The Solitude of ’69

Do you know a band of friends who have remained inseparable for almost sixty years—their spouses and children becoming one tribe, bound by laughter, loyalty and love?
For the Class of '69 at Dhaka University, that bond was embodied in one man—Syed Mayeenul Huq. He wasn't just a friend; he was the quiet, steady centre that held their entire constellation together. He possessed a magnetic solitude—one who remembered every face, showed up for every milestone, and quietly kept their intricate ties from unravelling.What makes their friendship extraordinary is not just its longevity, but its breadth. Among them are professors, bureaucrats, bankers, diplomats, lawyers and politicians—some from opposing political sides—yet their bond remained intact through the ups and downs of Bangladesh. Theirs stands out as a timeless tale.

To his peers, he was "Mainu" (or sometimes "Mainda")—the one who was always present. Whether it was a wedding or a crisis, he arrived with calm warmth and a smile. He was a senior advocate in the High Court, Supreme Court of Bangladesh, and a Ukil Baba at many of his friends' and their children's marriages. As a couple from their group eloped, it was Mainu who was a witness at the marriage registrar—with humour and unwavering loyalty when others might have judged.

I grew up among this magical circle. This was our extended family. The reunions for visiting friends from abroad, New Year celebrations, winter pitha tastings and lazy afternoons at Mainu Uncle's home were part of our childhood. A home filled with kindness and joy, and his wife, Mitu, gracious and steady, matched him in warmth, keeping them connected through the decades.Even as a child, I was never afraid of him. Once, during a luncheon, everyone dared me to adorn him with flowers and makeup. I did—and he sat patiently, smiling gently and never scolding, never complaining.

His home, in truth, had been an open house since their university years. As his brother-in-law recalled, when he married into the family in 1969, Mainu was always surrounded by the gang. They would come over with their Elvis sideburns and Beatles bell bottoms. Some living at SM Hall or another hostel would even stay over for days at a time. Friends would stroll in and tell Siraj Mia, the caretaker, what they wanted to eat—curries and parathas—as though it were their own home. His parents treated them all like sons.

Even his younger brothers' classmates remember the same warmth—every corner of the house buzzing with conversation and glee. Each brother had his own circle and somehow every circle fitted into that space. It was a place of effortless belonging.

One afternoon, I sat on the veranda with his mother, whom we called Bibi. We saw neighbourhood children climbing the wall to steal ripe guavas from their trees. Others wanted to chase them away, but Bibi stopped them. "Let them have the guavas," she said quietly. "Let them have good memories of their adventures." That moment—simple, generous, unguarded—captured the spirit of that family.

Even in later years, Mainu never lost that playful warmth. Once he asked his youngest daughter if he could get a horse—and if he did, could she dye it pink? His granddaughter wanted a horse, and he believed pink was her favourite colour. So for his birthday that year, his son-in-law sent him a white pony. The pure joy on his face that day was childlike.

A deeply spiritual man, he was not preachy. One of his less religious friends made Mainu promise, "Dosto, please lead my janaza when the time comes—no one else will." That promise captured the ultimate commitment of their bond. After his passing, the same friend spoke through tears, "Now he's gone. Who will lead mine?" 

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A visit before the journey

Mitu told their son how his friends surrounded her with love and care in his absence. "They were all there," she said softly. "I can never repay their debt." But in truth, it is the Class of '69 who can never repay his debt—the debt of an unconditional friendship.

Recently, a few of his peers hosted a memorial in his honour. Everyone gathered once more—their faces marked by time. They laughed through their grief, remembering not only Mainu but also the others they lost over the decades—Amin, Nizam, Saleh, Salehin and Sabih. They reminisced about their youth—the mischief and adventures, music and dancing, and the long conversations that once stretched deep into the night.When I see them, I think of Gabriel García Márquez's One Hundred Years of Solitude—a story where love, memory and friendship loop endlessly through time. What they share is more than nostalgia; it is the powerful connection built over decades.

The Class of '69 is no longer just a year or a band of friends. It is a story of enduring friendship—of memories that outlived youth, of loyalty that never wavered, and of one man whose quiet strength made everyone feel inextricably linked.

And perhaps that is the true meaning of solitude—not isolation, but the deep, abiding comfort of knowing that you are the quiet, protected centre of a connection that lasts a lifetime.

Zareen Mahmud Hosein is a daughter of the Class of '69