24 July 2025
The Secret
The sculpted statues would forever remember this day of February 2029.
She wasn’t sweating only because of the crushing humidity of the Cambodian weather. Her pace had quickened as she believed we were lost in the maze of the deserted temple complex. The massive faces carved in stone looked all alike and seemed to laugh sardonically at us. I pretended to be lost, but every step was a retracing. A pilgrimage back to a promise I made myself three years ago in this very temple. A faint smile I couldn’t help betrayed me.
“You know where we are? And you couldn’t have told me right away? Oh I hate you!” my partner said laughing, mimicking a slap that ended in a caress of my cheek. Her hand pulled my neck forward and she kissed me on the lips.
I knew exactly where we were, not only because I had a good sense of orientation. This was the third time I was visiting the sprawling, majestic site of Angkor Wat. Some of the 900-year-old Hindu-Buddhist temples were labyrinths of low-ceiling passages, half-broken stone frames, dead-end paths blocked by tropical trees.
The second time I had returned to Angkor Wat, I had been on my own. I was “slow-travelling”, spending months at a time in various locations around the globe, chasing warm weather and beach volleyball players, when I was not visiting family and friends or helping an NGO on the ground in remote Tanzania. I had never drawn a bucket list of spots to visit in my lifetime but neither was visiting similar locations something I was keen on doing, preferring to discover new places in my limited lifetime. But it had recently dawned on me that I was free to experience happiness again, whether it meant reading the same books again without worrying about the 125 million unique books that had ever been printed, or going back to the places on Earth which had procured some form of joy. Wasn’t I already listening multiple times to the songs I liked or ate the same dishes I enjoyed at the same restaurants? I would even likely experience a different form of contentment with a newfound understanding or appreciation of whatever I was living again.
As we got closer to the Preah Khan temple, I held her hand and my pace slowed. The light hit the stones in the same way, and I was suddenly back in time, alone. The site was a place of ghosts for me. The ghost of my younger self, bruised and bloodied beside my mother after a motorcycle accident on my first visit fourteen years prior. But also the ghost of Tony Leung in In the Mood for Love, a film directed by the Hong Kong film director Wong Kar-Wai, who had come here to bury a secret. I had done the same during my second visit to Angkor Wat.
That film has remained etched in my memory ever since the year 2000 when it was released, together with its overpowering soundtrack. Tony Leung, who plays the male protagonist, heads to Angkor Wat and whispers words no one can hear into the interstice of the rocks of a temple.
One can only imagine he whispers words of love or expressions of lost dreams, illusions and perhaps disenchantment. I am moved by his stillness – only his lower jaw is moving ever so slightly – as well as by the calmness of the monk overlooking him. Notice how the hole in which he murmurs his secret gives birth to a few strands of grass, perhaps a plant – a sign of hope? The film ends on that scene, letting the viewer decide for themselves.
I had decided for myself: I had come to Angkor Wat to imitate Tony Leung. I had my own secrets, grief, sorrows, and heartbreaks to confide into a hollow place. I looked for the most suitable spot as I wandered around the isolated Preah Khan temple. When I came across the gigantic tree whose roots were overflowing over a decorated stone frame, I found a crack just at the confluence between nature and man-made structure. I poured my feelings and my regrets into it, silently, exactly like the actor in In the Mood for Love. This was no acting on my part though: as memories flowed into my brain, noiseless tears slowly streamed down my glistening cheeks – memories of loved ones who had passed away, memories of loved ones who had moved on.
On that day, I promised myself I would break the spell implied by the ending of the film: I would return to that crevice with the person whom I would finally feel whole again. Back then, I was convinced it would be the woman who had touched my core with the story of her life. Her blue eyes had mesmerised my soul. The intensity and depth of our correspondence had completely drawn me in. But everything had fallen apart as quickly as they had arisen. She stopped all contact.
For months, every notification on my phone was a potential spark of hope, a hope that died with every shallow email. I buried my grief by playing sports, and by reading love letters which resonated with me. I eventually quit my job and spent more time with the remaining family members and friends who sincerely appreciated me. Personal projects and political aspirations fell by the wayside as they appeared increasingly pathetic. And when I had resolved myself to a celibate life, a new woman came into my life, in all gentleness. So when the opportunity arose to travel to southeast Asia, I remembered my pledge. I was nervous at first when I suggested the idea to visit Angkor Wat, as it would be a detour from our planned itinerary. But I knew she would love its history and the grandiose nature of the ruined temples. And she did. What joy it was to laugh with her, and get lost in the maze of the passageways. My heart was pouring out with love for her.
As we slowly walked through the silent alleyways of the temple, she could tell from my face I had suddenly gotten serious: I was looking straight ahead. I found the crack in the stone, where the Banyan tree's roots gripped the man-made wall. Three years ago, I had whispered a different woman's name into this void. A name that now tasted like ash. “Arrogant”. “Demanding”. “Judgmental”. Her words were a final, clean cut. Perhaps they were true. I had wanted to be better, but it wasn't a change you could simply wish for.
Her hand squeezed mine, and the ghost vanished. The ash was gone. There was only the warmth of her palm, her gentle presence beside me. Just like in the film, new sprouts had appeared. When she put her arms around my waist to comfort me, I couldn’t prevent a tear – a mix of joy and sadness – from hitting one of her hands. She stood in front of me and put her hands over my face, her fingers delicately closing my eyelids as she kissed me on the forehead.
In a whisper, she asked me to give her a moment in that spot. As I walked away, she kept turning back, her eyes locked on mine, and I watched the face I loved so dearly until I rounded a stone wall.
I sat on the ground, outside the temple, waiting for her. The birds suddenly stopped singing. The leaves of the trees stopped ruffling – the wind had died down. It was as if life was at a standstill. A low hum seemed to vibrate up from the earth, or perhaps it was just the thrumming of my own blood in my ears. I squinted, and for a moment the ancient stones seemed to shimmer, to blur at the edges.
And then, the shriek – a loud, strident shriek. Not of fear or horror but of pure, unadulterated release. A sound to empty a heart of its sorrows, similar to the harrowing scream of the golden mermaid in Jibaro from the series Love, Death & Robots. I did not move. I just listened, understanding that the crevice in the stone was no longer just for my secrets. It was for ours.
