Cambodia ! Here we come

Leaving Without an Agenda

When travel is freed from obligation, curiosity returns.

It took me almost fifteen years of globe trotting to finally step out on an international journey purely for pleasure.

No meetings waiting at the other end.

No work agenda.

No professional pressing duty to perform.

Strangely, that very absence of work created a deeper excitement. It opened new vistas of opportunity to explore without any constraints. For learning. For reflection. For value creation of a different kind, personal, relational, and quietly transformative.

This journey was not just mine. It belonged equally to Aparna, to a small group of close friends, and to the shared seriousness with which we approach life itself. Six of us set out as if we were six musketeers to a land that had always intrigued me.

“Cambodia.”

A country layered with culture, scarred by history, and shaped profoundly by what it endured under an extremist communist regime.

Preparation itself felt like part of the joy. Planning sharpened the excitement.

We left Kharghar at 4.45 PM and reached Mumbai Terminal 2 by 6 PM. The early arrival gave us space to breathe. While waiting for the others, Aparna and I shared a cup of tea. We clicked a few photographs, both of us upbeat.

Just behind us stood a small but striking pandanus, or screw pine, its stems intertwined in a way that felt symbolic. The way close friendships and destinies often grow, separate origins, shared growth, inseparable with time.

Between Departure and Arrival

Movement, waiting, and the quiet work travel does on the mind.

Airport gates have always felt symbolic to me. People depart. People meet. The journey exists somewhere between departure and meeting, where departures and good byes matter as much as arrival.

It was the 31st of December, and very few people were traveling. The airport felt almost half populated, calm and unhurried. Check in, security, and immigration were largely painless, helped by increasing automation and quiet efficiency. Instead of retreating into a lounge, the six of us sat together and shared simple food brought from home. There was something grounding about beginning an international journey with familiar tastes and unforced conversation.

Aparna was observing Ekadashi, following it with discipline even while traveling. Since our flight was scheduled late at night, dinner service would come after midnight, making it permissible for her to eat. It was a simple reminder of how personal rhythms in a disciplined life continue seamlessly across geographies.

At 11.52 PM, the aircraft taxied and lifted off, and with that, the journey truly began.

As the aircraft moved steadily through the night sky, I found myself watching the map more than the movie screen. Names of places appeared and disappeared below us, each one triggering curiosity. Who lives there. What do their days look like. What are they doing at this very moment.

Flying over the Nicobar Islands stirred something deeper in me, especially the passing presence of North Sentinel Island. I felt a profound curiosity about the people who live there, untouched, protected, and entirely outside the modern world I inhabit. A little later, the aircraft traced the Strait of Malacca, one of the world’s great maritime corridors, before curving toward Kuala Lumpur, since we were traveling by Malaysian Airways.

Putting all our worries to rest, we took the connecting flight to Phnom Penh within a short span of one hour.

Rivers that breath life into the Capital

First impressions of Cambodia from the air.

From above, the lifelines of Cambodia, the Mekong and the Tonle Sap, were unmistakable. Water dominated the land, wide, slow, and decisive, nourishing fields and shaping the terrain. Fields, settlements, and movement seemed arranged around it. Watching this from the air, I felt a growing curiosity about a country shaped not by speed of activity or height of mountains or development, but by the rivers and the terrains and lives they sustain.

We landed at Phnom Penh’s new Techo International Airport, and the transition into Cambodia felt unexpectedly gentle. The terminal was open and uncluttered, with a roof design inspired by Angkor that allowed light and air to flow freely. There were no loud commercial distractions, no sense of rush.

On my request, the cab driver agreed to play some Cambodian music as he drove us toward the city. The tunes felt melancholic and reflective, and in that moving car, Cambodia began to speak to me through sound and music even before it revealed itself through sights.

Traffic flowed smoothly as we entered the city, reflecting a sense of civic discipline.

Hotel Frangipani revealed itself gradually. From the outside, it carried an artistic, slightly old world character rather than a modern, polished look. The reception process felt laid back, but the location immediately compensated for it. We were in the heart of the capital, surrounded by important buildings, monuments, and the everyday pulse of Phnom Penh.

Before settling in, we walked toward Sisowath Quay, the riverside walk, and stopped for a meal at Pizza 4P’s. Familiar food helped us settle a bit after a long journey. We ordered a margherita, a burrata vegetable pizza, and a chicken pizza. The food was well made, the service attentive.

We returned to the hotel and checked in. The room was on the seventh floor, overlooking this central part of the city. After the long movement of the day, it felt right to stop, unpack quietly, and allow the body and mind to catch up with where we were.

History sets the context for everything present.

Entering the country through its memory and belief systems.

After a short rest, we headed to the National Museum of Cambodia. It felt early to step into history so soon, but in hindsight that was the right instinct. Before the city could turn into a series of sights and movements, the museum offered a quiet entry point into what Cambodia really carries within it.

Inside, I did not follow any planned sequence. I walked slowly, stopping when something held my attention and moving on when it did not. Gods, bodhisattvas, kings, and symbols of devotion appeared together, as if they belonged to the same long conversation rather than separate chapters of history.

Very quickly, a pattern became clear. Much of what I was seeing came from the Angkor period, roughly between the ninth and thirteenth centuries, when the Khmer empire was at its height. What struck me was how naturally Hindu and Buddhist traditions coexisted. Vishnu, Shiva, Ganesha, and figures from the Mahabharata stood alongside Buddhas and bodhisattvas. In several places, the boundaries felt deliberately soft.

The inscriptions deepened this feeling. They spoke not only of kings and dynasties, but also of donors and individuals. One inscription mentioned a young boy who had installed a Shiva lingam. That single detail stayed with me. It collapsed the scale of history. This was not just empire level belief. It was personal, lived, and carried forward by ordinary people.

The evolution of Buddhism revealed itself quietly as well. Early forms without idols slowly gave way to Mahayana influences where imagery became central. Lokeshwara appeared repeatedly, embodying compassion rather than authority. The many heads of Buddha, calm and inward looking, seemed less concerned with time and more with stillness.

Royal palanquins hinted at ceremony and statehood, while monks in ochre robes moved through the space with ease. That was an important realization. This was not a closed past. What I was seeing had not ended. It continued to live, walk, and observe in present day Cambodia.

There were moments of irritation, especially when visitors ignored requests not to photograph certain artifacts. But even that felt like a reminder of how difficult it is to maintain reverence in a world trained to capture everything.

By the time I stepped out into the courtyard, I realized that the physical tiredness of walking had disappeared. In its place was a quiet attentiveness. The museum had done its work without announcing it.

Phnom Penh at Walking Pace

Evening movement, adjustment, and the city after dark.

Soon after, refreshed and changed, we headed out again. This time the mood was different. The day’s seriousness softened into something lighter and more observational. We took a long drive toward the Mekong, climbing up to a sky bar that offered a view from above. From the eighteenth floor, Phnom Penh stretched out quietly, low and wide, held together by the dark ribbon of the river.

There was some struggle explaining vegetarian requirements at the bar. Language was limited, and the menu leaned heavily toward meat, fish, and seafood. Eventually, we settled for simple drinks and finger chips. It was not ideal, but it was part of the learning curve.

On the walk back, Phnom Penh revealed a different face. The area around our hotel was alive with night energy. Lights, movement, music, conversations. Street food carts lined the roads, one of them preparing something that looked like a waffle dosa filled with assorted ingredients.

We returned to the hotel later that night, closed our accounts for the day, and stocked up on a few essentials in case hunger returned.