The Proxy Battlefield

You know you are exceedingly busy when the mp3 player you've just bought has been lying on your table for two months and you haven't had time to go through the instruction manual to get it started.

Well, sums up my last few weeks, really.

But nuff on busy nothings. I'm kinda in a sombre mood cos watching all the news on the war in Lebanon makes me depressed.

The recent tragedy in Qana where 60 Lebanese - mostly children - were killed after an Israeli air raid may have obscured this, but Israel started this war with a suitably favourable diplomatic position. However distasteful it was watching George Bush declare his steadfast support for Israel's confrontational tactics in the aftermath of a Lebanese bloodbath, he was right on one count - Israel does have a right to defend itself. Its northern towns have been besieged by indiscriminate shelling by Hezbollah, who was using southern Lebanese residential neighbourhoods as launch pads. Now with that right of defence established, the question is how and at what cost.

And throughout southern Lebanon, the swathe of destruction from Israel's aerial bombardment is evident. Towns were pulversied into rubble, with distraught residents sitting atop the wreckage mourning their loss. Rescue workers excavated bodies from the detritus as relatives wept, then wailed. And on the streets, outrage was simmering. Demonstrators gathered in Beirut to voice their full-throated demand for an immediate ceasefire. The attack on Qana prompted an outburst of violence as angry crowds stormed and destroyed the UN's quarters. And disconcertingly but understandably, an increasing number of Lebanese have declared their support for Hebollah. Their trademark yellow flags could been seen in the sea of angry protestors, and the air rang with ominous chants of revenge against the Zionist regime and its perpetrators, most notably, the US.

Villagers help out an infirm old lady.



A Lebanese woman surveys her pulverised neighbourhood.



It's been weeks since the hostilities began, and the greatest fallout of this sorry incursion, unfortunately, is the pushing of moderate Muslim opinion right onto the lap of Hezbollah. Israel is losing its moral ground - fast - and the US and Britain are pushed into an increasingly awkward corner as international condemnation of the Israeli offensive skyrockets, particularly after the attacks on Qana and the deaths of UN workers in Beirut. Meanwhile, the militia is emboldened and to many, its approach already validated.

During the conference in Washington a few days ago, I watched as Bush floundered artlessly amidst pointed questions from the floor regarding whether the culpable party for the loss of lives in Lebanon was Israel or Hezbollah. The questions may seem a simplified reduction of realities and of the nuances of this longstanding conflict, but understandably, many are furious at Bush's unequivocal support of Israel (although, mind, that is nothing new).

The US asserted that Hezbollah is killing Israelis with armaments supplied by Iran and Syria, but says nothing about Israel killing Lebanese civilians with US weapons. It attributes this war solely to Hezbollah, when many other countries have pointed accusations Israel's way. It accuses Syria and Iran of flouting UN resolutions, when Israel and the US themselves have paid scant regard to the same rules. And it is dragging its feet and sidestepping international demands for an immediate ceasefire in Lebanon - I can only imagine the spleen from Washington had it been Israel or a US city which is being assailed and those were American kids being pulled out of the rubble.

The crisis in Lebanon is likely to end with a UN demilitarised zone carved out of the border areas. But Israel and the US have already lost the battle for hearts and minds. The prospects for true peace remain bleak when the parties who purport to be interested to broker that peace, and who in fact have the wherewithal to do so, are perceived to be partisan. The truth is that from the way events have unfolded, the Arab world (and Iran, for that matter) feels that it cannot trust the powers-that-be to articulate their interests or to address their issues, much less to broker a peace that is fair. Unfortunately, the resultant corollary is that some will choose instead to render support to the militia who advocate extremism, the very stuff of Israeli and American nightmares.

No matter how much commiserations the US offer on the deaths in Lebanon, this is a war of blatant double standards right from the beginning. And that will not go unnoticed in the Middle East, and is unlikely to be unrevenged.

Tags: Lebanon Israel Hezbollah

World Cup 2006 Final

I'm actually kinda lazy to pen my thoughts of the World Cup final now that it's three days after Italy's win. After all no paper has left any stone unturned in covering the event and we've read authors all over the world philosophising about Zidane's barmy headbutt and how it marked an ignominious end to an eminent career.

