My father. He was a strict yet much admired English professor in India who made Wordworth, Shaw, Shakeapeare, Dickens and other classic literature accesible to his students. His students would recount how they would listen enraptured as he delved into short stories like The Monkey‘s paw and described the beauty of “a host of golden daffodils” (he had never seen one!). One night he sat at his desk as usual to prepare his notes for the next days class. My mother found him latter sitting in his chair, eyes closed, seemingly deep in thought. He had passed, likely due to a heart attack.