A Woman of Angkor

by John Burgess

  I walked about, trying to look pleased. Mr Narin stood to the side, squinting again – it was a good thing he couldn’t see me well, as my act was transparent. I wondered if he could see the litter on the floor.

  After a bit, I said: ‘We are blessed to have such a fine place. We thank you for bringing us to see it.’

  He smiled. ‘We’ll send some slaves to your old house to move your things. Would tomorrow morning be a good time?’

  I imagined the fuss that would occur if a line of men came walking into the other neighbourhood, and how we had so few possessions that most would have nothing to carry.

  ‘It’s all right, really. You’re kind, but we’ll manage on our own.’

  When Mr Narin had excused himself, Bopa spoke up in a small voice. ‘Mother, it’s so small. And so dirty!’

  I put a hand to her, feeling sympathy in light of the promises her father had made. ‘It is, dear. The previous occupants showed no respect to the resident spirit. But we won’t be like that. We will honour the spirit and keep the house clean.’

  Bopa put her head out the door, crinkling her nose at the smell of standing water beneath the house. She asked: ‘Can’t we just let the slaves help us? Father said we’re not poor any more. If we carry our own things here, won’t people laugh?’

  She thinks like her father, I reflected, picking up a reed-handled broom that lay in a corner.

  We began to clean and straighten up as best we could. We showed ourselves at door and window, but still no neighbour came to greet us.

  4: Portal to the absolute

  It was early afternoon when we left the new house. I hurried Bopa along until we passed out of the royal sector. Then we slowed a bit. We did not go straight home – Bronze Uncle would finally receive his thanks. Near our quarter I bought two garlands from a woman by the road.

  We knelt before the god. It was my intention to lead my daughter in a lengthy prayer. But before I knew it, she was whispering a few words on her own. She got to her feet, placed a garland around the holy neck, then hurried off toward the house. She had forgotten her disappointments, it seemed. I hoped that Bronze Uncle would excuse this behaviour.

  I lingered, my own garland still in hand.

  I have told you of the comfort I always felt in this god’s presence. Large images intimidate me; this one was of a small, intimate size, not even as tall as my forearm. He sat hands in his lap, in the pose of meditation. His lips bore that hint of a smile, just enough to convey assurance that anything voiced before him would be considered with sympathy. His eyes were closed. This of course helped him meditate during those hours when he was alone, but I believe that it could also help him listen more intently to prayers.

  Many of the gods whom humble folk kneel before are claimed to have powers to communicate with the religious realm of Kings. But we can sense that some gods, like some people, don’t live up to what is said of them. It was not so with Bronze Uncle. Let anyone who doubts explain those twelve years of protection that he afforded my family. Early in my time in Angkor, an acolyte who came to collect the silver left at the shrine had told me the source of these powers: Bronze Uncle had the ear of a favoured attendant of our Lord Shiva, ruler of all realities, destroyer of all illusions, whose true nature is proclaimed without words. He had the ear because in a previous cycle of creation he had faced down a demon rather than let it advance upon Lord Shiva, and in recognition of this service Lord Shiva had instructed his attendant to be forever open to prayers conveyed by Bronze Uncle. And that the god’s earthly abode would be forever nearby. So it was in this way that the little shrine came to stand outside the east gate of the Pre Rup mountain-temple.

  My prayers, then, if deemed worthy, might pass inside the walls of that great holy edifice, though of course I myself could not. Only Kings and noblewomen and priests of high holy orders could cross the moonstone which lay at the gate’s threshold. Still, there were times when I found courage to turn and gaze on the mountain-temple from the little shrine’s embrace. Heaven on earth! Enclosing the great citadel was a moat, dappled with lotus pads and blossoms – the Sea of Creation. Beyond it were those walls that glowed red in the late day sun, marking off the holy precinct. And rising beyond these walls, a sculpted mountain of stone and bricks, topped by five towers. They were the five peaks of Mount Meru, abode of the gods, kernel of the universe. Sometimes I would look and dare wonder, what would it be to put a foot to the great eastern staircase, its steepness akin to the difficulty of ascending to Heaven? How would it feel to pass between the stone lions standing guard on either side to repel any demon that attempted to rise so high?

