In these fifty years of our shared journey, twenty-four friends from the GMC Class of 1973 have quietly taken leave of this world. Two left us in our college days — sudden, painful departures that reminded us, even then, how fragile the young heart can be. Some went later — to a heart attack, a stroke, or an accident. Others faded away slowly, worn down by cancer, neurological illness, tuberculosis, alcohol, or that strange and ruthless visitor, Covid. A few left before they had even turned forty.
No matter how or when they went, their absence lingers. Time, which dulls so many things, has not dimmed their memory. Philosophers keep reminding us that death is the one certainty in life, the destination none can escape. Yet, each time it comes close, it feels personal — a quiet tug at the heart. We may not have known every one of them intimately, but for their families and loved ones, they have left behind a silence that words cannot fill.
At times, when I think of our student days in Nagpur, I can still hear the laughter echoing through the hostel corridors, smell the strong tea from the canteen, and see us huddled over our notes before exams. We were so young then — full of curiosity, mischief, and dreams larger than life. It is strange to think that some of those bright faces are now only in our memories.
And so, on this quiet Sunday morning, a touch of sadness creeps in. However much we speak of accepting the inevitable, who among us is ever truly ready? When the final call comes, will we meet it calmly, with peace in our hearts? Or will we hold on — surrounded by tubes, machines, and screens that hum and blink, keeping us alive but not living?
Where, I often wonder, should one spend the last hour of life — in the dry, sterile stillness of an ICU, or at home, in the warmth of familiar voices and gentle hands?
Only time will tell.
SP
