Demolition accident

In 2021 when I was working on 10,000 Prosperities, the book on Ban Hin Lee Bank, there was one minor incident I felt unnecessary to include at the time. It seemed a diversion from the main story. Looking at it again now, I think it fits rather well as an addendum to the bank’s history.

By the middle of 1936, Beach Street was changing. Numbers 41 to 47, old shophouses that had long done unremarkable business along that stretch of road, were coming down to make way for something newer and larger: a purpose-built home for Ban Hin Lee Bank. The land belonged to Yeap Chor Ee. The bank itself was operating just a few metres up the road, from a modest building at the junction of Beach Street and Market Street, which he also owned. For a newly incorporated bank seeking recognition in a colonial port city, modesty was no longer enough.

What Yeap wanted was an imposing building that rivalled European-owned buildings and, just as importantly, assure his Chinese customers of merchants and traders that his was a bank that was strong, dependable and reliable. Perhaps he had in mind the Chartered Bank or the Hongkong and Shanghai Bank buildings further down the road. In any case, he envisaged a structure built along classical lines, one that would place Ban Hin Lee visually among the established pillars of finance on Beach Street.

Demolition began sometime in June. Red flags were strung along drains and five-footways, the old and familiar signals that had long served as warnings to passers-by. What were missing, at least at first, were proper hoardings to separate the site from the street and, more importantly, a licence from the municipal authorities permitting the buildings to be taken down. On 29 June, those omissions turned fatal.

That afternoon, Sikandar, a 12-year-old Indian boy, was carrying coffee from a shop in China Street to a money-changer who operated from the five-footway along Beach Street. It was something he did regularly. This time, he never returned. As part of No. 47 collapsed, bricks and tiles fell into the public way. Sikandar was struck and badly injured. By the time help arrived, it was too late.

His death set off a chain of proceedings that stretched over several months. In August, the coroner, HAL Luckham, found that the boy’s death was an accident involving contributory negligence on several sides. A workman might have acted negligently, but there was no definite evidence. The contractor, Anamalai Chettiar, should be prosecuted. The liability of the owner was less clear. He also noted that the money-changer had remained under a building he knew was being demolished.

The contractor’s case was heard first. Anamalai Chettiar was charged with failing to take proper precautions to protect human life. Witnesses testified that rubble had been falling onto the road, that the old houses were already unsafe and that demolition had begun without either a licence or protective hoardings. He was eventually found guilty and fined $25.

Running alongside this was a trickier question: who was actually responsible for the site? Yeap Chor Ee had sold the materials from the old houses to the contractor under a written agreement. The contractor was to provide the labour, insure his own workers and clear the site within a month. From Yeap’s point of view, this was a simple sale. Once the agreement was signed, the buildings, and the risks that came with them, were no longer his concern.

The Municipality disagreed and summonses were issued for failing to put up proper hoardings and starting demolition without a licence. The case drifted back and forth in the Police Court, often stalled by technical legal arguments that seemed to sideline the fact that a boy had been crushed to death on Beach Street.

When the matter finally came fully before the court in November, everything came down to how the law defined a few seemingly simple words. Under the Ordinance, who counted as the “owner”? Did responsibility rest on legal ownership, physical control or intention? And could someone be prosecuted for failing to put up hoardings when, without a licence, he was not legally allowed to erect them in the first place?

The Municipality’s lawyer argued that Yeap Chor Ee had intended the buildings to be demolished, that he ultimately remained in control and that duties meant to protect the public could not simply be passed on by contract. The defence replied that this was not an employment arrangement but a sale of materials, that the contractor was in possession and that where the law meant to impose responsibility on owners, it said so clearly.

When judgment was delivered just before the end of the year, it found that Yeap Chor Ee was guilty of commencing demolition without first obtaining a licence, and he was fined $200. An application for a stay pending appeal was granted, but the point had been made.

Here, my account ends as I could find no further details of the accident or the subsequent court proceedings. After Ban Hin Lee Bank relocated to its new premises some time in 1937, registered as 43 Beach Street, the final act came in January 1940 when Yeap Chor Ee transferred ownership of the property to the bank for the sum of Straits Dollars $55,000.

