The Chinese Nets ...

Whenever I could, I took the opportunity to gaze upon Chinese Nets - these delicate structures, lining the back waters, were to be found all along the coast, from Varkala to Fort Cochin - 

The nets, suspended from bamboo poles, were lowered to trap the bright fish, lifting them up into our world -

I pitied those beautiful silver creatures, twisting and quivering as the life left them - 

Later, they would lie on beds of melting ice, their price lowered as the day wore on - flies would dance around them - 

Thin men would exchange them for a fragile bank note - cigarette ash would dust their pristine scales - 

Making coir for a pitiable fan of oily rupees ...

On our way from Murari to Fort Cochin, driving along the coastal road, we saw a woman, moving back and forth in what looked like a rope walk - she was twisting some reddish fibres together with her fingers, stooping slightly, bare headed under a burning sun - 

Our driver put down his Samsun Galaxy S III - he turned towards me, with the air of one sharing an arcane secret - 

It is coir - they make coir here - would you like to see? - 

We got out of the Toyota, and entered a small yard, a few yards to the side of the road - a water tanker went past, then a loudspeaker car for the CMP - 

There were soft heaps of coconut fibre - open sided shelters housed strange rusty devices - a man wove hairy mats, making use of a wooden hand loom - the work was arduous, testing muscle and sinew - 

I watched the woman in the rope walk, spinning the fibres into thread, her hands deft and strong - 

I thought of the fashionable dwellings in which I had once seen coir - I'd gossiped idly in those places - 

Here, they worked twelve hours a day, making coir, for a pitiable fan of oily rupees - 

The Dutch Cemetery, Fort Cochin, bright sunlight, stiff brocade ...

On our way back to The Old Lighthouse, Azad showed us the Dutch Cemetery - it was mid afternoon - shadows were razor sharp - a blazing sun hung over the mazey streets - fans barely stirred the air in shuttered rooms - no one, save us, stirred out of doors - 

Locked gates barred the entrance to the cemetery - thin scales of rust stuck to my fingertips when I tried the lock -

Azad leaned against his auto rick shaw -

They shut the gates - drinkers come here - 

I looked at the scorched tombs - snakes, perhaps, were resting in the withered grass - tall palm trees grew amongst the graves - 

I imagined the Dutch, sailing in their gilded sailing ships, sweltering in stiff brocade - 

Here they lay, in the red earth, bundles of delicate bones,  exotic worlds away from Calvinist Amsterdam - 

 

Late afternoons in The Old Lighthouse Hotel, Fort Cochin ...

The Old Lighthouse Hotel in Fort Cochin was once the residence of the Port Architect - it overlooked the beach, where boys played wild football on Sunday mornings - 

From the terrace, you could watch fishermen sail their slender craft close to the shore - container ships headed for the open sea - camels carried awestruck infants over the sands - 

Sophie was staying in Tamarind Villa, a poolside suite we'd booked for her and Paul - 

After swimming in the pool, we would wrap scarlet towels around our sun burnt bodies - 

We'd sit on the terrace, shaded by noble trees, pouring Kingfisher Ultras into our glasses - 

Evening would draw on - the fuel depot across the estuary would become an iridescent city - 

In our suite, geckos would watch over my ardent dreams - 

The festival in the village temple, remembering my first communion ...

When we arrived at the temple it was almost dark - the glowing sky above us dimmed - stars began to appear, one by one, forming their remote, ancient, constellations - the crescent moon was a sliver of bright bone - 

We removed our canvas shoes, placing them amidst a shoal of discarded footwear - I wondered whether we would ever find them again - there was warm gritty sand beneath our feet - the exciting, dangerous, smell of fireworks reminded me of when I was a boy, watching my dad light the rockets -  

Inside the temple precincts, we were guided through the swelling crowd - its murmuring voices were like the sound of a gentle sea - every few moments, firecrackers were set off - bare chested men blew upon trumpets - bells were rung -

Women of all ages were gathering in front of one particular shrine - they lined up before its closed doors, singing softly yet insistently - we stood nearby, to one side - 

