The gaudy church of Saint Gregorius, Manapilly, Vypin Island ...

Driving through Kerala, glancing through the tinted windows of the Toyota Innova, I'd noticed many gaudy churches - I'd see a pristine white facade, a statue of a bearded saint, or a spooky Virgin, with a neon crown - women in blue saris would be streaming out of the mysterious nave -

A few yards away from a church, I'd see a mosque, or a Hindu temple - I might see a statue of a purple God or Goddess -

I pondered upon the legend of St Thomas - we'd seen, at sunset, where the Apostle had landed in Kerala - bats flew over the church built upon the site -

One morning, whilst we were still dreaming and feasting in Marco's house, we found that we needed a new breeze block of rupees -

After we'd visited the ATM, the auto rickshaw driver suggested we visit the church of Saint Gregorius -

We walked across a scorched compound - shiny doors opened onto a vivid interior - painted upon the ceiling, above the stilled fans, were billowing clouds, parting to reveal a colossal dove -

Gorgeous altar cloths caught my eye - the grave saint looked down at me from his portrait - oil lamps flared -

There were no chairs or pews - I felt the floor sway beneath me - I thought of the words from the 1662 Book of Common Prayer - Almighty  God, unto to whom all hearts are open, all desires known, and from whom no secrets are hid -

Reveries in Vypin Island backwaters ...

Marco's house, La Dame Rouge, with its atmospheric, nobly proportioned rooms, each one like a setting for a scene of immersive theatre, was a place for dreaming exquisite, thrilling, dreams - 

You might gaze upon a curious carving as your eyes closed - you would hear gentle laughter as you began to dream - the passionate novel you'd found would slip from your fingers - 

There was a well in the garden - frogs idled in the warm water like indolent boys 

- fallen coconuts lay in drifts upon the red earth - slender palm trees were outlined against the flawless sky - 

All around the house lay the back waters, a dark lacework of lagoons and narrow channels - 

We saw thin figures paddling fragile craft past Chinese Fishing Nets - we gazed upon broad stretches of still shining water -

In my reveries, I wandered through tangled, burgeoning, greenery - I swam in a fathomless waterway, bright bubbles trailing behind me, joyous and serene - 

Inside Tanga's kitchen, where dishes are conjured from the spicy ether ...

We feasted like idle lolling no good boyos at Marco's, gulping down icy Kingfisher ultra's, sharing secrets, swatting fat mosquitoes, tearing open with our fingers prawns as big as horses - 

We'd sit, in the evening, around a table in the courtyard - the full moon would cast our shadows upon the sand - Marco would tell us curious stories about his life in India - slender boys would arrive on their motorbikes to play Badminton - 

Once, Tanga bought to the table a splendid fish, its scales like pristine silver coins - it lay upon a bright green banana leaf - Trimalchio would have envied us that moonlit dinner - I reeled back to the four poster bed - 

One morning, Tanga invited us into his kitchen - shards of coconut palm wood smouldered under gleaming metal pots - fragrant smoke wreathed our faces - bunches of drying herbs hung from the ceiling - huge knives shone - delicious vapour escaped from under the lid of one of the metal pots - I was soon dizzy with a sweet, magical, hunger - 

I stared at a box of matches - a sailing ship with dark sails was depicted upon a red background, backlit by a full moon -the  motto read  - Ship superior - trusted since 1942 - 

Tanga was carrying his baby son, holding him close to his thin chest - the innocent's eyes were outlined with kohl -

Here, in his kitchen, Tanga was a magus, conjuring up dishes from the spicy ether - 

Paintings in the Kashi Arts Cafe ...

When I visited the Kashi Arts Cafe, before I joyously snarfed luscious mouthfuls of chocolate cake, I gazed at fearless paintings - there, hanging from the walls of a high ceilinged gallery, were paintings to provoke rebellious thought, questioning privilege and power -

The pale Europeans, queuing to enter the shady courtyard beyond, did not look for long at these unsettling images - Sophie and I, however, lingered for some time, at first cast down, then, marvellously, buoyed up by what we saw - 

We saw the faces of snarling policemen from all the world's regimes, complacent apparatchiks, gleaming teeth - then we saw the oppressed peoples of the world, rising up, literate and awakened, beating a cowering policeman, but with rolled up newspapers, not with batons -

We spoke to the artist, P S Jalaja - she was sitting, quiet and watchful, near the entrance to the gallery - I tried to tell her how her paintings had stirred my soul - she smiled gently, looking at me with her cool, intense, gaze - 

The antiques shop in Fort Cochin and the turbaned prince ...