Sources for this story:
Pinang Gazette and Straits Chronicle, 10 September 1936
Pinang Gazette and Straits Chronicle, 30 October 1936
Pinang Gazette and Straits Chronicle, 19 November 1936
Pinang Gazette and Straits Chronicle, 20 November 1936
Pinang Gazette and Straits Chronicle, 30 December 1936

#banhinlee #bhlbank #bhlb #yeapchoree

The sun

On one hand, there is Pongal. On the other, there is Lì Chūn (立春), or Jip Chūn as we Penang Hokkien folk call it. Two festivals from different cultures, thousands of miles apart, yet bound by the same denominator: the Sun. Let me elaborate.

Every year without fail, the Sun traces the same invisible journey across the sky. It never rushes, never hesitates. It advances by roughly one degree a day, completing its 360-degree journey in a little over 365 days. Long before calendars, clocks or even written history, farmers in India and China learned independently to read this slow walk of light. Out of that observation were born Pongal and Li Chun.

In the Tamil world, the crucial moment for Pongal comes when the Sun reaches a particular point in its yearly path, one that later Indian astronomy would call Makara Saṅkrānti, coinciding with the Sun’s entry into the zodiac segment known as Capricorn. It almost always falls on the 14th of January, though in 2026 it occurs on the 15th. That is why Pongal is so steady on the calendar while most other Indian festivals drift with the Moon. Pongal does not wait for a lunar phase. It looks straight at the Sun.

For people whose lives were shaped by the soil, this marked the turning point of winter. The Sun, which had been sinking lower in the sky since June, reached its lowest point at the December solstice. By Makara Saṅkrānti, it had already gathered enough strength to begin its northward climb. The days would lengthen. The earth would stir. And so the milk was boiled, the rice sweetened and the Sun thanked for returning.

China mapped the same solar journey, but instead of zodiac signs it divided the circle into 24 equal segments, each fifteen degrees wide, known as the solar terms. They are not festivals in the modern sense but seasonal markers with names such as Lesser Cold, Greater Cold, Coming of Spring, Rain Water, Awakening of Worms and et cetera.

When Pongal arrives in mid-January, the Chinese calendar is passing from the Lesser Cold (小寒) solar term to the Greater Cold (大寒). The deepest chill of winter usually comes around the 20th of January. While the Tamil farmer senses the Sun turning homeward, the Chinese farmer feels winter tightening its grip. They are reading the same sky, only from different angles.

Forty-five solar degrees later, the Sun reaches 315 degrees. The Chinese name for this moment is Li Chun, the Coming of Spring. It usually falls around the fourth of February, when frost may still linger in northern China. Yet in Chinese metaphysics, this is the true start of the new year. A child born before Li Chun belongs to the old zodiac animal even if Chinese New Year has already been celebrated. The Moon may start the festivities, but it is the Sun that shifts destiny.

Seen together, the story becomes seamless. After the solstice, the Sun begins its slow return northward. Around the 14th of January, Tamil homes boil rice in new pots and cry out “Pongal, Pongal!” Around the 20th, Chinese almanacs mark the depth of winter. And around the fourth of February, it's Li Chun. Spring has begun, not in temperature, but in truth.

Pongal does not correspond to Chinese New Year. It corresponds to the Sun itself, just as Li Chun does. They are not parallel festivals but points along the same solar year, fixed by the geometry of the heavens. What appears to be cultural difference is really perspective: the Tamils give thanks for the Sun’s return while the Chinese declare that spring has begun.

Every January and February, unnoticed by most of us, the Sun retells this story of celestial degrees — 270°, 300° and 315° — and two civilisations, thousands of miles apart, continue to mark its passage in their own way.

Commemorating Pongal

Today's Pongal, which is a Tamil harvest festival rooted in gratitude, renewal and the intimate relationship between human life and nature. Celebrated each year in mid-January, it marks the end of the agricultural cycle and gives thanks to the Sun, the land, cattle and the labour that sustains daily life. While it has long been observed within Tamil communities, its presence and visibility in Penang have grown steadily over the past two decades, becoming part of the island’s wider cultural landscape.