I knew that something strange and wonderful was about to happen -

Young men began to beat drums with curved drumsticks, louder, louder - their slender arms rose and fell -

Then the doors of the shrine slowly opened - two priests emerged, adorned in smoke, each carrying an lighted oil lamp through the lines of women - 

Woman after woman leaned forward, bathing her hands for long minutes in the flames of a lamp - 

I gazed at the women, with their calm, serene, faces - 

With the rite completed, the priests re-entered the shrine, glistening figures in its golden interior - they shut its heavy doors -

I delved into my memory hoard - 

There I was, with my soul unspotted, taking my first communion - I remembered the smell of incense, how the wafer had melted on my tongue - 

Drinking tea with the Queen of the village ...

I was haunted by what I'd seen in the orphanage - I imagined Sophie, or Tessa, sleeping in one of those austere dormitories, praying in the scary chapel -

We were drinking tea with the Queen of the village, inside her spacious house - we'd been invited back, to attend a festival later that evening - there was a shiny Maruti Suzuki Alto parked in the courtyard - a pooja cupboard contained images of divinities - oil lamps glimmered - soap opera beauties were weeping on the TV screen -

Our hostess said breezily I must help the poor - if you have something, you must give them something -

Her consort smiled - he was very tall, wearing a long white shirt - he'd greeted us gravely, placing his hands together, bowing his head - he spoke no English, but offered us bananas with a gesture worthy of Baldassare Castiglione -

I still felt ashamed, remembering how blithely I'd strolled around the orphanage, charmed by the willowy girls, a curious intruder on a serendipitous outing -

The Queen of the village and the orphanage ...

Inside Trinity Textiles, it was stiflingly hot - a single fan whirled  madly from the ceiling, like the torn wing of a maimed insect - shelving around the walls of the narrow space was piled high with lurid fabrics - Anne and Sophie anguished over gauzy pyjama trousers and wispy scarves - oily bank notes were at last exchanged -

The proprietress also owned the beauty parlour - I imagined her, browning hair, applying wedding make up, plying her razor sharp scissors - she said she'd take us to a nearby orphanage if we wanted - she was the Queen of the village, like Gunez in Karabortlen -

Late that afternoon, we meet up with her again - we squeezed into an auto rickshaw, and careened down jungly lanes - the orphanage was about twenty minutes drive away -

We entered a quiet garden, with lawns and shady arbours - a whispering cloud of girls, all with shining eyes, immediately formed around us -

They are the daughters of poor families - they can send one girl here -

We were shown around the orphanage, each one of us accompanied by our own shy entourage - the girls slept in dormitories, in large bare rooms - the metal framed bunk beds were placed closely together -

In a dark chapel, there was a frightening crucified Jesus, writhing upon a cross - He was taller than me, His agony realistically depicted -

Later, we sipped banana lassi with the teachers - they told us the orphanage was run by an Austrian holy order -

One of the women blushed - the Father is young - he is very handsome - 

Chai in the bakery, time congealing ...

After Anne and Sophie had examined the fabrics in Trinity Textiles, we called in the bakery for chai - there was a gents beauty parlour just along the pavement, offering a range of treatments - nearby was a workshop where motor bikes were serviced - oil glistened on the fingers of the mechanics as they delved into the innards of Royal Enfield Bullets - I remembered passing this sleepy arcade when we were trying to find Mayas Beach House, pale westerners riding in the Toyota -

Sitting in the bakery, we wondered what was meant by wedding makeup for men - we sipped chai from small cups - the chai was very sweet and milky, dispensed by a curious machine -

The interior of the bakery was pristine - you took off your shoes or sandals, to enter barefoot - we ate powdery biscuits, looked out at the sun bleached dazzling street - a plump man, wearing just a dhoti, with a thin towel draped over his shoulder, bought some sticky looking confectionery -

Outside, there was no activity - the mechanics had disappeared - no auto rickshaw drivers were waiting for custom at the cross roads - the fan above our heads was still -

For a moment, it was as though time had congealed, that we had been there for years, sipping our sugary chai, clinging onto our names -

The two crows, hymns in the church in Mararikulam village ....

