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By Mihar Dias January 2025
The remnants of our spirited gang—those who once walked the storied halls of Sultan Abdul Hamid College as sixth formers from 1966 to 1967—gathered once more on January 12, 2025. This time, it was at the TTDI home of one of our own.
Originally planned for December 1st, 2024 (coincidentally my birthday), the reunion was postponed, disrupted by floods and stormy weather. A not-so-gentle reminder from Mother Nature that even in our twilight years, life doesn’t always comply with our plans.
Now well into our seventies, we are a tapestry of tales and tribulations, each thread woven with scars, joys, and the indelible marks of time. We sat together—a living anthology of aging—exchanging wry smiles over our shared inventory of ailments.
Some sported hearing aids cranked up to full volume; others displayed the quiet triumphs of stubborn resilience. One of us, ever the contrarian, skipped knee surgery on a friend’s advice. The result? A bow-legged shuffle he now embraces with a blend of pride and good humour.
The dashing lads who once might have rivaled Bollywood stars now beam toothless grins, while the girls who once turned heads now charm with their tales of grandchildren. Their baju kurung speaks of comfort and tradition, a reflection of the lives they’ve nurtured. Yet, even with gray hair and slower steps, the twinkle of mischief remains in their eyes. A familiar laugh echoes from across the decades, stirring memories of carefree days and youthful ambitions.
As I sit among these old friends, I can’t help but wonder: where did all those vibrant years go? The endless cramming for exams, the dreams of college and careers, the visions of futures bright with possibility—they seem like whispers of a distant past. Shakespeare’s lines drift into my mind, a poignant reminder of life’s impermanence: how we all “strut and fret our hour upon the stage,” only to fade into quiet obscurity.
And yet, the stage isn’t quite empty. The horizon may feel closer now, but it’s not yet reached. Sitting with these old companions, I’m reminded of the places I’ve yet to visit and the stories I’ve yet to write. Machu Picchu, that citadel in the clouds, still calls to me. The auroras of Iceland remain an unfulfilled promise, their green and purple hues painting dreams of wonder. Closer to home, there’s the winding roads of the Cameron Highlands and the steep climb up Mount Kinabalu beckoning me for a quiet cup of tea among misty hills.
Then there’s the simpler joys on my bucket list—learning to bake my mother’s pandan chiffon cake, finishing that half-forgotten memoir, and finally making peace with the wild curry recipe that my children insist is “too spicy.”
The laughter around me fuels my resolve to do more. True, the joints creak, and the energy isn’t what it used to be, but there’s still so much to see, taste, and experience. Time has seasoned us, not defeated us. These reunions are a reminder of resilience, a testament to the bonds that hold us together even as life pulls us in different directions.
Yes, the horizon now feels closer, and the twilight years cast long shadows. But to ride off into the sunset and disappear, like some old cowboy? That’s not for me. My stage remains lit, my script unfinished, my audience—children, grandchildren, and friends—still engaged.
Reunions like these are not just nostalgic trips down memory lane; they are celebrations of possibility, even now. They are a tribute to the richness of shared memories and a nudge to keep forging new ones.
So, I look forward—not just with gratitude for the laughter we shared this evening but with renewed determination. There are still tales to tell, mountains to climb, and sunrises to witness. The years may have taken much, but they’ve left me with enough—enough to dream, to plan, and to embrace the road ahead.
The journey isn’t over. It’s simply entering a quieter but no less profound chapter. And with friends like these to remind me of life’s joys, I’ll keep going, pen in hand, ready to write the next act.
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