The Ignominious Exit That Should Never Have Been

My two cents on the infamous moment of lunacy which has spawned countless gif images, photoshopped spoofs and even a mini video game (and I'd make this quick cos I'm getting a bit bored of hearing about it ad nauseam): What Zidane did was idiotic, period. Deal with it - however unfortunate and unpalatable it is, racism is a part of football. That is an incontrovertible fact - it manifests itself both on and off the pitch, and if what the lip-readers (I'm sure these lovely folks moonlight as astrology experts at Cosmopolitan too) claimed about what Materazzi mouthed are true, then I've heard worse at matches or in pubs. Perhaps Zidane's sensibilities are a bit more wont to be jarred than mine, but I can bet anyone a leg of bacon that such remarks are nothing new to him, or any professional footballer in Europe's moneyed leagues, for that matter. Or the fact that Materazzi is a Class A wind-up merchant and a dirty player of the highest order. Doesn't mean that Metarazzi's antics were in any way excusable, but for a player of Zidane's stature (thrice World Player of the Year who has won about every major trophy conceivable) to lose it so majorly and ditch his team, stranded without their captain and main penalty-taker - nothing Materazzi said, however incendiary, could have absolved that.

It wasn't supposed to end this way.



Millions worldwide had their mouths agape as they watched a genius self-destruct. Zidane's miscontrued reaction embodied the worst manner with which to stand up to racism and bigotry - with reciprocatory malevolence and violence. How ironic that it had to come from the man who, seconds before his reprehensible headbutt, embodied racial integration and hope for the disenfranchised street kids of France.

And so it ended for Zizou. The world's last collective memory of him was footage of the discredited maestro walking past the coveted World Cup trophy, head hung in shame, sniffing at his shirt, departing into the tunnel. A part of me was heartbroken for him. Zidane's proclivity to violent outbursts has its precedents (I've seen him stomping on players and collecting straight reds) but still, it was altogether the wrong memento to leave us with. Yet it was no less than he deserved.

Parting shot.



Still, three bright takeaways from this sorry spectacle:
1) I'm sure Zizou has found a new admirer in Andriy Shevchenko.
2) He took Materazzi out like a real man, unlike Francesco "Handbags" Totti who... erm... mustered a very masculine gob of spit and projectile-delivered it onto Danish midfielder Christian Poulsen's face.
3) A French newspaper's sublimely sombre assessment of France's World Cup foray which left me in stitches for a good minute or so, "For a month, France was dreaming with Zidane. This morning, they woke up to Chirac."

Goodbye Zizou. Still a living legend.

Match-Points

Onward to the match. A fairly soporific affair, football-wise, as all the flash-points were for off-the-pitch incidents. Materazzi again gave us a glimpse of his derangement with that inane lunge at France's Florent Malouda, who promptly took a nifty tumble. Bad decision to grant a penalty, but Zidane gladly converted to give Les Bleus the advantage. Minutes later Materazzi redeemed himself with a cracking header, and I was kinda enjoying Barthez fumbling in his penalty box whenever Italy delivered their set pieces.

A few words on Marco "The Matrix" Materazzi. He's always been a bit of a nutcase, hasn't he? That glazed expression, slightly lolling tongue and the surreptitious way with which he attempts to masquerade his rabid tendencies as defending always gave me that serial killer vibes about him. Sorry, I know it ain't very kind words here but that's the feeling he gives me. He may be a gentleman who kisses puppies and helps grannies across the road for all I care, but he's always comes across as slightly unhinged. Check out this video.

Materazzi in his Sunday best.



The first half of the match was pretty enjoyable, but the second half sent me to snooze-ville. France played more than decently; the Italians, unfortunately, resorted to playing hoofball, which was a huge disappointment. Poor Luca Toni hardly got a whiff of the ball.