Historically, Pongal is no recent invention. References to the festival appear in Chola-period inscriptions, including a land grant recorded during the reign of Kulottunga I in the 11th century, as well as in devotional Tamil literature such as Tiruvempavai. Even the dish itself of rice cooked with milk and sweetened with jaggery until it boils over has evolved across centuries, appearing in temple offerings and royal kitchens long before it became a household ritual. The word “pongal” means “to boil over”, a symbolic gesture of abundance and prosperity.

The festival unfolds over four days. Bhogi marks the discarding of the old, both literally and symbolically, with homes cleaned and unwanted items burned to welcome renewal. The second day, Thai Pongal or Surya Pongal, is the heart of the celebration. Freshly harvested rice is cooked in a clay pot at sunrise, often outdoors, until it spills over. The offering is first made to the Sun God, acknowledging his role in sustaining life. Mattu Pongal follows, honouring cattle for their role in agriculture, and the festival concludes with Kanum Pongal, a day of visits, picnics and communal gatherings.

In Penang, Pongal was once largely observed within temples and family compounds. My own first encounter with a public Pongal celebration was in Glugor, about a year after George Town received UNESCO World Heritage recognition. At the time, it felt modest and local, rooted firmly in the neighbourhood. Since then, the festival’s profile has grown noticeably. Over the past 20 years, public Pongal events have become more visible, supported by temples, community groups and state bodies. Kolam designs now spill onto pavements, ceremonial cooking takes place in open spaces and celebrations increasingly draw curious onlookers from outside the Tamil community.

This growing awareness mirrors Penang’s broader embrace of cultural heritage. Just as Chinese clan houses and Malay traditions are publicly celebrated, Pongal has found space to be seen, explained and appreciated. It remains, at its core, a festival of thanksgiving and humility, but in Penang today it also stands as a reminder that shared rituals, when allowed to be visible, enrich the life of the city as a whole.

Weekend in Malacca

We’d just spent a weekend in Malacca. Saturday was for a wedding dinner and for a full Sunday we wandered the heritage quarters with our daughter, who had driven us down from Kuala Lumpur. We deliberately skipped the Stadthuys and Christ Church, choosing instead to roam Jonker Street and the surrounds, ducking into the Cheng Hoon Teng Temple (青云亭) and the Malacca Sam Toh Temple (馬六甲三多廟) along the way, before moving over to the quieter Bunga Raya area. Crossing the Malacca River became part of the rhythm of our explorations.

Jonker Street was not overly busy even by mid-morning, though it was already bustling enough. Human traffic would pick up later. No matter, it was a slow-moving tide of visitors threading past souvenir stalls, dessert shops and cafés trading heavily on nostalgia. However, the shophouses looked almost too clinical, drained of a past that once defined the street before UNESCO recognition arrived. As we walked down the road, the occasional whiff of fresh coffee drifted from a shop. To me, Jonker has lost its old-world charm. On a Sunday afternoon, it felt more like a stage than a street, animated less by daily life than by tourism’s money!

Across the river, Bunga Raya Road was quiet and traditional by contrast. Sunday traffic was light, which may have helped, but the change in mood was immediate. A few residents moved about unhurried. Some shops had just enough customers to suggest life, nothing more, while many others were shuttered, perhaps for good. There were no tour groups, no queues forming for anything in particular and no one trying to sell you anything. Whatever business was taking place seemed meant for the people who lived there, not for passing visitors. Away from Jonker’s environment, the noise fell away and the walking became easier, almost absent-minded. 

So it was by chance that I walked into an old record shop, now attempting a transition into a coffee joint but, to my mind, not very successfully. Rows upon rows of compact discs, cassettes and cartridges were still on display. In a corner were stacks of long-play records and seven-inch singles. What a find! I wasn’t interested in the 12-inch LPs, only the seven-inch 45s, and I came away with four items, RM40 poorer.

