Bangkok, 1984

I first arrived in Bangkok in 1984, after two weeks of trekking in Nepal—two weeks of thin air, tin mugs, and tall mountains.. By the end of it I was ready for luxury, or at least, plumbing.

My trekking partner declared, “Never again,” by which I assumed she meant the Himalayas and not my company, though the latter was never clarified.

Kathmandu airport in those days was an outpost with aspirations: a few Fokkers on the tarmac, faded posters of Everest expeditions peeling off damp walls.

The runway shimmered in the morning heat before dropping off, like an infinity pool, into the sky.

While waiting, a monk in full Tibetan colours finished his smoke with walked towards us. He asked where we were from and where we were headed.

“Bangkok,” said Seki.

He recoiled. “Where are your parents?”

Which was, admittedly, a fair question. We were petite and did not wear mascara.

I boarded the plane with his question still hovering… I was puzzled. Then promptly fell asleep, woke up in Bangkok, and marched directly into the Bangkok Palace Hotel shower.

Reception called early the next morning: You have two visitors.

There he was—the monk—this time with a lay translator. He insisted, in a tone that left little room for debate, that we leave the hotel immediately. Bangkok, he implied, was no place for naïveté.

I called my father in Singapore, hoping for paternal reassurance.

He agreed with the monk.

And so, obedient children that we were, we checked out and stepped into the Bangkok heat, which was already conducting its own music… The William Tell Overture to be precise.

We were ushered into the home of the monk’s sister. He was clearly of high status—this was a bygone era—and everyone bowed deeply and received his blessings as though he were royalty. We were fed, sheltered, lectured. All "fun” activities were vetoed on the grounds that they were “bad,” which seemed to cover most of Bangkok.

We left Thailand none the wiser about the famous vices we had heard whispered about, but significantly more blessed.

 Fifteen years later, married and busy with middle life, my spouse informed me that “a friend” was waiting at Geylang to be picked up.

We drove down.

It was the monk—older, still serene, still surrounded by an air of authority . He was confident….. of course we hosted.

It was a revelation which added richly to our lives.

Before he left Singapore, he blessed my son with the same solemnity he had bestowed upon everyone in that Bangkok household.

And just like that, the circle was complete: Kathmandu, Bangkok, Geylang; one itinerant monk who took our safekeeping personally.