Coming Full Circle: A Heartfelt Return to Cambridge, 35 Years On

This month, I returned to Cambridge-and with it, a flood of memories rushed in.

I still remember that moment in 1990 when I first stepped off the plane at Heathrow. The crisp autumn air nipped at my cheeks, as if nature itself whispered, “Welcome to Blighty!” It was a sharp contrast to Malaysia’s tropical warmth, which had just waved me goodbye.

My heart pounded with anticipation. Ahead lay Cambridge, and with a scholarship in hand, I was about to begin an MPhil at Downing College. It felt surreal, a leap from equatorial towns to ivy-clad courtyards and centuries-old traditions at one of the world’s most revered Universities.

More than a third of century have flown by-35 years of life, growth and change. Though I’ve returned for short visits, this time feels different. I’ve stepped away from the intensity of my career to embrace a new season-one of writing, quiet travels and deeper presence with family and God.

Return to Downing College

As I stepped once more into the serene courtyard of Downing College, emotion welled up. It was like reuniting with an old, cherished friend. Downing had once held my youthful hopes and questions, gently shaping the man I would become. Now, it stood before me-graceful, familiar and deeply comforting. A place that still softly whispered, you belong here.

I chatted with porters, students, and fellows-each exchange stirring fond memories, even as many of them hadn’t been born in 1990. Joining some students for lunch in the college hall, I was swept back in time. Simple though the meal was, it echoed dinners long ago: some formal in college gowns, others casual and full of laughter. Though I often cooked at my residence in Lensfield Road, the dining hall offered something more-community, warmth and belonging.

Much of Downing and Cambridge remain as they were: elegant, timeless, steeped in quiet history. The buildings still stand in dignified stillness. But the trees reveal time’s passage. Some have grown tall and noble with seasonal rings on their trunks. Others have fallen, making way for new saplings to rise. So, it is with us too. Our hair has silvered, our steps slowed, our waistlines broadened. Unlike stone, we bear the touch of time.

Yet in this gentle aging lies quiet grace-the beauty of seasons lived, of joy, sorrow and becoming. Returning to Downing is more than a visit. It’s a reminder that while time may pass, the heart remembers. And some places, like some friendships, never truly leave us.

Reunions That Mattered

One of the most touching moments of this visit was the reunion with my former supervisor, Dr Mary MacDonald and her husband, Professor Dr Donald MacDonald, the former Head of the Genetics Department in Cambridge.

Mary was the one who first opened my eyes to the brilliance of rapeseed back in 1990—an edible oilseed crop whose story would later become woven into my own journey with oil palm. Their grace, humility and genuine remembrance after all this time moved me deeply. It felt like coming home to a part of myself I had almost forgotten.

I was also reunited with Dr Manash Chatterjee, my fellow MPhil course-mate from the Plant Breeding programme. Manash’s warm humour and infectious laugh were exactly as I remembered. We chuckled over memories of long nights lost in complex genetics literature, punting trips that ended more often in splashes than success, and the many modest meals we shared—stretching our student budgets. Through Manash, I had the joy of meeting Tapti Roy, an accomplished historian and a new friend, along with her husband Animesh Basu who brought fresh insight and a lovely sense of connection to our shared past. In just one evening, stories old and new found a beautiful continuity.

And then there was the heartwarming re-connection with Gerry and Sulina Tan, owners of Cho Mee Supermarket on Mill Road. To many foreign Asian students in 1990, their little shop was far more than just a grocery store—it was a lifeline. This time, instead of visiting the store, I had the joy of being welcomed into their home for dinner with the family. Sitting across from them, sharing stories over a lovingly prepared meal by their daughter-in-law Jacqueline Tan, felt like receiving a long-overdue embrace from time itself. The warmth of their hospitality mirrored the kindness they had always shown to students far from home. I was transported back to those chilly, homesick evenings when a packet of Maggi noodles, a spoonful of sambal, and a gentle smile from them could bring immense comfort. Their steady presence over the years, quietly serving and supporting countless young lives, reminded me that the most lasting impressions often come from the simplest acts to reach out and to care.

