Muscat, for me is so packed with memories that there is probably no such place that I can go to without being reminded that this is the place where I grew up. 

Just this morning, on my way to work I spotted a man who looked like someone I knew.

Identifying an uncanny resemblance, I twisted in my seat to get a better look as the car whooshed past. Hoping that it might just be him.

My math teacher. Who, to me was one of the best educators one could have. A solitary man who lived a living as simple as simple could be. His entire life revolved around his students. Clad in loose trousers and an over-sized shirt in shades of blue, never tucked in - he seemed to care nothing about the world we lived in. Even the fee that we paid him, he would never ask for. Always quiet, except when he was un-complicating calculus for several of us who had severe mathematical anxiety; only smiling at times when we were being particularly foolish or at a mathematical jape.

Some people thought he was cold. Others thought him to be indifferent. But I felt he guarded something within himself that caused him much hurt.

Our classes were usually in a group of 4 to 5 and sometimes he would come home to give me special lessons. It was during this time that he formed a friendship with my mother and for the first time I heard about where he was from, what he liked to eat and when his birthday was. I think there was even a hint of why he was, the way he was - but I cannot remember clearly.

What I do recall is the dedication he had for his subject and the amount of work he put in to ensure that each of us individually felt taken care of. 

When I moved away from Muscat, I made sure I called him every year for his birthday and he seemed delighted in his own way to hear from me - and always said that he knew I would go a long way, even though math was not my calling. And then suddenly, I was no longer able to reach him - his mobile number would not function and I had no other means of getting in touch. 

It bothers me to have lost him, one of the most precious teachers I had the good fortune of knowing and being taught by. A genuine well-wisher and most of all, a good man.

In Muscat, when I see a familiar blue shirt, loose trousers and a bald patch - I have to wheel around and look.