Cannavaro (I'll have to stop with the fangirly gushing some day, but just let me indulge one last time) was impeccable, as usual. I'm not a huge fan of defensive games - they do make me a nervous wreck - but Cannavaro is a joy to watch. I'd probably associate Gattuso or Roy Keane more readily with defensive duties - breaking up play, getting in the crunching tackles, bodies caked in mud - it's dirty work, something which seems exclusively the domain of burly truck drivers with mammoth frames, sprawling tattoos and perhaps a few missing teeth, you know, the hard-as-nails type who are too manly to use shampoo and instead wash their hair with Persil Automatic. Something I can never imagine nancies like Filippo Inzaghi getting engaged in. But Cannavaro and his contemporary Alessandro Nesta lend a polished elegance to that affair, complete with an uncanny ability to read the game and a knack for perfectly-timed interception. Although I cannot for the life of me fathom how it is humanly possible to execute a sliding tackle whilst looking like a walking GQ centrefold. Not to forget that France's defensive engine was in spanking form as well - Makelele and Thuram marshalled its rear immaculately.

And for all Lippi's tactical acumen in the semi-final against Germany, his substitutes during the final did not quite produce the same results. But I was mighty glad he replaced Totti, who was looking increasingly like a liability and - did he even produce anything of note? As for Domenech's substitutions - taking out Franck Ribery and Thierry Henry, two of France's most potent players on the pitch who continually harassed the Italian back-line with their mazy runs - well that's completely beyond me. Henry looked to be in pain, but I'm guessing Domenech was hankering for a bit of Euro 2000 nostalgia.

Russian Roulette

How fitting it was then, that the missed penalty came from Italy's nemesis in 2000 - David Trezeguet. He who drove the nail into the Italian coffin when he scored the golden goal in extra time. The Italian net billowed. Francesco Toldo, then Italy's keeper, could only look back, shell-shocked. Paolo Maldini buried his tearful head in his hands. Demetrio Albertini was inconsolable, as was Alessandro del Piero. Those were the parting shots of Euro 2000, and I'd never forget them cos I supported Italy back then, much more fervently than nowadays, and that final was just cruel.

I think life has a funny way of getting back at you. I wrote earlier about Ronaldo's tale coming full circle - from the buck-toothed precocious prodigy to dispirited footballer plagued by injuries and whose convalescence seemed destined never to end, to a World Cup winner completing the dream which was left suspended years ago. It's quite the same for Italy and its fans who have followed the Azzurri since 1994, or 2000 for some. A victory which took 12 years in the making.

I feel for Trezeguet, who was absolutely crestfallen after the match. But it seemed as if the stars were aligned for an Italian victory, and that some unbeknownst powers have already picked out the key characters and goaded them into unfolding the absorbing final few minutes of the game. That fans of Italy were made to grieve in 1994, and then relive the anguish in 2000, just so that we can truly savour the euphoric rhapsody of victory when it finally came to pass.

Champions at last.



Cannavaro contemplates whether it is chocolate or strawberry flavoured.



And therein, methinks, lies part of the riveting appeal of football. We marvel at the supreme exponents of the art - the Peles and the Maradonas. We relish the charged-up tension of a live game, and the sonorous cheers of the fans. Every time I hear the Champions League theme song, it sends tingles down my spine. It's like pleasurable electrocution.

Butto me, nothing quite compares to the gamut of emotions that supporting a football team entails - disappointment, outrage at the refs, hope, disdain, rivalry, pride, heartbreaks, disbelief, nerves, and the jubilation of victory. The overwhelming sense of camaraderie and commiseration that binds. The vicarious satisfaction of seeing one's favourite players score a goal in a filled-to-the-brim stadium whilst one is comfortably nestled in the couch or yelling your lungs out at the local pub. Football is a carthasis for ranting and raving, and for men, a legitimate premise for gushing adulation, hysterical screaming, passionate embraces and crying buckets of tears - basically, behaving like teenage girlies at an N Sync concert but in a perfectly masculine way.

And when Fabio Grosso coolly slotted in the match clincher, Italy's redemption was complete. I am not Italian, so I couldn't quite fully comprehend what it feels like to be world champions, but for someone who has watched the Azzurri for over a decade, the taste of triumph was sweet. Really, really sweet.

Grosso scores...



And the stadium erupts.



An extravaganza of pyrotechnics to herald the world champions.



Four stars!!



Some Totally Useless Stuff...

Most Nerve-wrecking Moment: When Andrea Pirlo stepped up to take his penalty. He looked so overwrought with nerves that for a moment I was certain he was gonna pee in his pants. What a great way of instilling confidence in fans.

I never thought anyone could possibly outdo Pippo Inzaghi in terms of looking like a doe-eyed rabbit in misery, but Pirlo has just about beat him to it.

