Its that time of the year again, when the holy month of Ramadan announces its impending arrival. Barely three weeks away, Ramadan, a month so holy that earthly desires are put on leash, additional prayers and increased charity encouraged, and a lifetime of deeds reflected.

Subtle is the way it announces of its coming. A gentle tug of the heartstrings is just it took and a montage of memories of our dearly departed, both family and friends, come parading before our very eyes as would a virtual photo album together with a collection of video recordings.

A lifetime of memories created and shared, stored in the recesses of our memory banks, all in full and glorious colour. Of parents, grandparents, brothers, sisters, uncles, aunties, cousins, and of close and very dear friends. Especially in the case of the Class of 77, not only close and very dear friends but akin to being brothers. Brothers of a different father and of a different mother.

The memories may all not be that fond, for nobody’s perfect being the human beings that we are. But as they say, time heal all wounds and sure enough, over time the not-so-good ones have been magically erased from the memory banks, leaving us with only the good ones.

The Class of 77 began in 1973 with 120 scrawny kids from all over the country. Some may not be at all scrawny admittedly, but who came together, sniffles et al, to form what is later known as the Class of 77. As we made our way to 1977, the 120 became 122, with the addition of a further two in our fourth year.

Forty-five years down that long and winding road, as we began to learn how to navigate life in our sixties, that number has been whittled down by nine, making the total number still making the rounds to 113. Or as the Brits say, 64 not out, age-wise, to borrow a cricketing metaphor.

The loss of the nine is still felt to this day, as some of us would readily admit. Although ever mindful of His promise that they who have been granted the joy of life, shall experience the pain of death, the passing of the nine still came at a time when it was least expected. But then again, that is death, as it is : unexpected. There may have been hints, here and there, but thats about it. Hints.

That figure could have been more, if not for Him granting quite a number of us mortals a second bite of the cherry with an opportunity to clean up and make good our individual report cards, and tip the scales in our favour, so to speak. The proof of the pudding? Dare we say applications for membership to the Stents and Bypass Club (SBC), otherwise known as the Cardio Club, has seen an increase over the last few years. Especially when we approached and passed that triangular 60 signboard.

Not that membership to the SBC had stopped many of us from pursuing our interests, be it jamming and performing with our resident musical ensemble, the Black Shorts Putih (BSP), or sweating it out by being modern farmers of the 21st century, or even at this age, the pursuit of academic excellence (?). Far from it. But this time around, the pursuit of personal interests is tempered with the knowledge that life is indeed temporary and to acknowledge it to be so and to move forward with care.

As is the custom of our alma mater, where we remember the nicknames more than their given names, the rollcall of our dearly departed consist of Yeop, Azram, Nasrim, Klong, Kaio, Chope, Buck, Jiet and Kupre. Thanks be to Him, their passing were not because of being involved in an accident or mis-adventures but rather due to health complications. Their passing also taught us, as He intended, who are still batting at the crease, that life is indeed temporary and will forever be fleeting.

As Ramadan approaches, may the souls of our dearly departed brothers of the Class of 77 forever be in His Safekeeping. Til we meet again, a prayer for our brothers, Al Fatihah.