In these moments—revisiting cherished places, rekindling old friendships and discovering new ones— I found more than nostalgia. Cambridge is no longer just where I once studied. It has become a living chapter of my life, rich with meaning, friendships and the quiet threads of connection that endure far beyond time.

Evolving Cambridge

Much has changed in Cambridge since the 1990s, and yet the heart of it still beats with familiar rhythms. In those early days, Cambridge was a cloistered academic haven-intellectually rich, quietly traditional, and just a little sleepy. Diversity was a gentle ripple, not yet a wave, and social life revolved around buttery meals, bike rides and conversations that stretched late into the night in old libraries or over cheap pints.

Back then, the “Silicon Fen” was but a glint in someone’s slide projector. Today, Cambridge pulses with innovation-a city transformed into a vibrant, multicultural hub of science, ideas and global energy. The University’s intellectual firepower now shares the stage with high-tech startups, cutting-edge biotech labs and a social fabric more colourful and interconnected than I could have imagined.

And yet, as I walked past familiar lanes and elms that once shaded my daydreams, there it was-the sense that this place still holds its soul. Punting is still a rite of passage, though now can be booked via App, and formal hall still involves gowns and whispered Latin grace.

Cambridge has grown up, just as I have. It’s busier now-more wired, more worldly-but its soul still hums with familiarity. Like an old friend who’s taken up yoga, updated his wardrobe, and now orders oat milk lattes, yet still remembers your birthday and your favourite drink. And speaking of drinks, it’s no longer just tea or coffee – the choices now range from ceremonial-grade matcha to bubble tea with tapioca pearls and a side of nostalgia.

Students and Studying

Cambridge students today aren’t so different in brilliance or drive, but the world they face has changed. In 1990, life moved slower. Students came with handwritten notes and dreams rooted in tradition—careers were steady, the future felt knowable, and success meant stability. There was space to pause, stumble, and grow quietly.

Today’s students stride through the same ancient courts, but their load is heavier. They juggle excellence with activism, internships, and identity—all in a world that’s fast, loud, and constantly online. They are more connected, more informed, but often more anxious, navigating a future that feels uncertain and urgent. The halls remain timeless, but the journey through them has evolved— shaped now by a digital age that asks not just what you know, but who you are, and how quickly you can adapt.

Studying in Cambridge in 1990 felt like walking through a maze built by centuries of scholars. We carried backpacks with textbooks, took lecture notes by hand and spent long hours in the hushed libraries of the college or department, flipping pages under reading lamps and hoping someone hadn’t already checked out the only available copy of a key reference book. When we needed to look something up, we turned not to Google, but to the index of encyclopedia and journals—and if we were lucky, the card catalogue pointed us to the right corner of the shelves.

Research meant a pilgrimage to the University Library or the Faculty reading rooms, navigating microfiche and deciphering the scribbles of past scholars in the margins of ageing books. Photocopiers were our saviours (and sometimes our tormentors, when they jammed), and group work required meeting in person, usually arranged via a pinned note on a common room noticeboard.

Fast forward to 2025, and it’s a different world—yet the same River Cam flows beside us, calmly watching the students of both eras. Today’s scholars arrive in cafés and common rooms armed not with heavy tomes, but with feather-light laptops and tablets. A student sipping bubble tea might casually summon a thousand research papers in seconds, use an AI assistant to summarise journal articles, or attend a virtual lecture from their dorm room in socks and pyjamas.

Lectures are recorded and replay able; revision now includes interactive flashcards, online forums, and even AI-powered tools that can generate practice questions tailored to your learning gaps. Collaboration is instant via WhatsApp groups, Google Docs, and shared cloud folders—no more waiting for someone to check the pigeonhole for your message.

