Travel like the wind : Suchart Choolee
The afternoon sun showed no sign of relenting. Its intense rays scorched the ground and spilled
through the air with unwavering brilliance. I stood before the residence of Somdet Phra Buddhaghosa,
tucked inside the peaceful grounds of Wat Phutthaisawan, on the southern edge of Ayutthaya Island,
right by the Chao Phraya River. The temple was quiet, save for the soft rustling of leaves stirred by
the lazy breeze and the sound of my own footsteps climbing the stairs to the second floor of the
ancient building.
The moment I entered the upper hall, sunlight pierced through the square windows on the second
floor, cutting through a thin veil of dust suspended in the air. The rays struck the eastern wall, where
remnants of ancient mural paintings still clung to the surface.
It was just a brief moment, but the natural light seemed to “awaken” the fading mural, breathing life
into the scene in a way that felt almost magical. Though time had taken its toll—blurring faces, fading
lines, and washing out some colors—the black, red ochre, and green tones that remained seemed to
glow where the sunlight touched them.
I saw the faint image of a monk seated before an old man, seemingly locked inside a narrow
chamber. The monk held a fan-like talapat, as if in the act of preaching. Though the faces were worn,
the emotion embedded in the scene was palpable. It was the legendary episode of “Imprisoning His
Father,” a story from the life of Phra Buddhaghosa. The monk had confined his own father for three
days to preach to him, ultimately converting him to Buddhism. Just hearing the tale gave me a
profound sense of reverence—for the depth of faith and the compassion it took to bring the teachings
of the Dharma to someone he dearly loved.
There were no information signs nearby, just a thin layer of dust covering the wall. But if you look with
your heart, the murals still speak—to tell us of devotion, perseverance, and the sacred essence of the
teachings, still echoing through the centuries.
The residence itself is a two-story structure. The lower floor features pointed arch windows, while the
upper floor has rectangular ones. Though modest from the outside, its architecture carries the soul of
true Ayutthaya artistry. Stepping inside felt like stepping through a time portal—back to the era when
the air was filled with chants, gongs, and the scent of burning incense.
On the northern wall, the mural appears more hastily done, less refined than that on the east. Some
lines seem rushed, drawn freehand without a ruler. And yet, there’s beauty in that imperfection. The
artisans of the time may not have had measuring tools, but the lines they left behind told stories
crafted with their hearts and belief.
Some images have faded almost completely. And yet, what remains is just as important—the effort to
preserve, the respect for the past, and the lessons embedded in the art.
As I stepped out of the residence, the sunlight still poured in, bridging the centuries in one golden
moment.
This journey may have lasted only a few hours,
but what I carried with me was the understanding of time’s value,
and the quiet beauty of what still remains—amid what has already faded.
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