"HERE'S the passenger manifest," said New Straits Times executive editor Sharanjit Singh.
The news desk was abuzz with activity. Reporters were on the ground in Elmina, Shah Alam. Editors were busy checking copies.
I had just put up the first article about the plane crash on NST Online. Information was flowing in fast.
We knew that a Pahang assemblyman was among those on the plane. Now, the full manifest had come in.
As I went through the manifest, the second name caught my eye and made me stop in my tracks: Heikal Aras Abdul Azim.
"Can't be. I think they made a mistake. I know this guy. He's my friend. He flies with Vietnam Air," I told Sharanjit.
With a concentrated gaze, a little perplexed, he nodded in affirmation. "That's the list."
Between editing another copy to be uploaded online, I rechecked Heikal's Facebook page to verify his full name. Maybe I had got it wrong.
Then I gave him a call, which to this day is unanswered.
In the past few days, stories of the crew and passengers of the Beechcraft Model 390 aircraft, registered as N28JV, have been on the main pages of news portals.
Many people now know a little about the passengers, the pilot and Heikal, the co-pilot.
But there was a lot more to Heikal than just a one liner.
I know Heikal quite well. The first time I met him was in the early 2000s.
Heikal had a larger-than-life personality. Even in university, he was suave and stylish. Slim, with a svelte, athletic figure, we used to call him Ricky Martin for his love of fitted shirts.
He was quite a character. Articulate and talented, he could play the guitar, sing and was an ace at tennis. He also had an infectious smile and a wicked sense of humour.
But while those qualities made him popular in university, he was also humble and respectful.
"Kal" was friendly and affable. He was genial, and as the Malay saying goes, he didn't pilih bulu or choose his friends.
He also had a good sense of fairness and knew what was right and wrong. In the time that I knew him, he was a good person. I've never seen him put any one down.
He had a boyish playfulness that endeared him to many. On the surface, it seemed like he never took things seriously. Heikal knew how to have fun, but he wasn't one of those guys who partied recklessly. There was something wholesome about him.
Of all the qualities Heikal had, the things that stuck out the most were his positivity and gregariousness that were infectious. If you were feeling blue, his personality was the perfect antidote, a soothing balm to soothe a troubled soul.
We hung out a lot, but we became close friends in the last few semesters of our time at UiTM Shah Alam.
I was going through a difficult patch, and it was Heikal who helped me out. He offered to share his bedroom in a flat in Shah Alam.
Young, not very wise and pretty much broke, we were living the average student life. Late nights were spent listening to music and talking about our plans after university.
Heikal harboured dreams of becoming a pilot. I told him I wanted to be a soldier or a journalist. This was all rather odd because we were both studying for a degree in accountancy. But looking back, I realised we were big dreamers who refused to be bound by any mould.
In the days since the incident, random memories of Heikal have entered my mind.
Recollections of our youth, long buried by the passage of time, resurfaced.
I remember him playing the guitar, jamming to Extreme's More Than Words, as we belted out the lyrics sung by Nuno Bettencourt and Gary Cherone.
Then there were the late nights, weekends unfurling, as we traversed KL's streets, the car stereo resonating with the sounds of Incubus or DMX.
He had a great love for the outdoors and embraced every opportunity for sports and adventure.
Physically, we weighed close to each other, making him the ideal companion for wall climbing. He caught me once when I fell off a wall, slamming face first into it, but still managing to catch the line. I trusted him more than anyone to be my belayer.
In those days, Heikal's family lived in Gombak, close to my own family home.
I remember one occasion where we fixed up an old mountain bike and Heikal rode that rickety contraption all the way from Gombak up to Genting Sempah. I still remember his big grin when we made it all the way up.
He came from a good family and was brought up well. His family were devout Muslims; the children respected their parents. The siblings were all high flyers. Of the five siblings in the Aras family, three were pilots.
In the years since university, Heikal and I kept in touch, albeit sporadically.
True to his training, he had dipped his toes into banking, but it's not hard to imagine that the strictures and monotony of corporate life had grinded at his soul. He was all about high adventure and the outdoors, not suited to crunching numbers from 9 to 5.
Flying was his true calling. He took a gamble and enrolled in flight school, taking a loan that he later paid off.
He got his first job at AirAsia. Later, he got a job with Vietnam Air. And the rest is history.
When I met him after he became a pilot, I was ecstatic that my friend had achieved his dream.
He came to visit me at my home in Bukit Antarabangsa, bringing along his then-wife, stewardess Christine Yong, telling us about his new life in the world of aviation.
Years later, we would both become fathers — him with his three boys and me with my two daughters.
We celebrated Hari Raya at his sprawling bungalow, which was affectionately called Aras Mansion. After all the eating was done, we had a quick joyride, this time in a Mercedes AMG.
He loved Formula 1 and we shared an interest in fast cars. His pride and joy was a Mercedes SL, which he would drive top down, wearing Mercedes livery.
I remember inviting him to our house in Cameron Highlands, and he visited with Christine and his kids.
Heikal was a doting father and would bring the whole family around in an MPV for outings.
He had a particular fondness for Camerons and would text me to ask when I was going back so he could visit.
"Hang balik ka minggu ni, Man? Aku nak mai." (Are you going back this week, Man? I want to visit.)
When he was stationed in Vietnam, he tried to convince me to go over and spend time there.
"Hang mai lah, Man. Ada ma-cam-macam kat sini. Hang mesti suka." (Come over, Man. There's lots to do here. You'll love it.)
But the rhythm of life tends to gradually move us away from people who were once a significant part of our lives.
Like branches of a tree, we all grow in our own direction, our own paths.
It has been a few years since I last caught up with Heikal.
The last time I met Heikal, he came to pick me up at my condo, and we went out with Christine and his boys.
I remember carrying little Daniel in my arms as we walked through a nearby mall for a boisterous lunch with the boys. There were a lot of smiles and laughter, as is usual when Heikal is around.
That would be the last time we would meet.
The Movement Control Order put a distance between us and I had not called Heikal in a while.
Until that fateful morning, when his name appeared on the manifest.
When the team on the news desk replayed videos of the crash, trying to piece together what happened and report on the incident, I couldn't help but wince.
I watched one video in which the plane banked in the air and burst into a fireball.
Somehow I felt disconnected from the reality that my friend perished in the fireball.
In the blink of an eye, a significant link to my youth disappeared forever. I can only imagine the agony of his family as they mourn his passing.
Heikal's passing again reminded me of the fragile and fleeting nature of life.
We often take for granted that those around us will be with us through life's diverse chapters. Yet, in an instant, these suppositions could dissolve, forever unrealised.
A part of me found it hard to believe that this link to my youth was now lost.
He has left this mortal realm. Our WhatsApp group that would light up with his energy has lost its shine.
But I take consolation in the fact that a part of my remarkable friend will live in Heikal's children — Daniel Zulqarnain, Suri Balqish and Rafael Dzulqairy. Daniel has already shown an interest in aviation.
I hope one day when they grow up, they will read this article, so that they will know a little more about the extraordinary person with a heart of gold who was their father, what he did with his 45 years of life in this world.
Poet Kahlil Gibran once wrote that we are the bows from which our children as living arrows are sent forth into this world.
Daniel, Suri and Rafael are now Heikal's arrows.
May they fly as high and as gloriously in the skies as their father once did.