I have always had a passion for antiques, for distressed furniture with a dark history, for worn silk carpets - I lost all track of time, therefore, when I visited an antiques shop in Fort Cochin - perhaps Azad had intuited my secret desires - 

I gazed upon splendid rocking horses, an ornate litter and bright carvings - a willowy boy kept a very discrete eye upon me - 

A tall Englishman with pink cheeks drawled to his Indian companion - The mistake you make, is assuming everyone is as honest as you -

A pale American woman asked the price of a painted screen which depicted positions from the Kama Sutra - 

I imagined, for a while, being the turbaned prince, cavorting with my courtesan - 

Visiting the Laundry in Fort Cochin ...

Without warning, with just a pirate's dazzling grin, Azad stopped the auto rickshaw - we were parked next to a sun seared wall, pierced by a narrow doorway - the auto rickshaw was like an oily dragonfly, at rest now, no longer quivering and skittering through the teeming streets -

We walked quickly towards the doorway, following Azad - the air was scented with petrol and diesel - Azad turned towards us, dancing through the traffic - This is the Laundry he said -

Once inside the doorway, we stood inside a large hall - down each side of the hall, men and women stood ironing garments - I saw a woman lift up an iron heated by smoking pieces of charcoal - she wore a blue sari - I watched her ironing - the movements of her powerful brown arms were unhurried and graceful -

Outside, across a broad yard, women stood in small cubicles, beating wet clothes against stones - beyond, there was a field, with a forest of poles and a web of ropes to dry the clothes - white sheets billowed in a sudden breeze - starched shirts were laid out like bizarre giant postage stamps -

There was a garden of sorts near the entrance to the Laundry - a sign read Do not pluck leaves and flowers -

Azad told us that work started in the Laundry at four or five in the morning -

I pictured the women, beating the sodden washing against the stones, their delicate features creased with toil -

How many tens of thousands of shirts might they wash in the course of their working lives, I wondered -

Azad beckoned us towards the entrance of the Laundry - Madam would like to buy some silks?

Breakfast at Marco's house...

Strange birdsong woke me each morning at Marco's house  - I would lie upon the white sheets, beguiled still by my dreams, cooled by the whirling fans - I would try to imagine the shapes and colours of the birds who haunted the bright jungle -

We would all meet for breakfast in a beautiful high ceilinged room  - outside, in the courtyard, a sinewy ancient would be raking the fine sand - 

Gustav would enter with Veronique, his wife, Marc's sister - a few moments later, Francoise would join us, smiling her secret smile - I would gulp down a banana lassi - Anne and Sophie would be exchanging piquant gossip - 

The gentle Tanga would emerge from his kitchen - potent coffee would be poured into large cups - a peppery omelette would grace my plate - 

Marco, with his jet black waterfall of hair, would sit down with us, laughing, advising, telling us profound stories - he'd been an artist, actor, jewellery designer and antique furniture dealer - he loved reading - his wooden house was full of books in many languages, open to the youth and to the old - 

Marco would put down The Times of India - I'd seen a headline about the Kochi sand mafia - 

I could stay here forever, I thought - I'd grow a white feathery beard - I'd sit by that fine table, rescued from a crumbling mansion in Goa, reading The World of Yesterday, treasuring every word -  

Driving by auto rickshaw to The Kashi Art Cafe ...

I leaned out of the auto rickshaw as we rattled up Burgher Street - my linen shirt was scented with spices and dust - I'd seen boys play cricket on the old Parade Ground - girls in dazzling saris were singing hymns in Saint Francis' Church - noble trees overlooked secret gardens behind white walls - the ghosts of Dutch tea brokers flocked around the ice cream cart -

Stray dogs slept in the shade - they had yellow eyes and thin muzzles - at night they would run through Jew Town, under shuttered windows, past story haunted merchants' houses - 

We were making our way to the Kashi Art Cafe - after our treatments, we had a craving for cappuccinos - Jane and Ken sat next to me - Sophie, Anne and Paul rode in the auto rickshaw in front of us -

We spoke joyously of ginger lemonade and icy Kingfisher beers - the auto rickshaw bounced over the rough road surface - I had lost 4 kilos - I stared at the driver's narrow brown neck -

Outside the cafe, I remembered the tiny cups of black tea we had drunk at Dr Bagi's - already, that part of my life was in the past -

I thought of the ending of the The Great Gatsby - my dad would quote those words -

"So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past" - 

As I stood there, in the hot vivid street, I felt a sweet anguish pierce my heart -