Last December I went to a ten-year reunion for my secondary school class in Kathmandu. It was organised by a classmate called Prakash, who'd set up a group chat and somehow tracked down nearly everyone. We met in the school hall itself, which the head teacher kindly let us use on a Saturday, and then moved to a restaurant nearby in Thamel for dinner.
Around forty of us turned up, out of fifty-five, and a few of our old teachers came as well. At first it was a little awkward. People were standing in small groups, glancing at name badges because some faces had changed so much. Then someone put up old photos on a projector, including a terrible one of me with a bowl haircut, and the ice broke immediately. We ended up sitting at our old desks, retelling stories about getting caught passing notes, and our maths teacher pretended to take the register.
My feelings were surprisingly mixed. Mostly I felt warm and nostalgic, because those people knew me before I'd become the person I am now, so there was no need to impress anyone. But I also felt a bit of a pang, because a few classmates had moved abroad and couldn't come, and one friend I'd been very close to had drifted away completely. It made me realise that friendships need effort; they don't just survive on memories. Since then I've made a point of calling two or three old friends every month, and honestly that's been the best outcome of the whole evening.