  I will admit that on these occasions my thoughts could become collared with vanity. The silver that I left at the little shrine passed inside the temple along with (or so I could hope) my prayers. So if I saw a white-garbed priest walking its heights, I sometimes allowed myself to think: this man, though he lives more in Heaven than on earth, must nonetheless eat, and the rice and fish that he partook this morning might well have been bought with silver that this very women left as alms, having earned it in the marketplace selling duck eggs.

  This was the temple of the Ninth Reign, now a century and a half past, the time of our lord King Rajendravarman, quick to drive his sword into the bellies of enemies but possessed of an ocean of compassion for the meek and loyal. Here before me was his personal portal to the absolute. I am told that before his passage to the next life the King came here frequently in procession, to climb those steps in the way that I only imagined, and to enter the torch-lit chamber of the central tower. There Shiva’s linga shaft stood – and still stands – in silence, pregnant with cosmic force collected from the four cardinal directions. Kneeling, the King anointed the linga with lustral water. With this act, Heaven and earth were kept in harmony. Our Lord Shiva received a new demonstration of the devotion of the Khmer race; in response he allowed rains to fall, seedlings to sprout, life to continue in its many forms.

  On days of those royal visits, common folk from all over the Capital thronged to this area to the temple’s east, getting as close as the palace guardsmen would allow, hoping to bask in the primal energy that the temple radiated during the King’s presence. But this is not to say that the grounds were deserted on ordinary days. Bronze Uncle had much company all the time. Pilgrims from around the Empire stopped here year round. They knelt, they prayed, they chanted. But they also had to sleep, so rest houses were built for them. They had to eat and sometimes they wanted to drink a bit of wine after a long journey and buy a holy amulet or two, so vendors laid out their mats. If the visitors were blind or lame or suffering from a cough that would not go away, healers were on hand.

  All this bustle ceased with the end of the Ninth Reign. That was no surprise. We are taught that what is busy today will become serene tomorrow, that what was built will one day erode, that youth will be transformed into doddering age, strength into weakness. By my time, only the tiny weather-beaten shrine remained on the eastern grounds. This decline mirrored changes in the great temple itself. Though tall and imposing as ever it was, it had fallen into obscurity and even disrepair. Flakes of gilding peeled off the spires, mould discoloured the breasts of stone goddesses, weeds took root between bricks beyond the reach of attending acolytes. This sad deterioration I could see even from my place far down on the ground.

  Where had the people gone? Most people hold that prayers and sacred labour are best focused on a new temple. The succeeding King breaks ground for his own edifice, larger than the last King’s, and people direct their attention there. But the monarch reigning in the time when Nol was recalled to service was a man who had come to the throne late in life and loved orchids above all else. He had taken no steps to begin a new temple. Would he ever? No one could say.

  Now, Angkor has many holy reservoirs that, like the moats of Pre Rup, are the Sea of Creation on earth. The two largest are almost mirror images of each other. One occupies much of the eastern part of the Capital (our hou
se lay quite near it, in fact), while the other does the same in the west. Each has a temple on an island at its precise centre. During my time, the temple of the western reservoir was being enlarged. This was the primary building project underway in the Capital, so people naturally directed their attention there.

  One day I went to look. Thousands of pilgrims from the provinces were staging day-long circumambulations around the western reservoir, finishing weary but fulfilled at the mid- point of its eastern bank. There they knelt at a shrine, home to another god for ordinary folk who was said to have powers to send their pleas and aspirations wafting across the waters to the spires that glinted gold. The rest houses, the markets, the noise and spiritual exhilaration – they had all been transplanted to this place on the great reservoir’s banks. Priests circulated among the people collecting donations. If no new temple was to be built, at least this one could be made more glorious. But it was not only stonework going on. There was a major restoration underway of a huge bronze image of our Lord Vishnu, reclining, his navel emitting the jet of water from which Brahma is born to begin a new cycle of creation. A lucky few among the pilgrim-supplicants were chosen to ride boats to the island temple to offer their own toil to Heaven’s purpose.

