I was around fifty years old when someone had the wonderful idea of creating a WhatsApp group for our high school classmates. A few enthusiastic friends spent weeks searching for phone numbers, calling old contacts, and reconnecting people who had not spoken to one another for more than thirty-five years after leaving school.
It was a joyful beginning.
The notifications never seemed to stop. Every day someone would recognize an old face, recall a forgotten nickname, or share a faded black-and-white school photograph. We laughed at our youthful adventures and marveled at how life had taken each of us in different directions. Some had settled abroad, some had built lives in other Indian states, many had moved to different towns across Kerala, and only a handful still lived in our native village.
For nearly five years, the group was full of life.
As time passed, the conversations became less frequent. Birthdays and wedding anniversaries were remembered, often discovered through Facebook or other social media platforms. A simple "Happy Birthday" or "Happy Anniversary" would briefly bring the group back to life.
Then, slowly, another kind of message began to appear.
The first time one of our classmates passed away, the group fell silent. We shared our condolences with folded hands and prayers. We spoke about the person's final days, remembered their kindness, and recalled stories from our school years.
None of us realized then that it was the beginning of a new chapter for the group.
Years rolled by, and the messages changed. Some friends died peacefully from old age. Others were taken suddenly by heart attacks. A few lost their long battles with illnesses brought on by years of drinking, their kidneys or liver finally giving up. Every death felt personal because each one carried a piece of our own childhood with it.
Soon, death anniversaries became regular reminders. One devoted friend never failed to remember the dates. Every year, he would post a message in memory of those we had lost. We would all respond with prayers, folded hands, and cherished memories.
His dedication was admirable, but every reminder quietly whispered the same uncomfortable truth:
"Our turn is getting closer."
When we entered our seventies, our numbers had already begun to shrink. By the time most of us were in our late seventies, only one original administrator remained. The rest of us jokingly—but with a touch of sadness—requested him to make everyone an administrator.
"We don't know whose turn will come next," someone wrote. "Better make us all admins."
We all laughed.
Yet every one of us understood the reason behind the joke.
As more friends departed, we made another decision. We turned off WhatsApp's disappearing messages. Until then, we had never cared whether old messages vanished. Now they had become our archive—our only record of birthdays, anniversaries, and especially the death anniversaries of those who had walked through life with us.
Earlier, it was always our classmates who informed us when another friend had passed away.
Eventually, there were too few classmates left.
One day, the son of one of our friends, who knew about our WhatsApp group, posted a message informing us of his father's passing. That day we realized something had changed forever.
We agreed on one final request.
Every member was asked to tell their spouse, children, or a close relative about the group and to request that, when their own time came, someone from the family should post the news in the group. It felt strange giving such instructions, but it had become necessary.
By the time I turned ninety, only two of us remained active in the group—Robin and I.
We had been neighbours for decades. Almost every morning we exchanged messages, not because there was much left to discuss, but because we wanted to know that the other was still there.
Two years later, when I was ninety-two, Robin passed away.
His family informed me first.
With trembling hands, I opened our WhatsApp group and typed one last message.
I shared the news of Robin's passing, wrote a few words about our friendship, and offered my prayers.
Then I looked at the member list.
Only my name remained.
There was no one left to read another message.
No one left to reply with folded hands.
No one left to say, "May his soul rest in peace."
I became the last witness to a generation that had once filled classrooms with laughter.
With a silent prayer, I archived every memory we had shared, thanked God for allowing me to walk that journey with such wonderful friends, and finally closed the WhatsApp group.
Not because the friendships had ended.
But because I hoped that, before long, I would be joining the same group once again—this time in our Heavenly abode, where no one would ever have to post another message announcing a friend's departure.
No comments:
Post a Comment