Before we left for Heathrow, my mum had given me a medal of Saint Christopher - this is for you, to keep you safe -
I'd clasped the medal whilst the Airbus was landing at Kochi - the wide bodied jet circled the airport, banking sharply before its final approach - I saw the runway lights burning like strange stars - the smooth faces of the air hostesses were expressionless, their eyes glittering like dark jewels -
On the National Highway, from Kochi to Varkala, I invoked the Saint's intercession more than once - I felt the Saint's worn profile with my finger tips - I would glance up at the implacable whirling tyres of a gaudy lorry, inches away from the Toyota -
Watching the rosary swaying from a rear view mirror, I would whisper my prayer -
Saint Christopher, protect us -
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