For Every City is a Story

Sunrise-watching has never been an activity on the itinerary that I was keen of.

There I was – sitting in the dark, swatting mosquitoes with one hand while the other supported my heavy head – waiting for the sun to rise behind the towers of Angkor Wat.

A faint burst of orange emanating from behind the three visible towers. Angkor Wat was like a coy middle-aged bride lifting her veil to reveal her impressive jawline and pronounced cheek bones, and the inevitable wrinkles that hints at her age. She aged gracefully, and will continue to do so even after all of humanity perish.

I often pondered upon the subject of immortality. I remember my class teacher telling us the story of Qin Shi Huang: his conquests, cruelty and notably his quest for immortality. The moderns know that it is futile to stop Death, but they never pause their efforts to delay His arrival.

Mankind’s desire for immortality never once dampened despite knowing the impossibility of it. We simply try to be here as long as we could.

I will never forget the day that Jayavarman VII smiled calmly but sternly at me as I explored the corridors and chambers of his temples in Angkor Thom. It was not difficult to imagine how these ruins were once landmarks of grandeur, imperial powerhouses that proclaimed the kingdom’s might and wealth to its neighbours. Dilapidated and broken as they appear to be today, their proud statements still echo through the silent galleries of mossy dancing apsaras.

Their lips are sealed, curved in the shape of knowing and serene smiles as I examined their faces. Time was not kind to Jayavarman VII’s beloved city: it left marks on his walls, his towers, his face. It carved its own stories into the city which the city internalises in its core, unreadable like the heart of a woman.

Years later I would find myself thinking about this Khmer king again on my way to work. He haunts me and leads me to history books and I will see his name but not know his story. He is remembered – along with his kingdom, predecessors, successors – on the lichen-covered stone walls in the countryside of Cambodia. Perhaps this is immortality.

Skimming through the photographs in the airport while I wait for my flight home, I chance upon some shots I took on top of Bakheng Hill Temple where I saw the sunset. It was an excruciatingly slow – and sweaty – wait for the sun to descend behind rolling verdant hills of the countryside. And surely enough, the sun did not set on Angkor Wat.