The man beside her looked familiar. She felt like she knew him. Then when he opened the book on his knees, she at once knew who he was.  "Now, if anyone ever has a doubt regarding factorisation , just once, read page number thirteen in your textbook. There would be no more doubt." She smiled at the memory, remembering his patient, cool face. She recalled one by one, all the memories of her middle school Math teacher.  He was a widower , always looking sad. He looked tailor-made for a librarian, silent as his books, or a romantic poet, but a mathematics teacher was the last guess anyone could make about him. Oh, how they used to make fun of him, play tricks on him and laugh behind his back! He never laughed but smiled politely at everybody. Sometimes he would make silly mistakes on the blackboard, and then apologize as he erased it out. He always gave in to the girls' demands of shortening his class. His correction was always careless and merciful , and the middle school girls relied on this fact to pass through the hardest of mathematics exam papers.  But she didn't remember him for this.  Long shiny hair and soulful big eyes. A tall, slim frame. His daughter. They had been best friends and always hung about together. She recalled eagerly all the fun they had in middle school, wild and carefree...until his daughter went down with pneumonia . She could never forget the suddenness and the meaninglessness of it, the feeling of emptiness. After that, he looked even sadder. But, life went on.  Now, after almost 25 years, sitting beside him, with a dirty city bus aisle between them, she gathered her courage and said, "Mr. Rao? I'm an old student of yours. You taught me in middle school."  He looked at her for a while. "I do not even seem to remember any student." She knew he was lying. "I am sorry about your daughter." There was a pause in their conversation, and it was filled with all kinds of noises. Then he spoke, looking away. "I do not need any sympathy. In fact, all my new students think I never had any kids." He had a smile, but his eyes were sad.  "Where do you work now?" she asked. "Future Generation High School." She swallowed, in excitement. The school where her daughter studied.  "Do you happen to know Jaya Kumari?" Something flashed across his face. Anyone else would consider the expression as recalling something. But she knew it was pain. Then his face was calm again. "No." His answer was short. "Well, she is my daughter."  Her daughter was a topper, a gold medalist in the Math State Competitions. He was pretending. The bus stopped. She stood up and looked down at him. "I was your daughter's best friend. You must surely remember me..." "Excuse me," he said, looking nervous. "I do not want this conversation. Someday, you'll see that it is easier to bury the past." He said, and went back to his graph.  "Her loss was hard on me too," she continued calmly. "I named my daughter after her." The man refused to admit knowing the woman's daughter because   _  .
he never recovered from his daughter's death. he hated discussing about his job after work. her daughter was not clever enough to stand out. the name of her daughter was not familiar to him.