Unconquered

Unconquered

Thailand has never been conquered in history. Its palaces and temples glow with undiminished glory. The beholder is left speechless. There is so much to see in Bangkok alone. Buddhist temples can be found in every part of the city, each one more splendid than the other. The Chao Phraya River navigates the city like a serpent. It is an earthy brown in color and carries hundreds of boats across itself everyday.

There is more than one palace in Bangkok. The most famous one is the Grand Palace. It has been around for more than 200 years and kings have continually added to it. The Thai are proud of their kings. On the birthday of the present king Bhumibol (and in fact on every Monday) people wear yellow T-shirts. I was surprised to find a sea of yellow T-shirts at lunchtime on a Monday. You will find portraits of the present king on every street of Bangkok. They really love their king.

I spent most of my time at the Grand Palace. It is incredibly beautiful, and it takes a long time to see all of it. Every bit of the palace is just exquisite (as you can see from the photos). I haven’t seen anything like this before. It also houses the temple of the emerald Buddha. One isn’t allowed to take photos of the emerald Buddha. It is placed at a height on a pedestal that seems to cascade down towards the viewer. It is not a big statue, yet one is attracted to it because it is made of emerald.

I visited many temples while I was in Bangkok. I remember the temple called Wat Pho. It houses a reclining Buddha that is 46m long and 15m high. Besides the statue of the Buddha, I loved the stone statues of warriors placed outside the temple. They look proud and unconquered.

Where he had left

A boat came back to the quay,
The sun calls it a day,
The rain clouds drift away,
Gently. Sagged down like udders,
By the weight of,
Their own self-consciousness.

The old tree that clutches,
At the red earth, sucks in,
Every leaf that goes astray.
The red earth blows,
From her pouting lips,
To smudge all footprints away.
Flotsam that drifts into,
The unforgiving waters,
Is returned with the lowering tide.
No one can get away.

A contoured, cartographic face,
Navigable features and eroded gaze,
He came back to where he had left.
As he spoke, words that left,
His mouth went back in again.
The same way they came.
Memories won’t matter to anyone else.
Thoughts came hurling back at him,
Like a stone thrown skyward with vengeance.
His hands felt empty, yet laden with weight.
His practiced feet walked unswerving,
Tired yet continuing,
As he emerged unscathed,
From a journey around the periphery.

The King is dead. Long Live the King!

Malacca

The King is dead. Long Live the King!

And so it was that kings died and sprung back to life to die again. At the Straits of Malacca. The natives ceded power to the Portuguese. Who ruled for a century only to be driven away by the Dutch. Who signed a treaty in Europe, and transferred Malacca to the British as they withdrew to Indonesia. Then the British, who ruled for a long time until they scuttled away from the Japanese only to be reinstated again after World War II. Later when the British left, Malaysia decided on an innovative form of Monarchy. The rulers of the 9 states choose a King by rotation for a period of 5 years only. But that’s unconnected with the history of Malacca, and I won't digress.

Malacca is one of history's favorite ports. The straits of Malacca were ideal for trading ships to dock for a few days and trade their wares on the river that trickles into the straits. Malacca was famous for spice trade. Militarily too the port was of strategic importance. That is why Malacca has seen a lot of bloodshed.

The city of Malacca is built around a hill. On top of the hill is a chapel. Then around this decayed chapel are placed palaces, gardens and old houses. In recent times the city has crawled down the hill and spread farther and farther landwards. The sea of course has never capitulated to the city.

Those Hands

When you return to humanity,
With your wizened reasoning,
You can explain most everything.
The necessity of shriveled legs,
Of hunger, of crime, of social inequality,
Of unborn babies and your moral probity.

Yet those lips, those kisses,
And those hands that go astray.

You are the son of your father,
With his roving eyes and sensuality,
And your hands must seek and go astray.
Oh, the sweet baseness of your lofty thoughts,
They say your reasoning is just for protection,
A sort of explanation,
And despite all those words and lofty thoughts,
Those hands, they must seek, and go astray.