Shivanand was born in April 1949 in the spring of 1949, in a house that no longer stands. He was a teacher of mathematics for forty-one years, a husband for fifty-two, and a writer of small, careful pieces for as long as anyone can remember.
He read every morning. He walked every evening. He believed that the second cup of tea was the most important one, and that an unwritten sentence was a kind of debt.
A teacher, a reader, a maker of careful sentences. He kept notebooks the way some men keep gardens — patiently, and for no one in particular. This is a place to sit with what he wrote, and what he meant to us.