The Malacca River itself had its own charm. Houses and small establishments lined both banks, freshly spruced in vivid colours, as though the river were a backdrop rather than a working waterway. Occasionally a river boat glided past loaded with tourists. We saw the river by day and night and the contrast was striking. During daylight, families and sightseers drifted along the banks at an unhurried pace. At night, the crowd shifted towards the bars and restaurants, more interested in food, drinks and atmosphere than the river itself. The water remained unchanged but the people using it behaved differently, occupying the same space for entirely different reasons.

Food, of course, was part of the story. We slipped up on Saturday with a riverside lunch at an establishment clearly aimed at tourists. The presentation tried hard but the flavours were ordinary and slightly off. 

Sunday, however, redeemed itself entirely. Breakfast of nyonya kueh at Baba Charlie Café was an adventure in itself, selecting treats one by one. Lunch at Swee Tin’s Nyonya Kitchen, a little pricey thanks to its prime side-street location off Jonker Street, was worth every bite, especially the curry chicken buah keluak, pictured here, which I heartily endorse. Theirs was one of the best I've tasted in Malacca. Dinner at Baba Ang Restaurant rounded off the day perfectly: generous portions, honest prices and flavours that left our taste buds delighted. Each meal was unpretentious, focused on getting the food right rather than putting on a show, reminding us that in Malacca, as elsewhere, eating well often comes down to making the right choices, sometimes accidentally.

In the end, the weekend felt like a series of contrasts: the bustling, almost theatrical energy of Jonker Street versus the quiet calm of Bunga Raya; the steady churn of daytime river traffic versus the relaxed drift of night; and the ordinary tourist traps against the carefully chosen local meals that truly satisfied. Crossing the river, moving from one pace to another, tasting the city in fragments, it became clear that Malacca is a place best experienced slowly, on foot and with the curiosity to look beyond the obvious.

Nepal-India Day 5: Lumbini to Shravasti

Dateline: 25 November 2025. With Lumbini behind us, it was time to begin the long overland journey around northern India. After an early lunch -- many in our group decided to revisit the Mayadevi Temple in the daytime but not us because we had already done so last May, we waited outside the Buddha Maya Garden Hotel to board the bus. Our Indian guide, Pankaj, had already cautioned us that the Sonauli border crossing could be unpredictable, and that delays were common.

The warning proved accurate. We watched with some perplexity as neighbouring queues formed and appeared to move faster than ours. Immigration formalities dragged on, and by the time everyone had cleared the Indian checkpoint, more than two hours had elapsed. From there, the road stretched westward for another 7½ hours, carrying us deep into Uttar Pradesh towards Shravasti. Our sole reason for coming to this otherwise unremarkable town was to visit the ruins of the Jetavana monastery, but by the time we arrived, darkness had long since settled. There was nothing left to do but head straight to the Tulip Inn Hotel, where we finally pulled in close to 11 o'clock at night.

A late but warm dinner awaited us, the hotel kitchen kept open in anticipation of our arrival, for which we were thankful. However, there was little opportunity to unwind after dinner. A quick bath, a brief search for clothes for the next day and then straight to bed. The wake-up call was set for 6.30am, followed by breakfast, checkout and yet another day on the road. Even as we turned in for the night, it was clear that the journey ahead would allow little breaks, carrying us forward whether we were ready or not.

Previous:
Nepal-India Days 3 and 4: The sala tree 
Nepal-India Days 3 and 4: Lumbini and Kapilvastu 

Nepal-India Days 1 and 2: Kathmandu and Nagarkot

Our guide, Pankaj, outside the Nepal Immigration Office

The long queue at the Indian Immigration Office

Signals

True or false signals?

I saw this graphic shared a lot on social media - facebook and whatsapp - and wonder whether this collection of allegations, investigations, court cases and controversies are true or false? Sorry, ah, I've been living under a tempurong for quite a while, and need more enlightened souls to advise me.

 

Bob Wade memorial masters

Starting in about a week's time, from 15 to 21 January 2026, Auckland will host what will easily be one of the strongest chess gatherings ever staged on New Zealand soil. At the Waipuna Hotel and Conference Centre, organiser Paul Spiller, with the support of FIDE’s Planning and Development Commission and the Middle Game Chess Foundation, will oversee a series of five round-robin tournaments held in memory of Bob Wade and several other towering figures in New Zealand chess.

