’t have close friends there, and the hospital didn’t offer much help. Your fellow residents were busy with their own problems, and there were no extra sessions to help you learn more. But you didn’t let that stop you. You used textbooks, online resources, and attended teaching sessions at other hospitals in Delhi. You found a way, Amrita, mostly on your own. And that made me so proud.
When the day came for your DNB exam in Lucknow, everything felt foreign to you—the city, the hospital, even the examiners. I could hear the nervousness in your voice as we spoke before you left Delhi. Back then, the DNB exam results were known to be tough, with only one in three candidates passing. You had worked so hard, but I could still sense your anxiety. The unfamiliar surroundings, the uncertainty—it all weighed on you, Amrita. I knew that day was going to be a challenge.
Just minutes before you entered the exam hall, Bhavana and I wished you all the best, hoping our words might bring you some comfort. But your nerves had already taken hold. You could barely speak, your throat tight with anxiety. I could hear it in your voice—the way it faltered, and how you quickly ended the call with a rushed goodbye.
When the exam was finally over, and we spoke again, your voice had changed. Now it was gentle, softened with relief. You told me, almost in disbelief, that the examiners smiled at you and had nodded their approval. It was such a simple gesture, but in that moment, I understood. You had passed. More than that, you had earned their respect. I didn’t need to hear the official results, because I already knew—you had done it, Amrita.
A month later, Sahaj and you came to Sevagram. We were sitting in the living room when you checked your email. I saw your face change. I watched you freeze. And then I saw it—the subject line. My heart skipped a beat. There it was: “First Rank in the Country.”
Was I surprised? Not entirely. You had always been a top performer, from school to college. Throughout your MBBS years, you consistently stood out, earning awards and distinctions for being first or second in nearly every subject—Anatomy, Medicine, Biochemistry, Obs-Gyn, and more. Yet, there was something about this achievement that felt different.
In Sevagram, you were always known as my daughter. I taught medicine here, and as proud as I was of your awards, they often felt like they came with a connection to me. I know that made you uncomfortable at times, being constantly linked to your father in a way that didn’t allow your individual identity to shine through.
This time, though, it was different. This was exactly what you had always wanted: to earn your success on your own terms, to stand apart from me, to be recognized for your hard work without any comparisons or associations. It was never that you didn’t excel before, but this… this felt different. This wasn’t just about your natural talent or intelligence—this was the result of years of struggle, of solitude, of self-study in the face of adversity. The long nights you spent studying on your own, the days spent battling through challenges, and the strength you displayed when things weren’t easy.
Excellence was never new to you. But this… this felt different.
I tried to keep my emotions in check, but they surged inside me. How does a father put into words the pride, the joy, the overwhelming sense of accomplishment he feels when his daughter reaches the pinnacle of her career? The words seemed inadequate. But you knew, Amrita. You understood. And in your quiet, humble way, I knew you understood just how proud we were.
We were living your success, feeling the sweetness of your victory. There was no need for grand declarations or social media posts. But, after all, I am your father. For over a decade, I had shared my thoughts on Facebook, but this time, how could I stay quiet? How could I not share the incredible achievement of my daughter?
So, I did what felt right. I didn’t shout it from the rooftops, but I shared it in my own way. I posted your story on Facebook—a simple post that soon gathered hundreds of congratulatory comments. But even with all those words, nothing could compare to the joy of seeing you receive that gold medal. The quiet recognition of your determination, the shared understanding between a father and daughter—nothing could top that moment.
Amrita, your achievement is not just yours. It is ours too. We couldn’t be prouder of you.
With all my love,
Papa