Andrea Pirlo before taking the pens.



Best Celebration: Marco Materazzi cheekily placing a hat in Italy's tricolours atop the World Cup trophy.

Worst Celebration: Francesco Totti looking like an evil gypsy witch with a crystal ball as he tied the national flag to his head. An uncharacteristically un-glam moment for the Roma man.

Materazzi adds cheeky cheer whilst Totti looks like a right ol' frump.



Best Impersonation: Fabio Grosso et al mimicking the Leaning Tower of Pisa. The similarities are staggering.

C'mon lads, it ain't that difficult to look like a misshapen building!



The Brokeback Mountain Award: Andrea Pirlo again, for putting a loving pair of arms around his captain Cannavaro. Coming in a close second is Oddo Massimo doing a lapdance on Gigi Buffon's thigh.

Italy's answer to Titanic's Jack and Rose pose. No less romantic, mind.



And I'll leave you folks with my favourite pic:

Italy: World champions 2006. Thank you for the memories.



Tags: world cup azzurri zinedine zidane headbutt football

Italy - World Champions 2006

Am absolutely chuffed.

Wasn't the prettiest of finals, and Zidane's head-butt was a disgrace. I dislike Materazzi no end (I suppose under normal circumstances I would even have cheered for Zidane to do a little dance on the defender's head for good measure if it weren't for the fact that I really wanted Italy to win this World Cup) but nothing could have absolved that psychotic burst of rage. Well it isn't the first time I've seen Zidane lose his cool, whether in a Juve or Real Madrid shirt, but to end an illustrious career on such a note is really sad. And with that, I'm almost certain he just busted his chances at the Golden Ball award, which should (very rightly) go to Fabio Cannavaro save for a seriously major bout of collective dottiness from the FIFA technical team.

You'll be missed, Zizou. Whatever happened, I'll always remember you as a great player.

And of Italy - finally, the ghost of penalties exorcised. Really happy for Canna as he lifted the trophy.

More another day, and in the meantime - Italy: World Champions 2006.

Forza Azzurri!!

Azzurri to beat Les Pensioners, but this World Cup is a Damp Squib

Motley crew of thoughts on this World Cup:

Vestiges Of Euro 2000

I haven't read the papers, but I'm sure many would have waxed lyrical about the Italy-France final and the attendant analogies with the Euro 2000 final.

The semblances are stark - in 2000, France similarly met the Portuguese in the semi-final and triumphed on a given penalty (thanks to a controversial handball by Abel Xavier), which was also netted by Zidance. The Portuguese screamed ball to hand, but the ref handed France the lifeline and Zidance duly converted. That match, I recall, ended on an acrimonious note as the apoplectic Portuguese manhandled the ref and a few, Nuno Gomes included, picked up lengthy post-match bans.

Euro 2000 was, to me, one of the best tournaments in memory. The quality of football was sublime and fans enjoyed stellar performances from Zidane, Henry, Cannavaro, Nesta, Figo, and a fresh-faced Francesco Totti. Even the clown prince Barthez had a good tournament. One of my facourite matches, the Italy-Holland semi-final, was so tense that my nerves almost ruptured. It was just one of those days for the Dutch - who crashed out after an avalanche of penalty blunders and shots which riccocheted off the crossbar or goalposts. And Italy, despite being a man down after Zambrotta got red-carded early in the game, defended with prodigious resolve. Like a flotilla of steadfast blue ships they kept the Oranje tide at bay. I was so into the match that when I spotted a Dutch substitute coming on with his back facing the camera (it was Giovanni van Bronckhorst, but I didn't know who he was back then), this was what transpired:

Me: (Shifting to the side of the telly and craning my neck)
Brother: What are you doing?
Me: I'm trying to see what the defender's name is on the back of his jersey (still craning my neck).
Brother: The TV is 2-D, idiot.

Francesco Toldo emerged the hero after saving the Dutch penaties.



Zidane comforts Albertini after the Italian's defeat in the Euro 2000 final.



Being A Female Football Fan Ain't Easy...

Of all the national teams which I enjoy watching, that was the one in which I was the most emotionally-invested - Italy, class of 2000. The lousy thing about that is that when you're a woman who happens to like the Azzurri, nobody really takes you very seriously. To make that doubly worse, I was also a Manchester United fan, and David Beckham was in vogue back then.

