Amal Bhattacharjee, among the many of my father's roommates in America upon arrival in 1971 and one of the most beloved, died yesterday. His daughter texted me and then I called my parents to tell them. This is becoming the inevitable among their generation and yet it hurts so much every time, as though I am losing a part of myself and this unexplainable, unconditional love from friends who were never family but somehow even more. Awash in this grief and memory, I type this to make it real and to remind my children and myself who we are and who made us that way.

Amal Kaku and his wife, Bapi Auntie, were the people I associated with Jackson Heights with for so long. In the 1970s and 1980s, we would shop at the grocery stores, buy electronics at Sam & Raj, and eat at Shamiana. Then we'd all go over to Amal Kaku's rowhouse, toward East Elmhurst close to Grand Central Parkway. I loved it there and believe it planted the seeds for my embrace of this neighborhood and adoption of it as my forever home.

I cannot see Oreos or Chips Ahoy without thinking of Amal Kaku. He worked for Nabisco and used to get free cookies and snacks that he liberally shared with us. There were SO MANY packages in the kitchen cupboards. Sometimes we slept over and our parents would stay up talking till 3am. Yesterday, when I told my mom he died, the first thing she said was, "He was among the few men who took the time to talk to me, called me 'Boudi' and would ask me things about my life. He was my friend, too."

Once we moved to Long Island, we remained close. Another memory: We kids and my father and Amal Kaku went fishing one day with our neighbors. While casting, the hook got stuck in our friend David's nose so off we all went, fishing poles and all, to the ER. He got stitches but we still look back on this story and smile as proof of what Bengalis and Assamese will do for their fish... Also as Amal Kaku pointed out: "Thank god the neighbors didn't sue us."

Amal Kaku (and Uma Kaku, another roommate) were our makeshift priests. I have written before about Brojen Bordoloi and his conducting of naam that we followed in the Assamese community. But for some things, my not-so-religious family asked Uma Kaku and Amal Kaku, who are Bengali, to step in. They performed Rahul's bhaat-mukh (rice feeding ceremony) in Long Island. Amal Kaku did my housewarming in Washington, D.C., in 2006. When my kids were born, his wife Bapi Auntie knit them blankets and hats. I gave all their baby things away but hung onto these because I know how much time she took with them and I fear my children not having some concrete reminder of the deep friendships their grandparents built their lives in America upon. I fear them seeing these as gifts from strangers versus the ancestors we choose.

Why was my dad so close to the Bengalis? Over the last year, I have been doing interviews of the men who lived in his first building in New York City, Clinton Arms on the Upper West Side. I am trying to write about this arrival and the life-changing bonds that formed among inhabitants. Just like families have a paternal side and a maternal side, my parents' best friends similarly split into two camps, thanks to those early days in the US: the Assamese side and the Bengali side.

I never got to interview Amal Kaku before he had a stroke six months ago. But I did talk to Uma Kaku, who has a sharp memory of nearly everything both my father and Amal told him -- something I am so grateful for now. I learned that Amal Kaku worked at Citibank with my father, for example, and he worked at a photo-processing store before Nabisco. I learned my father often cooked and did the laundry, while the Bengali friends sang together. When my elder brother was born, in July of 1972, my father bought two bottles, one of wine and one Johnny Walker, and celebrated with these new friends.

Bapi Auntie died in 2019, and as her real family mourned her in Kolkata, we friends-turned-family gathered at Uma Kaku's basement to pray together. When Amal Kaku returned to the US, my parents planned to see him more often but the pandemic thwarted those efforts. In the spring of 2020, though, we received a phone call from Amal Kaku. He was nearby, had heard of my father's second stroke and wanted to see him. He was planning to move to California to be closer to his daughter. We gathered in the New Jersey backyard on my parents' deck to be safe. He only had a glass of water. Amal Kaku looked at my dad and joked, "I was so worried. I thought you would be much worse. You don't look too bad." And they laughed. I felt a lump in my throat as he left, wondering if it would be the last time he and my father were together.

Indeed, it was. Last year, Amal Kaku himself had a stroke, and struggled with speech and movement. I had not talked to his daughter in ages but shared what we had learned through our own stroke journey. In December, I had to travel to San Francisco on business and texted her as I landed. By any chance, might I come see him in the rehab center? I directed the taxi to Sunnyvale. I ran in and sat with Amal Kaku. I tried to be upbeat. I tried to Zoom with my parents but they struggled to answer so we ended up doing a speaker phone call. "Ayooo, Amal, ami boudi bolchi!" my mother said. He could not respond but he brightened at her voice. I saw that.

I opened up my notes for the article I had been reporting on and began reading Amal Kaku some tidbits. He smiled at the references to his jobs before Nabisco. I told him we remembered all the prayers he bestowed upon us, new babies to new houses, and we were so grateful. I touched his feet as I left.

I have tried to recreate these loving circles of aunties and uncles for my own children, even as the combo of East and West among our desi friends means there's a whole lot more talk of boundaries and emotions and we connect via Doodle calendars and endless text threads. It's not the same as the displacement and sudden rootlessness that bonded my father and his band of Bengali immigrants to become brothers, and eventually my kakus. But I still try...

Because what does it mean to be so loved by so many? For me, it has made all the difference. To take risks, to laugh, to trust, to see beauty, to deeply mourn this loss yet love unconditionally again, knowing that is the price you must pay the world that gave you so much.

-30-