I made my way down the narrow road. A growing puddle, caused by a leaking pipe. Passing the poorly constructed homes, made from card boards, thin wood and cheap cement. Your eyes will always see slums scattered in every district of Bangkok. There is no escape from this reality.

The feet is wet, the limbs bone-tired.

Then out from nowhere, the harsh sounds filled the air. I walked faster, despite the nagging pain. [Oh hell]

At a nearby temple, bordering the slum.

A dwelling of Chinese gods and spirits. The rhythm from the hidden musicians, with their traditional strings and percussion instruments – the melody jarring to the senses. The colorful stage is high, grand.

Elderly Thais, descendants of Chinese merchants and laborers, sat on plastic chairs, some with their grandchildren. They are absorbed by the performance, the art of movements. The actors, in their full regalia of glory, are bathed in harsh white lights.

Mesmerized, the pain forgotten.

I sat on the floor, to witness this moment.

Such classical operas are unpopular among the younger generation, and somewhat of an oddity to many urban folks. A rarity, of the moment.