The Bob Wade Memorial Masters is the flagship event of the series. It will be a rare New Zealand tournament offering opportunities for both Grandmaster and International Master norms. Alongside it run the Hilton Bennett, Arthur Pomeroy and Peter Weir Memorial Masters, as well as the Middle Game Chess Foundation Challengers, together forming a week-long celebration of competitive chess and historical continuity. Hilton Bennett will be fondly remembered by some Malaysian chess players as this New Zealander was a regular face in many editions of our own Malaysia Chess Festival in Kuala Lumpur until his death in 2022.

Bob Wade himself needs little introduction to many. Born in Dunedin in 1921, he went on to win three New Zealand Championships before relocating to Britain in 1950, where he added two British titles to his record and represented his adopted country at seven Chess Olympiads. Awarded the International Master title that same year, Wade was also a formidable organiser and official, becoming an International Arbiter in 1958. Beyond the board, he left his mark as an author, editor at Batsford, and famously as a behind-the-scenes contributor to Bobby Fischer’s preparation for the 1972 World Championship match. Yet for many, his greatest legacy lies in his quiet, sustained mentoring of younger players. Wade passed away in 2008.

Bob Wade

The memorial event bearing his name was first staged in Auckland in 2021 by the Howick–Pakuranga Chess Club, with Paul Spiller at the helm. Subsequent editions in 2023 and 2025 evolved into elite ten-player round robins, producing winners such as Samy Shoker in 2023, and Zong-Yuan Zhao and Gábor Nagy jointly in 2025. The Bob Wade Memorial Masters has now established itself as the premier event of the series and one of the few places in New Zealand where IM norms could realistically be earned.

Headlining the 2026 edition is England’s Michael Adams, one of the finest players Britain has ever produced. At his peak, Adams reached a FIDE rating of 2761 in 2013. This is still the highest ever achieved by a British player. A semi-finalist in the World Championship cycles of the late 1990s and early 2000s, and a finalist in 2004, he remains a formidable competitor. Now rated 2635 in the January 2026 rating list, he is a nine-time British Champion, most recently crowned last year, and the reigning World Seniors (50+) Champion. 

Supporting him is a formidable cast. Defending champion Gábor Nagy (2439) of Hungary returns, alongside Malaysia’s first Grandmaster, Yeoh Li Tian (2503). England’s Daniel Howard Fernandez (2527), Poland’s Jacek Stopa (2330), and Australia’s James Morris (2422) add further depth, while New Zealand is strongly represented by Tom Middelburg (2345) and Sravan Renjith (2342), both Olympians in 2024, as well as Felix Xie (2379), the current national champion and IM-elect. Rounding out the field is FIDE Master Daniel Gong Hanwen (2246), himself a two-time New Zealand Champion.

Taken together, it is an exceptional lineup with five Grandmasters, three International Masters, an IM-elect and a FIDE Master. This, at the far edges of the chess world where ambition, memory and opportunity can align. For Bob Wade, who spent his life building bridges across generations and continents, it would have been a fitting sight.

Nepal-India Days 3 and 4: The sala tree

One activity that had never entered our reckoning when Nandaka Vihara was planning this pilgrimage to Nepal and India was the possibility of crossing paths once again with Sayadawgyi Bhaddanta Āciṇṇa, the revered head of the Pa-Auk forest monk tradition from Burma. When Saw See and I were first in Nepal last May, we had travelled to the Dhammadāyāda Meditation Centre in Phasku to meet him. By then, the 90-year-old Sayadawgyi was already frail and visibly unwell, largely confined to his bungalow and attended to day and night by a small circle of monks.

At the time, we could not help wondering why he had chosen to remain in such a remote monastery. The road to Phasku was punishingly difficult, and in any medical emergency, the only realistic option would have been evacuation by helicopter. A few months later, news reached us that he had been transferred to Singapore for dialysis treatment, and I assumed he would remain there for some time. It therefore came as a surprise when, sometime in October, we were told that the Sayadawgyi had returned to Nepal. Not to Phasku, but to Lumbini.

