Naveen pursued graduate studies under my supervision from 1996 until 1999 when he defended his Master’s thesis. He was a member of the Graduate Program in Neuroscience here at the University of Western Ontario and his thesis won an award from the Program for the best thesis examined that year. It was a real priviledge working with Naveen and I recall many happy memories of those years. We often worked together on the computer and I remember the time when we were trying out new speech-to-text software. The mistakes the computer made were often hilarious and we were unable to function without giggling for quite some time. Usually we were analyzing data from Naveen’s experiments or writing abstracts and other scientific communications. Our discussions were both exciting and productive; Naveen’s commitment to excellence was obvious and I knew that he would go on to great success whatever he chose to do. I was saddened to learn of his illness but hopeful that he might prevail in his fight and for a while he did. The news of his passing has reinforced how fragile life is and why one must live it to the full. Naveen did just that and he will be remembered for his many achievements and for embracing life without reservation. My condolences to his family and to his many friends. Michael Cook Here is a poem from an American poet who was noted for having a wonderful sense of humour. Naveen (who loved "The Onion") would have identified strongly with his sense of the ridiculous. For All Who Mourn That he was near to you so many a year But darkens your distress. Would you he were less worthy and less dear That you might grieve the less? He was a golden font that freely poured What goldenly endures, And though that font be gone, its bounty stored and treasured Still is yours. The past is deathless. Souls are wells too deep To spend their purest gains. All that he gave to you is yours to keep While memory remains. Who never had and lost, forlorn are they Far more that you and I who had and have. Judge not the price we pay For love that cannot die. Arthur Guiterman, 1871 - 1943