By Nava Thakuria*
By Nava Thakuria*
It is a strange thing to be a professional journalist. We are trained to be observers—sometimes even "emotionless creatures"—reporting on the triumphs and tragedies of the world with clinical precision. Writing an obituary is usually just another task.
But recently, the news has been too close to home.
Within a span of just a few days, our AECian 1985-90 batch WhatsApp group became a digital hall of mourning. We lost three dear friends to sudden ailments. As the messages of grief flashed on my screen, I found myself clueless. How does one address such an immense emotional weight? It is one thing to write for the public; it is quite another to pen the final words for those who shared your youth.
Echoes from the Hills of Jalukbari
Our journey began at Assam Engineering College (AEC), nestled in the serene campus of Jalukbari behind the hills of Gauhati University. We arrived with pockets full of dreams and left with commitments to our families and the nation.
My own path took an "accidental" turn after graduation. While my peers pursued engineering, I veered into the world of daily newspapers in Guwahati. That single decision defined my working life until retirement, often distancing me from the technical world of my classmates—but never from their memories.
The news of Jyotiprakash Kurmi’s passing shattered my busy, often "cramped" lifestyle. A tall, handsome branch-mate with a gentle soul, Kurmi was a fixture of my college life—from the mechanical workshops to the quiet moments in Hostel 7. I can still see us in the classroom, guided by the legendary Principal Dr. Aparna K. Padmapati, trying to solve problems from dry textbooks. Kurmi was a rational, soft-spoken gentleman who fought a brave but short battle with kidney disease.
He was not alone in his departure. Kamal Das, always a smiling chap, left us after a long struggle following a tragic accident. Sugyan Dutta passed after battling illness; even when he knew his days were numbered, he called me not to complain about his pain, but to jokingly critique my profession.
A Growing List of Departed Souls
The roll call of those we have lost is becoming painfully long. I remember Sandeep Goel, an intelligent and sober man who spoke only when necessary and grew into an adorable family man. Then there was Gunagovinda Buragohain, my hostel-mate. Guna was the embodiment of optimism. I often think of our morning rushes to class and our evening tea at Sundarbari market.
Then there was Pradip Medhi. In our youth, he used to tease me at the press club, critical of my choice to enter a profession with no financial security. He fantasized about his future as a successful engineer, but a sudden heart attack cut his journey short.
The list continues, each name a sting to the heart:
- Prabal Choudhury: A fierce debater.
- Uttam Kumar Roy: A creative force in theater.
- Manju Borah & Swapan Kr Das: Genuine, fascinating friends.
- Bipul Sarma & Kamal Krishna Gupta: Humble and stable souls.
- Imliakum Longkumar (Akum) & Parag J Baruah: One popular, the other a poetic introvert.
- Pranabjyoti Bordoloi: Our batch leader, lost far too soon in a college-era accident.
From Childhood Fields to the Final Farewell
This sense of loss isn’t new; it has followed me since my school days in Makhibaha and Bhojkuchi. I still remember Shiva Prasad Thakuria, whose thick black hair and bright spirit were taken by illness in high school. I remember Dilip Deka, the brilliant first boy of our class who went missing during the troubled days in western Assam two decades ago.
But the memory that haunts me most is from my middle school days. I remember playing on the school grounds when a white Ambassador car arrived. We chased it, unaware that our childhood friend Prahlad Barman was inside. He had passed away just before our seventh-standard exams.
At the time, his family didn't even have a photograph of him. We eventually salvaged a close-up from a group photo taken by the legendary Mahendra Barua. To this day, when I visit my village, I see that photo and I can still hear Prahlad’s "crispy" voice.
Final Thoughts
As I look back at these names—engineers, doctors, actors, and friends—I am reminded that our time is a fleeting gift. We arrived at AEC with dreams, and though many of those dreamers are gone, their presence lingers in the halls of Jalukbari and the quiet corners of my memory.
Goodbye, my friends. Until we meet again somewhere, sometime.
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*Senior journalist based in Guwahati
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