The priest's words were invisible birds flying around our heads ...

Debra climbed the ancient steps to the temple swiftly and easily - we followed her, each stone step smooth beneath our bare feet - for two millennia pilgrims had come here, seeking grace -

We passed through a gateway into a crowded courtyard - we saw a few westerners, pale intruders, with their white sun hats and cameras - 

The sunlight was dazzling - deep shadows were cast by shrines and statues - I looked up at the feverishly bright images of gods and demons - I felt a sense of utter strangeness -

Every fifteen minutes or so, it seemed that a canon had been fired - the explosions made my ears ring - 

We saw a baby placed upon one of the pans of a pair of scales - he wiggled like a dark cherub with kohled eyes - fond aunts clustered around him - I wondered if a naming ceremony was taking place -  

Then we saw Nick and Tina, garlanded with white flowers, standing before a bare chested priest - he pronounced his blessing of their marriage - women played tanpuras - 

Led by Babbagi, we threw tiny red and white flowers over Nick and Tina - the priest's mysterious words were invisible birds flying around our heads - 

Before the Marriage Blessing in the Temple ...

Tina reminded me very much of some of the mums I'd come across at school - she was shrewd, energetic, a little scary - I found myself framing careful phrases, as I would for one of those Boudiccas in her fearsome Mitsubishi Outlander - 

Tina drove a bus in Solihull - I think Nick may have been her second husband - he was, he said, in recruitment - 

But despite my initial nervousness, I was  captivated by Tina, by her warmth and northern charm - she told me how she'd scampered through the shopping centre in jeans and tiara on her way to her wedding - she had a passionate affinity for India - 

Before she left with Nick for the blessing in the temple, she showed herself in her sari - she was excited and happy, suffused with tenderness - Babbagi had dressed her, winding the rich cloth around her hips - 

Nick wore a long collarless tunic, a pristine dhoti - he was barefoot and his chin newly shaved -  

I thought of all the wedding photographs I'd seen, of how joy transfigures us, of how precious love is - 

Debra in her dressing gown ...

Early one morning, an hour before breakfast, I sat on the roof top terrace of Kaiya House, scribbling aperçus into my moleskine - bold murals decorated the sunlit space - a dog barked in the yard behind the kitchen - birds sang strange songs in the jungly gardens below me - 

Some nights, I would dream that bright greenery filled our bedroom - delicate tendrils entwined our naked bodies, vermillion flowers scented our hair - 

Debra emerged from the stairs onto the terrace - she was an American, married to an Indian filmmaker - she was wearing a  dark red silk dressing gown - clasped in her left hand was a notebook and a blue fountain pen - 

We spoke about writing - I stole a glance at a page of her notebook - she wrote in a bold, beautiful, hand - 

I remembered how she shown us around Varkala, soon after we'd arrived -

My orientation tour she'd said, looking at her new guests - 

She'd held an umbrella over her head, chaffing impertinent vendors, smiling her careful smile - 

Now she walked across the terrace, barefoot and relaxed, sending down for mango juice - 

I imagined Debra, when we were a brief memory, lingering here, drawn to listen to the monsoon rain - 

Beggars in front of Janardanaswamy Temple ...

Outside Janardanaswamy Temple, there was a sacred pond for ritual cleansing - jewelled  dragonflies settled upon the scorched balustrade -

Two men in white dhotis walked past, deep in conversation -  

Before the kiosk where we left our shoes, beggars gathered - there were old women, with beseeching eyes, who stretched out their hands towards us -

Sprawled on the hot red earth, an ancient with a face of crumpled leather stared up at us - he pointed to a piece of matting, upon which was scattered some pitiable largesse -

Money, he said, money -

I hid behind my sunglasses, later turning to take his photograph -

The Banyan Tree with its fruit of babies ...

We met Nick and Tina one evening on the roof top terrace of Kaiya House - we'd just come back from the Abba Restaurant, on the North Cliff, where we'd chilled our tongues with icy Kingfishers, marvelling at the sunset - a Jack Johnson CD was playing on the sound system -

Nick and Tina were from the north of England - they were larger than life characters, open hearted, brimming with love for each other -

They invited us to witness the blessing of their marriage in the nearby temple - Debra, our Delphic hostess, had arranged for this ceremony to take place the morning we left for Murari - 

Within the precincts of the temple, we saw an ancient Banyan Tree, heavy with a fruit of dolls - 

Debra turned towards us - we'd been following her slender silk clad figure across the courtyard - it's a baby tree she said - it's for babies - 

I stared at the votive offerings, the small bright hanging figures - a sense of horror stole over me - what terrifying, ardent, vows, I wondered, had been made here, in this scorched silence?

The wayside hotel on the way to Varkala ...

On the way to Varkala, we stopped for a glass of Dukes Lemonade in a wayside hotel - 

The driver parked his pristine car next to the hotel sign - he understood a little English, smiling shyly, accompanying his few phrases with gentle, placatory, gestures - Marco had recommended him - he can speak enough for you - 

We'd driven past immense hoardings, advertising saris - I'd lost count of the smiling giantesses I'd seen - we'd left Vypin Island in the early morning, passing through Ernakulam, heading south - 

I slipped out of the car - fine dust coated my canvas shoes - it was almost midday -

I could see men, with their Hercules bicycles, gossiping languidly in the shade of some trees -

Inside the tiny hotel, Sophie and I sipped the lemonade - the worn figures around us spooned dhal into their mouths -

The proprietor sat behind the counter, greeting his friends - Sophie turned towards me with her clear, fearless, gaze - souls were as glass to her, I thought - 

Saint Christopher protect us ...

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 -