Conversation Which Gets On My Nerves #1

Male football fan: So, which club do you support?
Me: Manchester United.
Male football fan: Ah... you watch for Beckham?

Conversation Which Gets On My Nerves #2

Male football fan: So, which national team are you rooting for?
Me: Italy.
Male football fan: Yes they are really very goodlooking aren't they?

Oh well. And just to set the record straight, my favourite player at Manchester United is Ryan Giggs, then Peter Schmeichel, then Eric Cantona. Not Becks. Thank you.

World Cup 2006 - Damp Squib

But back to the present. The ingredients were all present for Germany 2006 to be a classic tournament, and yet so far it has been more of a damp squib then a firework extravanganza of footballing wizardry. Theatrical dives and some horrendous refereeing fractured the rhythm of play for many games. I earlier fancied Holland and Argentina, but they were duly booted out. The quarter-finals were as dull as dishwater. Matches like Italy-Germany or Brazil-Ghana were far and few between. Rather, this World Cup was dotted with matches that were a total snore-fest for a good 60 minutes or so before a scintilla of efferverscence of play started to emerge, only to degenerate into a bundle of nerves in the last few minutes of extra-time and send the game into the dreaded penalties. Cauldron of excitement? Not by a country mile.

And looking at the team sheet of players - Ronaldinho, Ronaldo (both fat and thin), Kaka, Adriano, Messi, Wayne Rooney, Frank Lampard, Arjen Robben, Deco, Sheva, Alessandro Nesta, et al - was enough to make one salivate like Pavlov's dog, yo! The English, Brazilians and Argentineans all dubbed their teams the golden generation and lush, verbose comparisons were drawn with the hallowed teams of old. Yet we rubbed our eyes in disbelief as Adriano fumbled like a sack of potatoes, Ronaldinho and Kaka looked pedestrian and mediocre for long spells of the game, Nesta was cruelly ruled out thanks to a thigh injury, Rooney got red-carded for his petulant antics, and Lampard - Lampard! I shall not care to elaborate.

I don't know about you, but when players of such pedigree fail to perform, to light up what was proffered to be one of the best tournaments, I feel cheated. It's like I turn up in my Sunday best at the poshest restaurant in town expecting to be served a hearty banquet, only to find a few crumbs on the floor.

So You Think You Can Dance (The Samba Boys Who Failed To Find The Rhythm)

On that note, the Brazil-France game illustrated the pinnacle of that disappointment. Brazil, on a good day, dominate the play with a free-flowing, frolicsome style of attacking football that is their hallmark. During that game, however, at over 80 minutes, the commentator quipped that Brazil had yet to manage a shot on goal - for a moment you'd think that the beloved Iraqi Information Minister Muhammed Saeed al-Sahaf had taken over the commentator's microphone - until you realise it was the truth. What a bummer.

Sadly, folks, it's not the Iraqi Information Minister this time. Brazil really failed to get a single shot on target after 80 minutes of play.



Cicinho comforts desolate teammate Ze Roberto.



It's all over for Dida.



On 93 minutes, the whistle sounded like a death knell being struck. Brazil - the team which promised to hold out so much yet delivered so little when it mattered - was out, and their World Cup dreams vanished into the ether.

Cannavaro - There's No Contest, Is There?

Many have lamented that 2006 lacked a real star, the beacon to light up the tournament in Germany. The Diego Maradona of '86, or Lothar Matthaeus of '90, or Zinedine Zidane of '98. The one name which is the signature of a tournament.

And in 2006, we have been woefully short of such a luminary. Or more rightly, of such a virtuoso in attack. There have been a few flashes of brilliance, no doubt - Andrea Pirlo in the game against ze Germans spraying astute passes over the pitch, or Franck Ribery with his searing runs (although his finishing left much to be desired), or Ronaldo with that splendid goal which made him the most proficent netter ever in the World Cup. But I struggle to think of an attacking player who has impressed throughout the tournament.

Which is why, the best player for me this year is Italy's Fabio Cannavaro, who has been absolutely consummate in the Italian back-line. It wasn't too long ago that Cannavaro was a player with long chestnut hair and a cheeky, winsome grin. Nowadays he has chopped off his locks, wears an imperious mien, and hardly smiles. In fact, he's fairly inscrutable these days - no mean feat, considering that he's Italian.