  But as I said, I went only to look. I never thought of shifting my loyalties. I found it difficult to pray amidst the noise and commotion. And whatever people said, how could it be that the god on the bank could listen to a thousand prayers at once? Surely mine would be lost amidst ones that were louder or more deserving. And could it truly be that Heaven, with its teachings of devotion and service, could countenance the abandonment of a god who had brought spiritual sustenance to so many people? I could not accept that. I remained loyal to Bronze Uncle.

  With my daughter gone, I placed my garland gently around the god’s neck. I knelt again, head bowed, palms together.

  ‘Deity, I come today to honour you who have been so kind to your servant. So much have we received from you that we do not deserve. And, I apologize, but I ask your leave that I might not come to you as often as I have. Many demands are being made upon me now. As you know – for you know everything – I am moving with my family to a new place. There will be new gods there who will expect my tending. I will come often to you, but please forgive me if sometimes I miss a day.’

  I looked up. I could sense that my words had passed beyond the gently closed eyes.

  ‘I know that in this world truth is hidden,’ I continued, ‘like a seed in a fruit hanging high in a forest tree. Without your help I can never hope to find it. Guide me toward this truth.’ These were verses I had learned as a girl. Then I added words that came to me on the spot. ‘Please! I am not done with my requests. As my fate unfolds, make me deserving of what has been given for reasons that you understand but I cannot. Let me follow without question or complaint the husband to whom this calling has come. Let my children find some measure of happiness in this new place, let the people there be not cruel, let the dogs not bite. And please, forgive even one more selfish request from this woman before you: let my tea set return one day.’

  Feeling better, I walked toward my house. I now had courage to face the fact that soon it would not be mine.

  5: The holy elephant

  Bronze Uncle had sent courage, but before I had taken twenty steps from the shrine, I saw that he had sent something else as well, the elephant Kumari. The great animal was plodding toward me. Atop her neck sat her mahout, the gap-toothed man Sadong.

  ‘Mrs Sray!’ He called cheerfully from his perch, a smile displaying the gap. ‘Your friend the holy beast has things to tell you! And she is hungry, hungry even in this great city that has so much food.’

  I put palms together, to him, but also to the elephant. Her large eyes inspected me; she fluttered her ears, fan-like. Her trunk rose. I took its tip in my hand for a moment. Kumari was offering a blessing. I reached out to stroke the rough skin of the beast’s right shoulder.

  Sadong let himself nimbly down, and with strokes of a cleaver began cutting a stick of sugar cane into finger-long sections. He presented the food to me with some formality. I thanked him and gave a silver pebble in exchange.

  In an opened palm, I presented a piece of the cane, its dripping sweet juices kissing my skin. Kumari’s trunk rose again, took the offering in the most delicate way, and after a moment’s pause to show thanks, hoisted it to the mouth hidden behind the trunk.

  ‘Eat and let the gods relieve your hunger, Blessed Kumari,’ I whispered. ‘You will always have friends here.’

  A priest finds spiritual realization readily, but throughout my life this has shown itself to me only an instant at a time, like a fish jumping out of water, coming and going so quickly that it’s hard to grasp if it was there at all. But some of those instants have come when I peer into the eyes of this elephant.

  Many things have been said about Kumari. That a sliver of her tusk had the power to cure blindness, that powder made from the thick hairs that grew from her forehead could enable a woman to give birth to ten children one after the other, with not a single miscarriage. Some people say she was not born but brought to earth whole. I was not there at the time, of course, but I believe that Heaven chose to establish her on this earth in the same way as it does other elephants. I say this because I came to know this man Sadong quite well, and he recounted her story to me. He was too pure a soul to invent such things.

