Doctor Bagi as Prospero ...

Doctor Bagi's father's house was set amidst exotic greenery - palm trees were outlined against the darkening sky - sinuous creepers hung from the branches of nutmeg trees - the sultry twilight enveloped us - 

The garden contained subtle herbs, used in the preparation of herbal medicines - dark petals half covered the basin of a fountain - the air was scented by fragrant leaves -  I thought I was walking in a dream -

I turned round, to see Doctor Bagi showing Anne a mysterious flower -

He was like Prospero, I thought, showing us his beautiful conjured world - 

Vinish and Murugan ...

I looked up from the pages of The New Indian Express, to see Vinish standing before me - it was time for my morning treatment - it was just before noon - I was wearing a linen shirt - 

I followed Vinish to the treatment room - he walked a few paces ahead of me, glancing at his Samsun Galaxy - 

I wondered what it must be like, massaging pale bodies, anointing them with oils, later washing them with gentle fingers - 

Lying upon the massage table, my eyes closed, I would sometimes hear Vinish and Murugan talking softly to each other - I would wonder what they were saying - they spoke in Malayalam - their murmured sentences sounded like the songs of shy birds - 

The Colonel ...

I can remember Colonel Swami even now, sitting in the snug this raw April morning, listening to Glenn Gould playing the Goldberg Variations -

I first met the Colonel over dinner at Doctor Bagi's - I was feeling very hungry - I was staring at the bowls of curried vegetables with the burning gaze of a starving mariner - 

Jane had introduced me to him - Colonel, this is Chris - he'd smiled a shy yet savage smile - 

Over shreds of garlicky okra we spoke about military history, Indian politics and society, India's part in the First World War, the new face of India as exemplified by Bangalore - 

As the days went by, I found myself drawn to this brisk, clever, portly man - I became increasingly aware of his keen intelligence and wolfish humour - 

Why do do you take them to see elephants, he once laughed they can see one here -  

Most days, between treatments, I would try my best to speak with the Colonel - 

One morning, shutting his USI Journal, he told me about his first posting, to a Kashmiri glacier - it was a terrible zone of ice, unspeakably cold - men died, frost bitten, frozen to death - air dropped supplies were swallowed up by crevasess -

The Colonel smiled his smile - 

I saw my father when I returned - we spoke until midnight - in the morning, the driver went to his bungalow - he would not answer - for he had passed in the night - 

Meeting Doctor Bagi ...

I was a little apprehensive about meeting Doctor Bagi - I wondered what the Ayuvedic 
treatments would be like - what strange oils might be applied to my naked body? - what would it be like to fast for twelve days, to drink thimblefuls of black tea rather than opulent lattes?

We had our initial consultation very soon after our arrival at the Ayuvedic Centre - Doctor Bagi regarded me gravely with his deep set eyes - he was younger than I had expected, a fervent practitioner of an ancient discipline - 

I grew to be very fond of this gifted man, with his eloquence and love of music - he'd visit us every evening, sometimes performing magic tricks -

When I was a boy, I'd practise for hours - I would see the magician, coming round the villages, with his tricks - 

Once he made my watch stop - I gasped with astonishment like an artless boy - 

By the side of the pool in The Old Lighthouse Hotel, Fort Cochin ...

We met up with Sophie and Paul in Fort Cochin, the day before our flight to a pale orderly world - 

There'd been a problem with our booking for The Old Lighthouse - we'd hoped to stay there again, to feast on subtle curries after our twelve days fasting at Doctor Baggi's - 

I'd lost seven kilos as a result of my treatments - whilst being massaged by Vinish and Murugan, I'd dreamed of cappuccinos - 

We stayed instead at the Poovath Heritage Hotel, once the palace of a Dutch pro consul, now a refuge for heart sore travellers - from its balconies you could see the worn tombs of the cemetery, yet also the open sea - 

Jane and Ken's booking in the Old Lighthouse went ahead - they'd booked in advance - we idled in the pool there that afternoon -  

Anne, Jane and Sophie tried their luck at synchronised swimming - Paul was beardless - I guess a barber's wicked razor had got to work - he swam smoothly from end of the pool to the other - I lay on my back, floating upon the cool water, looking up at the marvellous sky - Ken had donned his splendid Batik shirt - 

Later, an American girl had insisted upon taking our picture - I thought of the poignant lyrics of Ray Davies' song, People take pictures of each other -

Surely this moment, if I wished it, could remain there forever - 

Remembering "Picnic at Hanging Rock" in Fort Cochin ...

Late one afternoon, in Fort Cochin, I put down The World of Yesterday, to gaze out across the beach, towards the tropic sea - 

We had checked into the Old Lighthouse that morning - we would stay there for a few days before meeting up with Jane and Ken at Doctor Bagi's -  

We'd sipped our welcome drink in the reception area of the hotel - the lobby was cool and spacious, open to soothing breezes - I'd admired the statue of a serene Goddess, garlanded with flowers -

Now, after swimming in the pool, I was sitting on the terrace, lamenting Stefan Zweig's suicide -

It was then, closing those sad pages, that I saw the group of school girls, perhaps on some outing after class - 

I watched them, making their way over the white sands - they walked along the sea's edge, in a careful crocodile - 

I remembered how I'd once watched Peter Weir's Picnic at Hanging Rock - I'd been profoundly disturbed by the beautiful mystery of the film - 

What strange events were starting to happen here, I wondered - would some of these girls slip away, vanishing into the shining air?

  

The boatyard on the way to Fort Cochin ...

On the road from Murari to Fort Cochin, we were never far from the Arabian Sea - we passed fishing villages, with their beflagged boats, white beaches and boatyards -

We stopped briefly, in one such village - a catch was expected, perhaps - men were gathered in the shade of the coconut palms - they had ridden Hercules bicycles here, or nursed ailing Royal Enfields across the sand - an auto rickshaw, extravagantly decorated, was parked close to the road -

Fishing boats were drawn up at the sea's edge - a crow wavered through the air above the boats -

There was a small boatyard nearby - I peered through the fence at boats being shaped by clever planes and chisels -

I suddenly thought of my dad - he'd been a shipwright in the Royal Navy - I'd found the note books he'd written when he was a young sailor - there were beautiful pen and ink drawings of sea anchors, knots and cross sections of whalers -

I remembered him telling me how he'd discussed politics with the chaplain, how one fellow had bodged the rifle drill -

My eyes brimmed with tears - my dad stayed in his armchair now, but once he'd sailed across oceans -