A Flame Shaken by a Violent Wind

With the weather still wet and gray, the traffic to the Angkor ruins was blessedly much diminished on my last afternoon in Siem Reap. I wondered about the tourists I’d seen cycling their way around the previous day and that morning. Were they intrepid enough to pedal out in this weather? The ride was exquisite, the rain-washed breeze whipping through the touk-touk and the scenery shimmering faintly in the wetness. Before long Mr. Ho deposited me in front of Bayon.

I took a deep breath before braving the stone steps made slippery by the rain. The place seemed to be deserted save for the lone guard who checked my three-day visitor’s pass, which alas must go unused for the remaining day. The little shrine with the reclining Buddha, which had been tended by a nun the day before, looked abandoned this time. The entire scenery made me want to weep: weep for such ancientness, for such beauty, and for the passing of the civilization that created those breathtaking monuments. I ventured inside the temple and up the narrow stone steps, aware that a single misstep could mean a concussion, fractured bones, or even death. It added to the sense of mortal fragility the place gave me. Up on the second-floor platform, I was greeted by the countless huge faces carved out of blocks of stone. I could distinguish at least two kinds of expressions on their faces now: one, the typical serene and enigmatic smile of the Buddha, the other, an almost mocking grin. I felt a momentary pang of regret at leaving my camera behind, noticing how the rainstorm had heightened the drama of the ruins, but I quickly banished the thought, determined to really see what was before me, without a lens between beholder and beheld.

I circumambulated the central tower, pausing before each immense face I passed. Inside some of the stone chambers were shrines to the Buddha, flames dancing before likenesses of him draped in yellow cloth and surrounded by colorful votive objects that seemed cheap and kitschy in that sacred setting. The shrines were guarded by shaven-headed nuns who motioned visitors over to light incense sticks and make an offering. The orange-robed monks I’d seen the day before had, on the other hand, made themselves scarce that somber afternoon.

I took refuge in those dim corridors of Bayon when a merry bunch of Chinese tourists arrived and started posing before the monuments, diminishing the poetry of the place. Thankfully, they were gone again before long and I could savor the peaceful beauty of the ruins along with a handful of equally introspective sightseers. In front of a particularly striking stone face sat a long-legged, sandy haired girl in a red parka, bent intently over a sketchbook, not to be bothered even by a kurta-and-shawl-clad apparition gliding by. Thus ignored, I reached up towards a low-set stone face, running my hands over the centuries-old contours of its lips and nostrils. I moved towards a pillar and traced the sinuous curves of a devatas with my fingers. Soon, I knew, I would have to bid farewell to this place; the sun was ready to make its descent.

Bayon’s pull on me was magnetic that afternoon—I didn’t want to leave. But as a string of Singaporean sightseers clambered up into the platform, their accents giving them away, I knew it was time to go. Holding onto a naga for support, I slowly descended back to reality, to a world of people instead of spirits. My last glimpse of Bayon as I threw a final glance over my shoulder was of a small stone Buddha, its yellow and orange garb a splash of warmth against the grey façade, like a candle flame in pitch darkness. Suddenly, I remembered something Terzano Tiziani quoted in A Fortune Teller Told Me; something he said is inscribed on a lintel in Angkor Wat. It says simply: “The wise man knows that life is but a candle flame shaken by a violent wind.”

(May 2007)