It was the kind of Bangkok morning that smells like motorbike oil, incense smoke, and wet concrete—the kind where time slips sideways, and your hangover negotiates with the gods.
I took the alley like I was stepping into a fever dream—barefoot monks brushing past neon signs, the street food vendors already yelling, the city already sweating. Somewhere deeper in the maze of On Nut, I found him. Arjan Neng. Not a man. Not quite a myth either. Just a calm force sitting on a tiger pelt, like the morning was waiting for him to speak first.
This was my fourteenth tattoo. I didn’t come for the design. I came for the surrender. The ritual. The silence. The Sak Yant.
I'd heard stories—Bourdain’s voice lingering in my head like distant thunder. Not for the camera, but for the truth. The raw, old magic of it all.
Inside the modest temple room, candles flickered in front of golden effigies. His students moved wordlessly around him, preparing ink, checking offerings, lighting incense that smelled like molasses and rain. No needles buzzing here. Just bamboo. Fire. Breath. A monk's whisper and a master’s hand.
I handed over flowers, incense, and cigarettes—standard offerings, but not transactional. You don’t pay for a Sak Yant. You offer. You don’t demand. You accept. You sit still and trust.
Arjan Neng didn’t ask what I wanted. He placed his hand on my arm and closed his eyes. I didn’t flinch. I had thirteen tattoos already—some tribal, some absurd, some forgotten. But this one was different. It wasn’t about art. It wasn’t even about pain. It was about letting go.
The sak—the sacred ink—is mixed with oils, herbs, even snake venom or bone dust, depending on the lineage. The yant—the yantra—is ancient geometry meets prayer. Not decorative. Protective. Guiding. A spiritual circuit board etched into skin.
He began. The bamboo rod moved fast and deliberate, its tip striking with a rhythm older than language. Tap. Tap. Tap. It didn’t hurt like a machine. It hurts like poetry being drilled into your soul. My skin opened and bled under his hands, and he chanted in Pali with a low, looping cadence that made the room feel like it was spinning just slightly off-axis.
I didn’t know what he was inscribing. I didn't want to know yet. That was the point. This wasn’t a tattoo you pick off a wall. This was one the master chose for you. A mantra. A map.
Through the haze, I caught flashes of his own journey—Arjan Neng had trained under revered monks deep in the countryside, learning the sacred geometry and invocations that stretch back centuries. His lineage traces through old jungle temples and battlefield monks who inked warriors before war. This wasn’t street mysticism. It was scripture written in flesh.
He finished without ceremony. Just a nod. My arm throbbed, blood mixed with black ink trailing down my elbow like a signature. One of his disciples cleaned it, then placed a square of gold leaf on the fresh wound. Not for decoration—for blessing. Then came the final chant, the activation. Without that, the Sak Yant is just a tattoo.
And then… silence.
Not awkward silence. Not temple silence. Just peace.
Out in the alley again, the city resumed its riot. Tuk-tuks screeched, dogs barked, the skyline hissed in the heat. But I moved through it differently now—like a line had been drawn between me and the chaos. A mantra lived on my arm. Not a tiger, not a demon, not some Instagrammable charm. A sacred formula Arjan Neng had chosen just for me. For protection, maybe. Or clarity. Or balance. Who knows?
You don’t always need to understand the fire to feel its warmth.
Later that night, I lit a cigarette on my hotel balcony, Bangkok flickering below me like a faulty neon sign. The tattoo still burned, but it wasn’t painful anymore. It was a memory. It was a presence. It was Bangkok under my skin.
And for the first time in a long while, I didn’t need to ask why.
