no one listens anymore

12 years and 8 months ago, I started blogging and my 2nd post ever was after overhearing my parents talking. They were in their early 70s then and though they are always bickering, there was clearly some communication going on, even in mundane moments like the one I witnessed.

It went like this ...

Love birds

He: what are you buying?

She: some flowers for the festive occasion

He: what colour did you get?

She: red, it's the right colour for the festivity

He: i like yellow. We should get yellow.

She: ok, besides the florist gave us a good deal... 25pct cheaper than the last buyer

He: then we should really go get the flowers now

She: yes, yes, let's go.

Sounds inane? Maybe... But spending a day with my parents and overhearing their conversations on the above, on food, on gardening, and countless other everyday topics, I am warmly surprised on how much conversing there is and though these are on small matters, but they represent interaction and more importantly alignment. 

It's clearly love. I love them too!

 ...

As they got older, each had become even more set in their ways; holding on to their own opinion so firmly that they no longer listen, to each other nor to others. 

This time back with them, and 270 posts later, it felt more real than ever. They still care for each other but only in their own ways and that is not necessarily in the way the other needs. And their own way is formed by their own upbringing and education which is as far apart as US and China are today. 

I cannot help but feel sad that the end of the road becomes this instead of the garden mom insisted on taking dad to although he would rather not leave the house. She loves flowers and exercising and he clearly does not.

I sometimes make a trip to my hometown to see them whenever I am in the capital for work. It was always the best part of the business trip. Concluding with a visit to my beloved parents. This teip however, it was rhe other way around. The hometown was a more stressful place to visit. 

I talked a lot with mom as she still has her mental acuity. She has to be the adult in this relationship and its the adult that is capable of making the change, initiating the move and addressing the friction. But I guess stronger though her faculties are, she is also stuck in her ways. 

😔 

to be a better place

The headlines in world news today dont make for cheerful reading: El Nino has warmed up the Pacific Ocean to highest levels in decades, and out west, Europe has recorded its hottest June-July on record and Canada's wildfires are forcing thousands to flee their homes.

Then a 7.4 magnitude earthquake in Colombia comes shortly after a similar seismic shake in Japan last month and in Venezuela the month before. Its as if mother earth is protesting.

Its not all about nature's wrath. Man-made catastrophes like the Russia-Ukraine war is well past 50months and counting and the Israel/US-Iran war looks to also be similarly unresolvable. From military to money, the news are equally frightening. FIFA's chief Infantino has lost the confidence of confederation members over his proposal to sell the commercial aspects of footballing.

Given my involvement on these topics, professionally speaking, its not unexpected that I am uneasy and want to do something about it. Nowadays though, there is both a sense of urgency as well as optimism. 

Time is of the essence insofar as climate change actions are concerned. We need to act now... because we are already late. On a more personal bote though, I need to act because there is going to be a new generation to care for and as far as I can, I'd like to leave behind a better world for my grandchild (beyond my wonderful self-propelled kids).

Speaking of my kids, M just hosted her first meals in her own place last weekend. Over the long national day weekend, she got her old friends over for lunch and then D&I joined her & J for dinner. Later in the evening J&N came over to collect some soups D had prepared for them and I was happy to see a growing bump on N. 

self propelled kids! aces!

It’s amusing how the story of our family can almost be told through three simple acronyms, as far as our vehicular registrations go. 

When D&I were growing up, life was simple and getting around meant taking SBS — Singapore Bus Services. Buses weren’t just transport; they were part of everyday life, carrying us to school, work, and everywhere in between.

Then came J and M. For this generation, the transport system evolved into SDS — the Singapore D Service. Mum became the chauffeur, happily making countless morning runs, afternoon pick-ups, weekend activities, and late-night collections. Every journey was another conversation, another laugh, another memory made together.

Now they’ve both grown up and are living your own independent lives. The family transport system has entered its latest chapter: SPK. The progress speaks for itself: self-powered kids who have become adults, making their own journeys, charting their own destinations, and building lives of their own.

Looking back, it’s remarkable how those three acronyms capture the passage of time—from being passengers on public buses, to being passengers in our family car, to becoming drivers of your own futures. And while the mode of transport has changed with each generation, one thing never has: wherever life takes us, we’re always travelling the same journey as a family.