Supervisions still exist, wonderfully so, but now they’re sometimes virtual—a marvel for the international students who can engage with their tutors across continents. Even wellbeing support has evolved: students now have access to mindfulness apps, 24/7 chatbots for pastoral care, and wellbeing hubs that speak openly of mental health in ways that would have seemed daringly progressive in our day.

Of course, today’s students face their own challenges—the constant hum of notifications, the pressure of digital perfection, the paradox of too many choices. But I marvel at the tools they wield, the speed with which they access knowledge, and the global reach of their learning.

Shops, Food and Flavours

In the 1990s, strolling through Cambridge felt like stepping into a storybook. The streets brimmed with independent shops full of charm. Quirky bookshops invited you to lose hours among dusty hardcovers and hidden gems. Record stores played everything, staffed by people who remembered your last visit. At Market Square, stallholders sold second-hand clothes, fresh produce, and odd curiosities. Robert Sayle stood proud before its eventual rebirth as John Lewis. Life moved at a gentler rhythm. Shops closed early. Sundays were quiet. People lingered, browsed, and talked. The retail experience was personal—defined by locality and relationships.

Fast forward to 2025, and the retail scene is sleeker, global, and fast-paced. Many independents have given way to polished chains and familiar brands. Market Square still buzzes, now with artisan coffee, eco-friendly goods, and fusion food trucks. Even buskers display QR codes for digital tips.

Surviving bookshops double as cafes with curated titles and minimalist decor. Vintage shops thrive again, now riding the wave of sustainability. Students stroll past with earbuds in, fingers tapping on screens.

The buildings still stand in honeyed stone, but the soul of retail has shifted. What was once slow and personal is now fast and convenient. It’s neither better nor worse — just different. Cambridge adapts, shaped by new generations, new habits, and a global beat. But for those who remember, the memory stays warm: a place where shopkeepers knew your name, books were found by accident, and magic lived in the corners.

Back in the day, dining out was simple: browse the menu, place your order, and dig in. Chefs cooked, customers ate—no disclaimers, no allergy questions, unless it was life-threatening. Waiters didn’t ask, “Do you have any allergies?” and menus weren’t filled with bold warnings.

Today, that question is standard. Menus flag allergens, kitchens train staff on cross-contamination, and restaurants bear legal responsibility for diner safety. What changed?

Partly, it’s awareness. We better understand food intolerances, coeliac disease, and nut allergies— aided by diagnostics and rising health consciousness. But it also reflects a broader shift: in lifestyle, litigation fears, and our increasingly mindful relationship with food. Are allergies more common now, or simply better identified? Likely both. Still, it’s curious—how did we manage without the question for so long, and what does its presence now reveal about our evolving world?

In the 1990s, Cambridge’s dining scene was modest and largely British, with a few tucked-away Asian spots. Cafes were rare but memorable, often nestled in crooked buildings with mismatched furniture and the comforting aroma of real coffee. Dining out was a treat, and international flavours were exotic novelties.

By 2025, the city has become a vibrant culinary mosaic. Asian eateries—Thai, Korean, Japanese, Malaysian, Chinese—now sit alongside Middle Eastern, African, Latin American, and fusion places. With a diverse student and tourist mix, the palate has expanded too. From street food to college halls to fine dining, Cambridge today offers a global table once unimaginable—inclusive, adventurous and full of flavour.

Embracing Changes

Cambridge has changed-and so have we. The way people live, learn, move, and see the world has transformed profoundly. The past prized presence and patience; the present demands agility, awareness, and adaptation. From chalkboards to livestreams, from handwritten notes to AI summaries, from clunky bikes to electric scooters, the city and its students have embraced a new pace, a new world. Meals now come with dietary disclaimers, and learning is no longer confined to lecture halls.

Yet, beneath the digital sheen, the soul of Cambridge endures. The college walls still whisper stories, the trees still arch over ancient paths, and the spirit of discovery still stirs young hearts.