During breakfast, I'd watched two swaggering crows - they had bold, clever, eyes and murderous feathers - they sipped water from a shallow stone basin - they were like insouciant assassins -

Inevitably, I thought of Ted Hughes - I remembered reading Crow's First Lesson, worlds ago, in my dad's copy of The Listener - I sat there, in a comfortable lounge, wide eyed and shaken after I'd read the poem -

Later that morning, we'd followed Nancy to the ATM in Mararikulam village - we all fell in love with Nancy - she was a calm, radiant, presence - I felt as though I'd known her all my life - I could tell her all my secrets and sorrows -

Nancy's partner, Bill, was a retired CBC journalist - he'd flown to Afghanistan from Moscow in an ailing helicopter, witnessed the terrible siege of Beslan Number One School, subsisted on almonds and flat bread in mountain fastnesses -

Now he was fighting for social justice - last year, he'd made a film, financed by the Ontario Public Service Employees Union, exposing the consequences of the right to work laws -

Bill was already in the village, Nancy said - he'd be inside the tiny internet cafe, sifting news -

The back water near Mayas Beach House was half covered by water hyacinth - we walked through vivid greenery - a man cycled past us very slowly -

We saw a church shaped like a 1930's radio - inside, young women were singing hymns - their saris were brightly coloured - one woman's lustrous hair was left unveiled -

We stood outside the church, the sun dazzling us, listening to the singing - Anne wanted to enter the church, to stand amongst those reverent figures, profoundly moved by their tender voices -

The fishing village at Murari, novennas on the beach ...

Just behind the white sands and iconic palm trees of Murari Beach, there was a small fishing village, within sound of the sea -

Early in the morning, we would watch the women filling brass vessels with water from a stand pipe - breakfasts were being cooked over wood fires - families were stirring from sleep, yawning and washing -

We would tiptoe past stray dogs with wicked muzzles - the voices of young children were like the cries of strange birds -

The lady in the dress shop told us - the fishermen are  poor - one day, they have money, but the next day, when there are no fish, then they have no money - 

We would see the fishermen before sunset, lean, watchful, figures - they cast their nets from dark, high prowed, boats, sailing parallel to the shore -

Nancy said that the wives sang novennas on the beach, to ensure the safe return of their husbands -

Arrival at Murari, haunted by geometry, seeking a world without time ...

Our driver had to ask a number of times for the whereabouts of Mayas Beach House - we would pull over to the side of the narrow melting road - a tinted window would hiss down - an ancient wearing a dhoti would peer into the opulent Toyota, murmuring directions, resting a Hercules bicycle against his sinewy loins -

We would drive off, wondering if we were searching for the Brigadoon Beach House - we passed women burning withered leaves, security guards posted at the gates of a luxury beach resort, bold election posters for the CMP - 

Soon we would be lost again - the car would stop - directions would once more be given, this time by an auto rickshaw driver, sitting outside a tiny garage, where sleepy mechanics were stripping down a Royal Enfield - 

We arrived at the Beach House three hours late - the white serviced villa was elegant, our mint welcome drink served in a frosted glass - 

I cooled my body in the pool - I felt like a character in a short story by J G Ballard - I could be a former NASA physician, haunted by geometry, seeking a world without time -  

Driving to Murari ...

The drive from Varkala to Murari took longer than we had expected - I'd glanced at a bright page in the atlas, tracing with my finger the line of the national highway - the route seemed relatively straight forward - there were towns with strange beautiful names, sinuous back waters, lakes, islands -

Debra had recommended the driver - we were sorry to leave Kaiya House, with its calm, mellow, atmosphere, its surreal murals, themed bedrooms - 

Before we left, I drank a papaya juice, prepared by the slender boy who helped out in the kitchen - 

Debra said - he has a little business on the side, making juices - 

A statuette of Ganesh, and one other deity, graced the dashboard - I felt that we soon required their protection - once on the national highway, we were in a mad parade - 

