Pomp and pageantry at its best

Sep 22, 2022 Letters

Dear Editor,

There was the sound of muffled drums, in perfect cadence with the slow rhythmic dirge of mournful horns. I can see in my mind’s eye, the synchronised march of the procession, hear the occasional stentorian commands barked out into the solemn hush in the approaching autumn air. Amidst the profound hush, there comes awe at the pomp and high pageantry that only the British can put on for a moment like this. It helps that they can afford the lush tapestry of honouring their dead in such grand and glorious fashion, without appearing to overdo anything by the merest smidgen.

I think it comes from the grooming of centuries, as buttressed by the bullion of Central America, compliments of Francis Drake and others of that hallowed pantheon so revered by the British. There comes recent learning of that fabulous estimate of some $45 trillion carted off from India, and the oceans of treasure that once belonged to Africa, but of which it is considered poor form to mention in polite company and the glittering circle of the brandy sniffing, cocktail swilling cognoscenti. Goodbyes and sendoffs for the ages are the special preserve of the British, and they have had a long line of kings and queens to perfect the practice of pious partings with princes. They have honoured their dearly departed in fine style. Fitting grandeur refined into an art form.

Those of us left behind, those hurt by sharp recollections that pierce and never truly leave or heal, must manifest the spiritual sanctimony and classiness to rise to the occasion and whisper a silent prayer for a smooth journey to the other side of the mountain. But, of course, first the men of church and cloth must have their own moment amidst the swirl of bagpipes, thundering organs, and pealing choruses in keening, carrying, ethereal resonance. The British gift for cool, unruffled, unhurried delivery was on scintillating display, in impeccable choice of words, and immaculate articulation. There was not a syllable unclear, not a stray strand hair, or an errant bead of sweat glistening. It was a rare moment of the English Language reflecting and reclaiming its universal glow, in the echoes that gently rippled from the walls of stately cathedrals, and across oceans and time zones. I think the heavens paused for a while, maybe even held a deep indrawn breath.

If ever there was the enraptured celebration of a life, and of the transfixing passing of a monarch, then this was one. It was the best that there could be, and this just had to be, since nothing else would do. Naturally, there could never be a better place to be seen with the order of appearance mostly mattering. Even in departure, there are these symbols of arriving, and reaffirmation that life continues its unceasing march to the summits, and all the while, the flesh withering away in dutiful surrender to its own invisible, inevitable clock. It is said of what value is it to conquer the world and lose one’s soul. I say it is unthinkable, unpalatable, and almost unforgivable that the world ruled could be relinquished and not long after the soul severs from substance, and is itself lost, too. Perhaps, that is the best time to go, when the clock can’t be outrun or outlasted a single second longer, and there is only this great wash and wake that ebb and flow.

In taking my own leave, I have a little confession to make. I neither saw a single second, nor heard a single echo, of what transpired in the extinguishment of a regal presence. Nor the arrangements of the day that were the final expression of a life lived at the pinnacles of power and prosperousness that flowed from the energies of those a little lower on the ladder, and stooped under the weight of their calamities, from the visions of others, and at their hands. As graceful national tributes go, what else is there to say? All has been said, all has been done. And all passes too.

Sincerely,

GHK Lall

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