PS: the first two cars were our daily drivers in Malaysia and it was in the Proton Wira that D first learnt to drive. We then began to love bigger SUVs beginning with the reconditioned Honda CRV that sported a nice (lucky) 7318 number. We then moved to Singapore with the Opel Zafira, an MPV to accommodate our full sized nuclear family then and thereafter went back to SUVs, first a rebadged Harrier to the RX300, then a proper Lexus 400h. We then went properly into the grandmaster of the 4×4 offroad vehicle, the Land Rover. First the Discovery (which many contractors admired), then the Ocean 11 Range Rover Sport (in Santorini Black, what else!). All these SUVs bore the same SDS number. And to mark our new era of self-propelled kids, we now have a Land Rover Defender in pangea green (of course) which is a plug in hybrid EV to boot with the SPK acronyms.

a new start

You all know my passion for chronicling. I do so to understand our history. But not so much to live in the past as to provide a rock solid foundation to enable proper enjoyment of the present moment and to propel all of you into the future.

Like the movie we watched together yesterday, even though there is no spring season in Singapore, you will always represent new growth in my heart.

That hesitant figure, eddying away

Like a winged seed loosened from its parent stem,

Has something I never quite grasp to convey

About nature’s give-and-take — the small, the scorching

Ordeals which fire one’s irresolute clay.

I have had worse partings, but none that so

Gnaws at my mind still. Perhaps it is roughly

Saying what God alone could perfectly show —

How selfhood begins with a walking away,

And love is proved in the letting go.

These words of Cecil Day Lewis from his poem Walking Away resonated in my soul. Yes, they are walking away because they're able to. And their direction is up and onwards. What more joy can a parent expect. 

My heart is full. My soul is sated. I am grateful. 

a perfect day

Meg and I watched this Japanese art house movie Perfect Days at the Projector. I did reflect on how many of such days we get. Thankfully they do come around occasionally and today is just such a day. 

I was grateful to have the luxury of waking up slowly, no alarms... just to the rising sun. Mom was up earlier as always and had already given thanks in church at mass. Josh and Nat were coming over for lunch with the family. Julian, as well, as he got onto the very last seat of the flight and on the way to Singapore.

Lunch was perfect, made with loving hands and fresh ingredients, not to mention a nice bottle of 7 year old Chardonnay. Nat didn’t partake of any and for the best reason in the world! 

The happy news was announced in the most surprising of way. I am usually quite quick but God delayed my reaction so you can all enjoy the delight in slow-motion! 

The meal was leisurely as there were no rush or stress and when it concluded, Meg and I went for a nice walk to further enjoy the moment together. 

I continued my amble while Meg went to pick up Julian and we all settled back home for more family meal time, this time on mom’s famous one pot soup, washed down with Umamu sparkling wine.

As the midnight hour approaches, I head to bed with a head dizzy with hope, a heart that’s full of love, a soul that is oh so grateful.

Thank you all for making this such a special day. A perfect day.

Tournament Thoughts

When the knockout round draws were decided, I had hoped for a Europe vs South American final. And my wish (as did many fans all over the world) came true when the champions of Europe will play the champions of South America. But I am getting ahead of myself, so let me start at the beginning.

At that time, no European team had yet beaten a South American one and the smart money was on the latter but these teams that play with teamwork besides talents got better and bested the South Americans along the way (notably Brazil and Colombia - two traditional powerhouses).

Indeed, this has been an unpredictable and entertaining world cup, with goals galore (the most ever, in absolute and on a per game basis) with the penultimate match serving up the best show!

Interestingly, or perhaps consequently, goalkeepers (and not just the strikers) entertained us further with heroics! And the fairy tales come no better than that of Cape Verde and Vozinha's. 

The half time entertainment, though,  was an own goal (except for Shakira who was the South American that had better moves than the entire Argentina team in the final).

On the other hand, some goals should have stood, Croatia's equaliser vs Portugal and Egypt's potential winner against Argentina being two of the more egregious calls.

As usual, there are good goals, especially given the impervious forms that Mbappe, Messi and Haaland were in as the tournament began.

Speaking of which, they should make a new award for fan participation for the Norwegian row, following in the spirit of the Iceland clap and the Mexican wave.

With all games played, we wave goodbye to this tournament in the most contrasting of fashion: France and England put up an exhibition match with ten goals, taking the goal count well above 300 with Saka scoring a hattrick. 

Mbappe clinched the Golden Boot (and becoming the Word Cup's biggest scorer of all time in the process) and Bellingham got onto the podium too, fittingly, for he played like a lion.

The one team that fell off the pole position (and further still in esteem) must be Argentina, goat notwithstanding. 

If Tuchel was blamed for defensive substitution in the semifinals when attacking substitutes have won so many games with late goals, then Argentina's utterly defensive play for well over 100mins simply didn't make sense...

... until one realises that its their opponent that made all the sense. Spain was improving throughout the tournament and by the time they beat France, Scaloni had to desperately come up with a new game plan including holding on for dear life until penalties and Dibu theatrics.

Until then, their playbook included the usual thuggery, feigned injuries and pressurising, even snitching to the referee but nothing worked. 

Spain (and football) won. 