He was there to oversee an ambitious project to plant some 20,000 sāla trees. With a little luck, those of us from Nandaka Vihara who had met him months earlier might see him again. And see him, we did. On the third day of our stay in Nepal, while returning from Ramagram Stupa, we encountered him at the Lumbini Buddha Garden Resort, still frail and confined to his bed. His monk-aides surrounded him to ensure that he was not overly exposed to unwanted germs and viruses from visitors.

The following morning, we drove north of the Māyādevī Temple to a vast open clearing where the sāla forest was to take root. Thousands of saplings had already been planted, but the land stretched out so far that it seemed almost boundless. While waiting for the Sayadawgyi to arrive, we decided to plant some saplings ourselves. It was not often that we were given the chance to take part in something like this, and the occasion felt entirely fitting. 

After an hour or two, the Sayadawgyi arrived with his entourage of monks and lay devotees, and the planting resumed in earnest. As we worked, it became clear why the sāla tree had been chosen. In the Buddhist tradition, it occupies a quietly significant place. It is said that Queen Māyā, travelling through the Lumbini Grove, reached up to grasp the branch of a blossoming sāla tree as Siddhartha was born. Later, during the final phase of his life as a wandering ascetic, Siddhartha spent his last night before enlightenment resting in a grove of sāla trees. And at the end of the Buddha's earthly journey in Kushinagar, he asked that a couch be prepared between twin sāla trees. Though it was not their flowering season, the trees were said to have burst into bloom as he entered Mahāparinibbāna, their falling petals offering a final, wordless teaching on impermanence.

Standing there in Lumbini, planting young sāla saplings into the earth, it felt as though we were participating in a continuity that stretched far beyond us. A small gesture but still quite meaningful to us. Trees grow, flower and eventually fade away; beginnings trailing into endings, both sharing the same page. The Sayadawgyi’s presence, the quiet labour of monks, lay devotees and workers, and the open land waiting to be transformed all seemed to echo that truth. With our objectives realised and Lumbini behind us, we prepared to leave Nepal. We would cross into India the next morning.

Previous:

Nepal-India Days 3 and 4: Lumbini and Kapilvastu 
Nepal-India Days 1 and 2: Kathmandu and Nagarkot

A year on

The empty feeling of losing an old friend still lingers within me, and I had chosen to remain quiet about Oon Hup’s death anniversary yesterday, especially with Emily, his sister. However, she reached out in the evening and shared a video of my late schoolmate exercising at a nursing home, taken not long after his brain surgery. Along with it came a fuller account of his final months. How he had been recovering well, even regaining strength, until October, when his condition suddenly deteriorated. Such is the cruel and relentless nature of glioblastoma, one of the most aggressive forms of cancer. As Emily herself put it:

He was very well after his operation. Even during his radiotherapy sessions at Mt.Miriam hospital. From April, May, June and July, he was in good health. Then the double dose of chemotherapy and cancer caused his deterioration in August. He had to stay in a nursing home from September onwards. Still able to eat on his own, and use his phone and I- pad. But from October, he went downhill very fast. Couldn't use his left leg and arm. Had to sit the whole day in a recliner, fed by Sri Lanka worker. He could still eat on his own on his birthday. But from December, he was no longer speaking, having difficulty in swallowing food, couldn't drink. Had to be fed water and food. So very little sustenance or liquid. Poor fellow. Finally, was sent to the General Hospital and a few days later to the government hospice. Just from Sunday to Thursday, 3 days GH, 2 days hospice. Friday morning, passed away at 5.38 am. Farewell.

January's supermoon

A wonderful sight last night. Managed to capture the super full moon and the remarkably bright planet Jupiter within the same frame. At magnitude –2.7, Jupiter was so bright that it could be seen with the naked eye despite the moon’s overwhelming brilliance. I took the first image with my Olympus camera at 11.10pm, with the moon 99.8 percent illuminated. The second image focused solely on the full moon itself: perfectly round, steady and absolutely breath-taking!