Sleepy drivers slouched over the steering wheels of immense trucks - furious buses overtook us with angry symphonies of hooting - suicidal motor bike drivers joshed their pillion passengers - auto rickshaw drivers pulled out into the highway like doomed mayflies - 

Inevitably, there'd been a smash - I learned later, from a gory report in the New Indian Express, that an oil tanker had overturned -

Within moments, we were entangled in a scary melee of vehicles - we could hear ambulances wailing, unable to pass through the crush of dusty metal -

But by the grace of the Indian deities, we emerged unscathed, insouciant Passepartouts behind our sunglasses - 

Reading The New Indian Express in Murari ...

Ever since I was a paper boy, tottering under the weight of my Sunday bag, crammed full with worthy broadsheets and sleazy rags, I have had a passion for newspapers -

Before I put Strawberry Fields Forever on the radiogram, I studied the pages of The Portsmouth Evening News, gazed fearfully at spooky classified announcements in The Times - 

Later, in Portsmouth Record Office, I would turn the crackling pages of The Hampshire Chronicle, reading a report of a rick burning or bloody naval victory off Ushsant - 

In Kerala, it was just the same - in Murari, sitting before the white serviced villa, I would pick up a pristine copy of The New Indian Express - there we so many stories to sigh over, to read whilst drinking coffee flavoured with cardamon -

In Fort Cochin, Thakkad Junction, Varkala and Manapilly there were other newspapers to delight me - The Times of India, The Decaan Chronicle, The Hindu -

This teeming vivid world of India came to life for me, with these reports of political murders, striking auto rickshaw drivers, revamps in police echelons, tanker lorries turning turtle -

Like a weary world leader, I would then swim lazily in the forgiving sea -

Murari Sunset, the trouble with travel ...

We walked along the beach soon after our arrival at Murari - the sun was setting, the sea and sky glowing with soft red light - the air was warm and still - slim figures were diving into the generous waves - 

Looking up at the iconic foliage of the palm trees, I thought of Alain de Botton's Art of Travel - I'd read it before my diagnosis of bowel cancer - this was now how I measured time - the beach he described in his first chapter, On Anticipation, seemed very much like this one - his had white sands, a tropical sea, elegant palm trees - so had mine - 

Anne had said, after I'd shown her those pages of spare, graceful, prose - the trouble with travel then, he says, is that you take yourself with you - 

But unlike the silken philosopher, I knew that the self I'd bought with me, from gentle rainy Wareham, was happy, at ease with itself, untroubled by spectres of the future - 

Fistfuls of rupees ...

We acquired our first fistful of rupees at Kochi Airport, early in the morning, soon after our arrival - I was fascinated by the exotic bank notes - I smelt them, examined their delicate depiction of Gandhi, folded them between my fingers into a fat bundle - 

We found ATMs all over Kerala - some were air conditioned capsules, pristine shrines for a benign digital deity - clever screens glowed, new notes spilled out into your hand - others were stifling cubicles, ankle deep in discarded receipts -

In Thakkad Junction, I bought some sparkling mineral water - after a while, I was given my change, peeled off a truncheon of rupees - 

The worn five or ten rupee notes were oily to the touch, almost transparent, strange tokens quivering between my fingers - 

I looked into the cloudy eyes of the man who'd handed me my bottles of water, digging them out from the bottom of the fridge - 

He'd waited for us to walk past, the English, staying with Dr Bagi - 

You want them cold? - 

Throwing away the drab garb of an apparatchik on North Cliff, Varkala

I wore drab suits for many years - every morning, I would assume the garb of an apparatchik -

I longed to wear a canary yellow shirt - I had a dream in which I attended a solemn meeting in a lime green jacket - 

When I retired I cast away my socks - I sought out raffish garments - 

In Varkala, therefore, I haunted the shops on North Cliff - the bright fabrics were like the severed wings of fantastic birds - 

I saw myself, idling upon the beach, barefoot, my purple pyjama trousers splashed with wine -