Geometry of Angkor

Deep in the jungle not too far from Siem Reap, I sit. Bakong, Cambodia. This is a serene place. What used to be the Angkor king's capital in the seventh century is now just a relic, a pyramid of symmetrical stonework, a representation of Mount Meru. The field over which I look is not as divine. Under the bright sun nothing can hide from sight and in the shadows, I see impermanence for the sun will find those spots too. It is very quiet. I can hear the words of visitors past.

"I feel like an explorer."

"I feel like a discoverer."

"I feel like a video game character."

Personally, I feel like a voyeur, spotting butterflies bobbing with their Brownian motion, listening to un-Gregorian chants, feeling the spirit of all this serenity. I will steal some right now.

Not far from the temple is a small wooden platform just hidden from my view. I walk through tall grass past a three-legged dog into a pasture. A small girl walks up to me. She is the only person there, no indication of a parent or a guardian -- just her dog. Her smile is beguiling, toothless, and carefree. She's about to say something but nothing comes out. She points to my hand and I extend it for her to touch. Gently, she takes a blade of straw and folds it into a loop and slips it onto my pinky. The ring is a bit tight. I admire it for a few seconds and when I look up, the girl is far away. I think she is trying to speak but utters no sounds and instead waves goodbye.

The dog is like an omen in the video game so I follow him, jumping onto and over rocks that were placed there a thousand years ago.

The wooden platform slowly comes into view. Cross-legged on top are about sixteen boys repeating the same things over and over again. This is the chanting I must have been hearing. The clothes they wear are saffron, but not all of them are dressed alike. Let there be no doubt: this is a monastery. The instructor, I can't see. The dog stops and watches too. On goes the chanting. I don't speak any Khmer. Nothing they say pierces my brain and I'm left guessing as to which subject is being taught.

On the ceiling is a baritone ceiling fan whirring in an elliptical orbit. Behind the hut is a cauldron being heated over a stove. There's a stout man crouching over it, stirring sporadically. Off-white is the colour of the mixture, off-white is the colour of his singlet; off-white is the colour of the whites of his eyes.

Standing still in the tall grass, I feel like I'm on the Serengeti, watching. Shadows pass. The lesson goes on. The fan whirs.

Near the other side of Mount Meru, I wander. A boy, almost a man, in saffron robes is on an intercept course. Subtly, I smile. I move closer to the stone fence and stop once I reach a patch of shade. He walks to within talking distance and simply says, "Hello."

"Hello," I respond.

"How are you?" the young monk asks.

"I am well."

"Are you here to see Bakong?" he continues.

I respond, "Yes. Yes, I am." Am I?

There's a silence. The orange silk is draped carelessly over his bare chest. There's no hair on his head and his eyebrows are indeed shaved.

"It's a very serene place. I like it," I offer.

"Yes."

"Are you studying here?" I ask.

"This is my school," he points.

I look over. "Over there?"

He nods.

I brush my hand through my hair and think about the monk's life.

"How many boys study here?" I ask.

He is flustered.

I make some guesses. "Ten? Twenty? Thirty?"

Only then does he pipe in, "Thirty."

I don't know if he said it just because it's the last number I uttered. "Hmmm," I say.

Silence.

"Are you a teacher?" he asks.

"No. No, I'm not."

"What do you do?"

"I," I think what to say, "I work with computers." Playing charades, I act out my hands on a keyboard until I realize how preposterous it is. Or not. He's probably been to an Internet café.

"Oh," he says.

I continue with my questioning because he doesn't seem to mind. "Have you ever left Cambodia?" He says nothing. "Ever been to Thailand?"

"No Thailand. Just Cambodia," he says in that lilting way that emphasizes syllables differently than I would have imagined.

"Maybe one day," I say. "What do you want to do when you get older?" He shrugs. "Do you…" I don't finish my question.

He looks at the hut. At the ceiling fan. "A teacher."

I smile. "How old are you?"

"Twenty," he says without hesitation.

I look at him again to see if that's what I would have guessed. Suppose so. "Your English is very good," I say, a little too surprised.

"No. It isn't," he says bashfully.

"Keep working on it. Keep studying," I say. "It is very good."

I'm embarrassing him. Some time passes. I find out his name. Sasket. He asks me about English words. He wants to know what the word is for his clothing.

"Robe," I say. He looks confused and when he repeats it, I know he hasn't understood.

He sticks out his hand and says, "Please write."

I spell out R-O-B-E in pen on his palm. He repeats it. "Robe." He's genuinely grateful to me for having taught him something. It looks like a weird tattoo.

More comfortable silence.

"Are you traveling alone?" he asks.

"No. Well, now I am but I have two friends meeting me later."

"Here?"

"Not here," I say.

"So you came all by yourself?" he confirms.

"Yes," I say.

"What country?" he asks.

"I came from Singapore. But I'm Canadian."

"Canada. Big country," he recites as though he's been taught. "Two languages. English and French."

"Yes."

"Your two friends. They are women?" he queries.

"My two friends?"

He nods inquisitively, almost slyly.

"No," I throw out. He's disappointed and says something incomprehensible.

So much for the vow of celibacy.