Nepal-India Days 3 and 4: Lumbini and Kapilvastu

Dateline: 23 & 24 November 2025. Anyone who has followed my occasional ramblings on this blog may recall a piece I wrote last year, inspired by my visit to the Mahāvana Forest near Kapilavastu in Nepal. It drew on the Mahāsamaya Suttam, which recounts how the Buddha, after intervening to prevent a war over water rights, offered spiritual guidance to 500 princes. This in turn became the occasion for an extraordinary celestial gathering. Despite Māra’s attempts to sow disruption, countless beings attained enlightenment, marking a rare moment of harmony and spiritual release on a truly cosmic scale.

Bodhi tree at Ramagram stupa

What I had not expected was how quickly those words would begin to find their way back to me once I arrived in Lumbini this second time. Our first visit was to Ramagram Stupa. When we entered the grounds, a large group of Thai monks, perhaps 80 of them, together with a smaller number of lay devotees, were already deep in meditation. Our own group settled roughly some 50 metres away, preparing to do the same. All except me. I remained alert, watching.

When the Thai group completed their meditation, they rose quietly and began walking along the boardwalk that encircled the stupa. They made three slow circumambulations before stopping and turning as one to face the shrine. Only then did I fully register the scene that had formed. My group was seated on the ground in silent meditation, facing the stupa, and behind us, an entire line of monks standing still, also facing it. No movement, no sound, just layered stillness.

The image struck me with unexpected force. My mind went immediately to the Mahāsamaya Sutta, to the account of 500 monks seated before the Buddha, surrounded by vast assemblies of celestial beings gathered to hear his teaching. I could see a parallel and it was uncanny.  In that moment, the physical arrangement mirrored the ancient account so closely that it felt less like coincidence than recurrence. The scene seemed to suggest that certain configurations of stillness, reverence and collective focus arise naturally, across centuries and cultures, whenever human beings gather around something they hold to be profoundly meaningful. Recognising that pattern, seeing the ancient narrative briefly reenacted in an entirely ordinary setting, left me awe-struck.

My second moment came at the Māyādevī Temple. On an earlier visit, the exact spot of the Buddha’s birth had never been clearly pointed out to me. I remembered only excavated ground and scattered stones. This time, a guide pointed out the marker itself. Standing there, looking down at that simple stone, I felt something quietly profound take hold. Later, as we sat within the temple to reflect, my eyes went damp not from sadness, but from a sudden, complete joy. This was where it had all begun, the first step in the Buddha’s journey on earth, and I was so thankful to be near it.

And so it led, almost inevitably, back to Mahāvana Forest and the Mahāsamaya Suttam itself. We walked along shaded paths until the trees opened into a small clearing. Today, a modest Hindu shrine stands there, marking the space where the Buddha is said to have addressed his 500 newly ordained monks. The setting was unassuming, even ordinary, yet it carried a certain weight as if the ground itself remembered what had once taken place there.

The monks in our group settled into position and began chanting the Mahāsamaya Suttam. We sat facing them, chanting books open in our hands. Once again, the arrangement felt strangely familiar: monks upright and composed, lay followers seated before them, the forest enclosing us in a stillness. There was no ceremony beyond the chant itself, no attempt to recreate anything.

What surprised me most was my own response. The Pāli text should have been alien to me. The words, the rhythms, even the translations. And yet, almost instinctively, I found myself following the chant line by line. I could locate the verses without hesitation, even pointing them out to Saw See, who sat beside me, thoroughly lost. It felt less like reading and more like recognition, as though something long stored had been unlocked.

Those moments, more than anything else on the journey, still stays with me. In the Mahāvana Forest, as earlier at Ramagram, the ancient arrangement surfaced once more. Monks and lay followers gathered in the same geometry described in the texts, not by design but by instinct. For a brief moment, the present felt like a continuation of the past, and the time distance between then and now seemed to fade away.

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Nepal-India Days 1 and 2: Kathmandu and Nagarkot

Be healthy!

Have a healthy year ahead!