If the bronze medal match showed fans what football could be, three moments post the final exposed what it should not be:  post match bust ups, unsporting gesture of turning their backs and an irrelevant vainglorious figure standing next to the winning squad all show how easily this beautiful game can descend into ignominy.

Then there is the GOAT debate. At this tournament, it was clear Messi was ascendant but at the end of the day, he's human after all. And not beyond fouling and snitching to win as well.

Ultimately, beyond our celebration of sports (and other) celebrities, the truest joy should come from beyond the mortals, to the divine. It is God we thank.

Spain saves football by Rohit Brijnath

On an unholy afternoon in New Jersey, football got lucky and a game got redeemed. In a one-sided final, Argentina were dragging the game into tedium and disrepute, littering it with 25 fouls, soiling it with six yellow cards and one red, burdening it with cynicism and zero shots on target, when beauty belatedly overcame the thuggish. Ferran Torres’ Spanish left foot was not just a brilliant instrument but a lifeline. It saved football.

Sport never takes a moral position. The deserving team don’t always win and neither do the fairer ones. Possession doesn’t always translate to goals. Flukish strikes sink dominant sides. Somehow we escaped all that on July 19. Somehow a red wave from Europe, which resembled most faithfully the idea of team, tied together like beads in a necklace, are owners of the trophy. Somehow justice prevailed.

Winning this Cup should be hard, but this was a slog. One team had an eloquence, the other was purposely inarticulate. Spain spoke in calm lyrics, Argentina in moody grunts. At one point it seemed it was 11 against one, the single Argentinian not being Lionel Messi but goalkeeper Emi Martinez, who nobly defended his net like a winged creature might its nest. Imagine if Argentina had taken it to a penalty shoot-out. Actually, let’s not.

No sport can promise the gripping finale, for this is the unscripted allure of competition. Rafael Nadal once tamed Roger Federer 6-1, 6-3, 6-0 in a French Open final but even that never felt as dispiriting as this. Somehow we thought, two glittering Cup nations, a kid with winged boots, a footballing Yoda at 39, Ethan Hunt and Odysseus in the stands, something heroic had to be in the offing. Mostly we found villains in blue and white.

We’re sleepy now, hungover, tired, frustrated, yet part of me is already missing the Cup which refreshes us like nothing in sport can. It reminds me the tournament itself is always bigger than a final and what we’ll take with us is not Argentina’s abysmal 32 per cent possession, but tiny clips of wonderful film which will play in our brains forever.

The 308 goals, some of them so heartbreakingly late, which made us levitate from our chairs. The fabulous flexing of unknown nations. The thank-you letters left behind by teams in dressing rooms. The acuteness of Thierry Henry’s analysis. The grin of Erling Haaland, as if to say didn’t you know that goal was coming.

Michael Olise on the balletic move. Bagpipe-playing Scots and inconsolable Brazilian fans. Goalkeepers stopping balls like Superman catches bullets. Egypt worn down by injustice. All of this we’ll remember instead of an over-long mid-game final show which felt like sacrilege. At half-time, we only pee, discuss substitutions, rehydrate, strategise, and I am just talking about fans.

My friends (many of them aren’t even devoted sports fans) and I spent a month sending WhatsApp messages scurrying across borders at 2.30am. Not for anything else, not for so long, do we do this. And this is also how the Cup won, in the way it woke people, brought them to this game, and always reminded us of its reach (a ball made it to the International Space Station).

The best of Cup football, told often through tales of immigrants shining for their new nations, somehow managed to subdue the worst of football, like a US President inserting himself into a red card debate. Skill dribbled past politics and talent outsprinted Gianni Infantino’s tastelessness. It was close but football prevailed.

I like that the game is hard in part, forearms in backs, jerseys pulled like leashes, close dances in the box during corners, shins examined, but there’s a line. Argentina danced on it for weeks, rugged and cussed and indefatigable and unstoppable, and then in the final, even after the whistle, they slid over that line into ugliness. They brought nothing beautiful of football to football’s biggest day.

Spain brought composure and control, the ball zinging off the boots of their players like a pinball machine. This is the nation of Salvador Dali and Picasso, but more importantly it is the land of Xavi and Andres Iniesta, professors of space, watching and applauding the exploration of their successors. Spain had to win. For football’s sake, the pretty had to tame the petty.

One fleeting image, of a few seconds, remains with me from the final. Lionel Messi, 39, sitting alone on the grass, genius spent and subdued. Then he sees Lamine Yamal, 19, approaching, and gets up and they embrace. It is an acknowledgement of talent, a recognition of struggle, an everyday act yet on this day feels more filled with meaning. A young phenom has come to pay respect. An old hero has risen to return it. Football’s uncomplicated beauty is always its saviour.