“It’s expensive, dear. I’ll get you something special,” Shan told his ten-year-old daughter. She wanted a Barbie doll badly, but she trusted her father.
A few days later, a big brown box arrived. Inside was a telescope kit. Father and daughter spent the weekend assembling it. When the lens finally faced the night sky, a new universe opened, not just above them, but between them.
That was Shan — our inventor, our star. Even while parenting, he was teaching by creating. Without ever quoting a theory, he let his daughter live the IKEA effect — the joy of valuing what you build with your own hands.
He once invited me home to see Venus through their telescope. I reached late.
His daughter looked a little disappointed. She said softly, “Okay, next time. I’ll show you the moon instead.”
We climbed the narrow ladder to the terrace. The city lights faded behind us.
Through the telescope, I saw not just the moon’s craters — I saw the reflection of a child’s joy, a father’s legacy of curiosity.
Shan had installed a star-gazing app, I think it was Stellarium, on his laptop. His daughter guided me across constellations as if she was introducing me to her friends in the sky.
Shan, you are among those stars now — perhaps near Orion, maybe beside Venus.
The world missed your inventive brilliance, but we who knew you, still look up — because somewhere, a part of you still shines.
Dear Leaders, please share Shan’s story with your engineers. It will remind them that true innovation isn’t about budgets or titles — it’s about curiosity, imagination, and the love of creating something together. I am sure they will volunteer to go to the schools you sponsor and open up a new world to the students.
I feel sad when writing this for a friend who we lost at a tender age but happy that I have immortalised him through this story.
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