Pagoda
The sun hung high in the sky, casting golden light over the city as I stepped out, camera in hand. It was a beautiful Sunday afternoon—one of those slow-moving days when Vietnam breathes at a different rhythm. Sunday is family time here. Fewer shops open, fewer people rush, and instead, parks and temples fill with laughter, quiet conversations, and the scent of burning incense.
This time, I set my path towards something new—a Buddhist temple, a place untouched by my lens before. As I approached, the air shifted. The world outside faded, replaced by the hypnotic sounds flowing from within. The deep hum of monks chanting prayers, rhythmic and steady. The gong’s solemn echo dividing verses. A moment suspended between the physical and the spiritual.
The temple was alive, yet serene. Tet had just ended, and families who had returned from their hometowns gathered here, their prayers rising with the smoke of burning incense.
I watched as they lit sticks one after another, eyes closed, whispering words known only to them and the heavens above. Some prayed in silence, others captured the moment, preserving it in photographs just as I did, though for different reasons.
I moved carefully, blending into the space, never wanting to disturb. My lens sought faces lost in devotion, hands pressed together, flickering candlelight reflecting in their eyes. Each frame a quiet story.
Monks walked the temple grounds, their pace unhurried, their expressions neither inviting nor dismissive. Life carried on here in its own time.
Beyond the main hall, in the open courtyard, a towering Buddha stood watch. People knelt before it, arms stretched out, offerings of flowers and incense placed at its feet. The scent of burning wood filled the air, thick and sweet, as a temple worker moved between the crowds, gently clearing away the overflowing tributes, dousing embers before they could turn to flame.
And then, the sun began its slow descent. Shadows stretched, the golden hue softened, and with it, the music of the prayers faded into silence. The monks, their duty done, disappeared into the halls for their evening meal. Yet people still arrived, still knelt, still prayed. Their faith unshaken by time.
I lingered, hoping for one last sacred frame, but my film rolls had run their course—just as I had. With the final shot taken, I let the temple go. A taxi waited beyond the gates, the city’s rhythm calling me back.
And so, I left. But the scent of incense stayed with me.
