My father was not a famous man Or a rich one. But he was a good man. An upright, honest man who taught me that a good night’s sleep only came with a clean conscience. He died with his affairs all neatly tied up, his duties done, not owing a penny or a grudge, leaving behind enough so that his beloved wife of forty-seven years would never want for anything for the rest of her lifetime. And for his daughter he left behind a treasure house of memories. How when I was ill as a little girl, he could tell exactly how much temperature I had by just gently pressing my hand against his face. How he’d let me lick all the cream inside the cream biscuits and then imperiously hand over the shells for him to eat. And how when I was older and the roles were reversed, he’d pretend nonchalance at the gifts that I took home for him, and yet when I wasn’t watching, relish them with the joy of a small child. They weren’t big things – just a box of his favourite sohan papdi or milk sweets, a watch that could do everything but knit you a sweater. But then, that’s the other lesson he taught me. That the greatest pleasures in life were in the smallest things.