Sasket is playing truant to take me to Angkor Wat. After talking and walking in Bakong, his generous spirit irrepressible, I accept his offer to see the big monument with him. We start to walk in the searing heat until I manage to persuade him to stop for a cold drink, which he is very reluctant to accept, and a moto ride, which he is thrilled to partake in.

Many rice fields later, we get to the more touristed area of Angkor, bypassing the required entrance pass checkpoint because either we're indistinguishable from other Cambodians riding three to a 110cc moto, or out of respect for the robe.

So here I am, at Angkor Wat. After hearing tales about it and longing to go for ages, I am finally here. Stepping my first step onto the long pathway towards the central complex, I am blessed with a vision. I can see fractals, infinite in their minutiae but gloriously simple. I see the spirals flowing, twirling between the tops of the Wat's towers. The black and white colours turn and turn, deconstruct and melt into one, spinning, spinning in control but exhibiting entropy perfectly, etching themselves permanently into history.

In my corporeal self again, I feel awake, my legs feel spritely, taking me closer. I am drawn to the spires. Sasket walks by my side, quietly, also in awe which only adds to the effect. The long walk up the serpentine, through the first gates, along the central path, elevates my anticipation notch by notch until I can feel my legs literally running. The stream of people leaving only firms my resolve to see Angkor Wat on my terms. The light is fading quickly, a potentially stormy evening is lurking, basking Angkor Wat's dramatic West face in a somber glow. A dark smile.

It is into this smile that I step. The smell of rot comes and goes as I climb up into the playful courtyards. I ponder. Taking a seat on an unusual ledge, I peer over at Sasket who is in meditation. Is he purifying his thoughts? The light changes. The sky is clearing. Angkor takes over. It tells so many stories and has a seemingly infinite amount of detail in its work but it isn't busy or gaudy. Made from the same stone throughout, it has a uniform shade and tone which doesn't take anything away from the artistry. Perhaps the Khmer knew that it is a canvas unto itself, lit by the sun to achieve a different kind of photonic splendour.

Nuns and monks are omnipresent; photographers and admirers, pilgrims of all sorts have explored every nook, every cranny. The reflective pools out front are idyllic, with just the right number of palms in the foreground.

Sasket quietly tells me of its mysteries. It must be a tomb because it has the weight of mortality. It must be a temple because it tries so hard to impress its divinities.

Angkor Wat has entranceways. It has halls. It has levels representing Hell, Earth, and Heaven. It is symmetrical yet whimsical. It is serene and sinister. It is lavish and austere. But to appreciate it, one must take it as a whole and swallow the conundrums.

Every once in a while, something or someone would happen. It brought it all to life. As majestic and historical as Angkor Wat is, it is also very much alive. People visit it everyday. Faces in awe. Children at play. Guards proud. Faithful at pray.

I see a round-faced security guard looking out towards the jungle. She is no more than three metres away from me. Behind her, the ancient brown stone and lush green jungle could not make a more perfect backdrop for the evenness of her features, the drab grey of her uniform, the bright red Khmer lettering on her armband. When she catches me staring at her, she looks embarrassed. A sweet smile emanates. I keep looking at her as she walks past, to my left, sighing audibly.

Later, I see Sasket on a stone balcony. I could swear that he's posing. He knows all the right angles. He knows the telling perspectives. He has an intimate understanding of lighting that only a few trained photographers have mastered. He has wrapped his robes tight around his lean body to amplify his insignificance. He has bought the brightest saffron silk possible for his robe. There is no doubt in my mind, he is a poser: posing for the camera, posing for the tourists, maybe even posing for the security guard. Photogenic to the extreme, he is part of the fabric of the place and he knows it.

I see his conflict in his brow. His need to be a man. The temptation. Taught every day to cherish all things, to dispel ego, to turn affectionate love to wishing love. He has moved so much further along the path to enlightenment than most. And yet, I see it in his brow. The desirous temptation. And here he is in deep meditation, trying to liberate himself from samsara.

Clouds come back. Then dissipate. The sky is transformed. Where before there was a steely grey, there is now a blend of subdued colours, a pink, a patch of red, bluish greys, and a speck of baby blue.

How many places on this Earth have such elusive and stunning beauty? Everywhere there is power that minimizes my presence and reduces me to a minor but extremely appreciative spectator. Whether it be a sinewy spire or a Khmer smile, the indelible mark it leaves on you is constant, eternal, unending like a fractal.

Sasket and I munch on a baguette he has smuggled in. We tear pieces off with our teeth and chew loudly, sitting like garudas on top of one of the pyramids. Once in a while, we see a pretty girl below and nudge each other.

Walking down, I contemplate. When we talk of relics of world significance that are a thousand years old, it is easy to recite platitudes about their importance, their architectural significance, and their enduring mysteries. Instead, I think about this place where thousands of playful apsaras, hundreds of serenely smiling faces, and seas of serpents coexist, mingling with my sensibilities, further enhancing my sense of displacement, erasing my preconceptions about beauty and evil, rearranging my perspective on art and power forever.

"How do I submit to the selflessness of beauty every day?" I ask this of myself. I ask this of Sasket. His unassuming glow is his response, not his answer, for he has none.