But Italy sure have a lot to smile about for Cannavaro was instrumental in getting them thus far. And that is without his regular defensive partner Nesta. Cannavaro is the reason why Gianluigi Buffon had the time to take his siesta, solve a crossword puzzle and file his tax returns, only to return to goal to find that still there has not been much to do, cos Cannavaro has been orchestrating a watertight defence.

Zidane has had a field day against the Brazilians, but has been largely lacklustre in the group stages and looked ordinary against Portugal. Of course, the world would be waiting at his feet to see if he could reproduce the sorcery and weave that wand once more to hold his spellbound audience rapt in delight. For me, though, there is only one player who has managed to consistently dish out one masterful performance after another, and that's Cannavaro.

Fabio "He Used To Smile Much More" Cannavaro



Whither The Tale?

Every World Cup has a story to tell, a narrative with which to regale its audience, a tale to be chronicled in the annals of its illustrious history. And these are not always happy endings. It's like how, when people mention USA '94, one would instantly get ported to the scenes of Roberto Baggio famously ballooning his penalty (I love the Johnnie Walker ad - that was class). Or France '98 - how it all went so horribly awry for Ronaldo when a mysterious illness during the final vanquished his genius and extradited him to the wilderness for the next few years as he battled debilitating knee injuries. And how that redemption was complete when he won the coveted trophy four years later, with two goals in the final and a Golden Boot to top it all. Ronaldo's tale was almost operatic in its composition - such was the richness of the gamut of emotions that it invokes - the tragedy and pathos, the miscarriages of hope, and ultimately, the exaltation of triumph. I don't like the guy much, but I gotta admit that his story makes one heck of a fairy tale come true.

So whither the tale of 2006? The canvas is set, and the brushes dipped in hues. The scribes stand ready with their felt tips and empty scrolls. It can unfold into the romance of a French renaissance and the supreme epilogue to Zizou's resplendent career. Few would deny him that honour, I'm sure, for Zizou has been a maestro that transcends loyalties - we love him not because he plays for the team we support; we adore watching him simply because of his genius. And as one The Observer writer commented - geniuses are meant to be shared not just within club or country, but with the world. He is getting on in years no doubt, but his acumen and finesse live on, for posterity. Zizou, a nonpareil amongst his generation, has already been etched in the pantheon of footballing greats. And what better way to bow out, than on the most celebrated stage of the game.

A generation defined - Zinedine Zidane.



But then there is another tale in the offing - one with a less poetic plot and checkered with cynicism and conniving. You can always count on the Italians for a good ol' dose of melodrama - no more conspiracy theories a la Bryon Moreno this time, but intriguing tales of match-fixing abound. And on a more sombre note, Pessotto's harrowing brush with death threatened to skew this narrative into one of tragedy. Thankfully, he survived. Dogged by the scandals back home, the Azzurri has been monumental to survive thus far. So they have not really played any team of eminence (the Czechs were a disappointment and hence don't count) apart from Germany, but they executed their party-pooper plans in style to send the scribes scrambling to re-write this tale - the Germans, the fancied main characters, have been despatched and the Italians are weaved in after yet another twist.

The two faces of football - jubilation for the Italians, and heartbreak for Germany as Oliver Neuville wipes off sniffles and departs the pitch.



This could well be the World Cup swansong for Totti, del Piero, Inzaghi and Cannavaro, part of the team which suffered the heartbreak that was Euro 2000. It is a pity Maldini is not around to savour this. But this team stands at the cusp of greatness, and the chance to rectify the hurt of 1994 and 2000 will never come this close again for this generation of Italian players.

So, whither the tale of 2006? Providence beckons, and the world holds its breath.

When The Curtains Do Not Fall

Some of you already know this - my grandmother passed away two Sundays ago. It's always a sobering experience to witness someone languishing in the hospital, a hologram of their former selves, not to mention someone dear to you, but her agony was relatively short-lived. When one is in the throes of expiration, the humane response would be to pray for repose; and the spiritual response, for salvation. And God has been faithful on both counts - my grandmother departed peacefully and six days before that, received Christ. For that, I'm immensely thankful.