  She was captured in the forest as a year-old calf, by men from his village who with torches and gongs drove her and her mother into a hidden enclosure built of stout bamboo. The two were taken to the village corral for initial training, and when the young elephant was old enough to leave her mother’s milk, she was presented to Sadong, who in human terms was as young as she. She became his property, though like anyone in his calling, he felt that he as much belonged to her. He was acting as helper and guide for an animal that had condescended to devote her strength to ease the burdens of life for humans. From the start, Sadong knew that Kumari was unusual: On her front feet were five toenails, rather than the usual four, and between her eyes the skin bore the shape of a diamond. Sadong took that as explanation for her uniquely gentle disposition and her ability to quickly learn human words. After a month or two she knew more than fifty. Kneel, push with your forehead, lay down, trumpet. The standard repertoire of the working elephant, but quite a bit more.

  Calf and boy grew up together, and when both were old enough, they were sent to work a riverbed quarry. This was a place where, in dry season, the water dropped low enough to expose sandstone that Heaven had placed in great quantity along the river’s path. Masons used hammer and chisel to fashion rectangular blocks, each about as long as a man’s arm. It was the task of Sadong and Kumari to drag the blocks up and away from their points of birth and place them at the bank’s top. Then the masons went to work on stone newly exposed below. As blocks were removed row by row, level by level, the river bank came to resemble a giant’s staircase.

  When the rains returned, the river rose and covered those steps. The men went now into the forest to cut stalks of thick bamboo. These the elephants dragged in huge bundles back to the water, where they were lashed together as rafts. One after the other, the blocks were pushed aboard these rafts and sent on their way down-river, toward a site where a provincial temple was taking shape.

  In evenings, Kumari browsed untethered in the forest beyond the light of the cooking fire where Sadong and the other handlers sat eating dinners of rice and fish paste or sipping cheap palm wine from coconut cups. Sometimes the masons joined them. In this isolation, the usual barriers against men of different trades mingling quietly fell away. Home was far off for everyone.

  One day, following two weeks of rains that fell longer and heavier than usual, a man fell sick with mosquito fever. Then another and another, and then Sadong, until almost every one of the hundred labourers and masons was stricken. What spirit have we angered? the men wondered. How did we do it? Prayers were said in the
greatest number. Someone broke bark off a neem tree and boiled it in water to make a draught. Everyone drank, but neither the draught nor the prayers had effect. One man died, then another. The few who remained healthy ran away in fear, leaving the afflicted to face the disease alone. But in fact they were not alone. Kumari was there. Late one morning, she went to her master, who lay on a mat in the open, and lingered over him, then to the other stricken men, and she seemed to contemplate and feel pity. She walked to the river and drew water into her trunk. She sprayed it over Sadong and men who lay near him. Those who received the water recovered; those who did not, died.

  Word spread. A priest came to investigate, and declared that Kumari was a vessel of divine assistance. The extra nails on her feet, the diamond-shaped patch of skin – these were signs. Sadong, it seems, was made to feel dull for having failed to recognize these things earlier. Kumari could no longer work as a draft elephant, the holy man declared. Her gifts must be shared. So she and Sadong set out for the Capital, and there she quickly achieved celebrity. Physicians brought to her their most gravely ill patients to receive the spray of reviving water from her trunk. Newlywed couples engaged her to wet down the steps of their first homes. Her dung was collected by children to be spread in gardens for special fertility. There was interest too from Chinese merchants – water from Kumari’s trunk blessed shipments of porcelain and silk that had arrived safely by ship in ports on the Freshwater Sea.

  Sadong had come to the city a man who knew only the honest life of work in a quarry. As the elephant’s fame grew, he became more and more interested, as anyone would, in the silver that people put in the bowl that he set out before Kumari’s huge five-nailed feet. He began to feel that most everything was an occasion for palm wine; sometimes the first cup was poured in the morning. He spent less time with the elephant, leaving her alone in a rented corral, sometimes neglecting to walk her to the canal at day’s end for a bath. He took up with a string of young women he met in various drinking houses. He bought them silk sampots and bronze armlets; he began to wear jewellery around his own neck and arms. The silver began to run short, so he wondered how to bring in more.