Even as a little boy, Soumen would say to me, “Baba, I will grow up and take care of you. I will not let you and Ma suffer like this.” Today, I stand by his hospital bed, in a city that is not home, struggling to save him.Even though it has been over a month, I vividly remember that Wednesday. He had called us just an hour ago. He was planning to come over for the weekend and asked if we needed anything from the city. When the phone rang again, I expected to hear him. It was a voice I did not recognize, telling me that my son had met with an accident. My wife and I dropped everything and caught a bus from Medinipur to Kolkata. We never in our worst nightmares expected to see what we did when we arrived.Soumen was unrecognizable. There were machines all around him. Tubes coming in and out of his body. A brace held his neck in place. His stomach was bloated, stitched up, and his head crushed. He was lying lifeless, with the ventilator breathing for him. “He was conscious,” sai
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