Though I couldn't help but ruminate. To that end, I borrow from Shakespeare's famous lines in Macbeth as the latter decries life's vapid trifles in his nihilistic soliloquy:

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time,
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.

-- Shakespeare's Macbeth

For an existence as futile as it claims to be, many sure quaver and wilt at the thought of its end. It's normal to be fearful of the ineluctable advent of death, but for me, as someone in my twenties, and I do think I speak for others my age, what bugs us more is the demise of others older than, and close to, us.

I've been to quite a few funerals this year. At times I cried, not so much because I was sad at the person's passing (for some I have never met, but am the friend of their relatives), but because witnessing others mourning for their loved ones invoke a fear in me - that one day I'll be the one sending off the people who matter to me. And I'd feel awfully guilty, cos it seemed remarkably selfish to be at someone's funeral and shedding tears for myself. Yet such is my - and human - nature.

And finally, two weeks ago, the inevitable happened. I was in hospital the night the doctors pronounced that my grandmother was beyond cure. I held her cold, lifeless hand, whispering Bible verses into her ear. She was comatose then, and I didn't know how to rouse her from the slumber from which she never awoke, but I knew only God could reach her then - and by faith I believed that He had relayed the words I had spoken to her.

And when she finally passed away on Sunday morning, I stood by her bed and sang the song Jesus Loves Me, with the words tailored for a farewell.

Jesus loves you this I know
For the Bible tells me so
Little ones to him belong
They are weak but he is strong

Yes, Jesus loves you
Yes, Jesus loves you
Yes, Jesus loves you
For the Bible tells me so.

These are the last words I sang to her, and the most difficult song I had to sing, cos I had to hold back so much tears.

At the wake, I loved going to the coffin to gaze at her countenance. My grandmother looked so beautiful and at peace, with a faint smile curling at the sides of her lips.

I remember going to her house to choose the sets of clothing that we would place in her coffin, and as I was rummaging through her wardrobe, I realised that she has tonnes of clothes, rich textures and exquisitely tailored. And yet all this while she looked like she's been wearing the same clothes all these years - with a China collar and adorned with floral prints, but I never noticed the different hues or the varying flower motifs. I guess we tend not to pay much attention to a person when he or she is living, but when they are gone, that's when we try to grasp at every scintilla of recollection we harbour. And each memory wrought its ghost upon our minds, playing upon our thoughts like a ceaseless bow on a fiddle string.

Yet these are little more than memories. It's a bit like a child clutching at the myriads of plumed seeds of a dandelion flower on a blustery day - some may slip past your fingers, but you can't stop the wind from taking them away.

Though I do think that we have an innate propensity to linger. The other day I was making preparations for my New York trip when I suddenly thought what gift I should get for my grandmother, cos American food tend to be rather greasy and sweet which wouldn't suit the palettes of the older folk. And then I realise she's no longer around. It took a while for the truth to dawn upon me. Sometimes I feel like I'm walking in a quagmire with a rapturous smile on my face and not realising that I am sinking.

From a strictly cognitive standpoint, I understand that she is no longer around. I do know what death connotes, at least in a physical sense. Yet emotionally, I have yet to fathom what exactly it means to never hear that sonorous laughter of hers ever again (at least in this lifetime; I'd leave the posthumous discussion for another day). I think "never again" is too weighty and portentous a consideration for me. Somehow the cerebral awareness of her passing has not transcended into a visceral acquiescence yet. There's the elementary sentience of death, but yet I have yet to possess the emotional faculties to fully fathom what it means to have someone close to you pass away, and that disconnect haunts me. I was expecting a gut reaction, but whether mediated by reason or rationality or even decorum, that reaction did not come - an aborted foetus of catharsis, never birthed.

At least, those who have appreciated the psychological, and not just the corporeal significance of death, are able to reconcile their physical and emotional loss. And for such people, bereavement becomes a more meaningful process of emotional distillation and denouement, and with it comes an ampler sense of closure. As for myself, I think it takes time to fully come to terms with my grandmother's passing. At the moment, I am in a purgatory of sorts, an interregnum that fleets between sombre reality and the wildwood of memories that my grandmother has bequeathed upon me.

When the curtains will draw on a swansong that has already been sung and the audience softly departed, I do not know.

Tags: bereavement