A feeling called Fort Kochi

We sat atop a red oxide stairway that led from the reading hall to the pool area with its mauve sun deck chairs. Rain fell at soft angles on the water surface creating little pimply ripples like thousands of greedy Garra rufa at a foot care spa. A darker hue spread over the chairs as it began to come down harder. Metallic blue shutter cloaked the horizon, crackling thunder tore through. An empty teapot in a tray with two cups had been pushed away from the flurry of amorous limbs. One youngish waiter kept appearing at the foot of the stairs, looked forlornly at the tray and its inhabitants and retreated without venturing further. He would skitter away into some recess by the pool only to reappear five minutes later. A Neemrana ‘non-hotel’ close to the sea, the perimeter wall which we could overlook faced the promenade. The famed Chinese fishing nets were a little ahead. Tourism props.

“Only one hundred rupees for one immersion,” the offer goes these days. “You can keep all the catch.” It is depressing how traditional fishermen have transformed into desperate louts.

There was a stage with huge shimmery backdrop banners in flex and bright yellow lights all around which gave it the look of a burning deus ex machina at the cusp of resolving an irredeemable plot. A singers’ welfare association programme was about to begin on stage; renowed cover singers from the past wearing satiny shirts and dhotis lined up as several flashes went off. Everybody embraced everybody warmly, a reunion of sorts. A good turn out who applauded with appreciation. Mike testing…mike testing… Well-rested and thereby in a good mood to bitch, we surmised that the tester was in love with his own voice. I reminisced a priest cum singer in the family who owned and managed a popular singing troupe during the 90s. He was so much in love with his voice that at the end of each number the microphone had to be extricated from his mouth. My mother would laugh unfailingly each time at my gag. It began to come down heavily and there was a lull in the show when tarpaulin sheets were pulled over musicians and instruments.

Mike testing…mike testing…

***

Comadose.

Siestas that last longer and/or deeper than sleep. The consequential lethargy is an addictive high. It is like a drug with crunk at the core coated with chillax. We had woken up from a six-hour bliss before we sat watching the rain. It took us longer than usual to arrive from the airport as numerous trees had their overhanging boughs felled by the unseasonably strong rains which blocked traffic. Detour at every crossroad sent us in circles and our cabbie into a tizzy – alternating between cussing and courteous. Every vehicle on our path bore the brunt of his oral wrath, to passers by whom we asked for directions he looked hapless. We had been to Fort Kochi earlier – to all the attractions and even caught a Kathakali recital. Had been to the art cafes, befriended artists and bought art. But the synagogue remained unchecked; twice we missed the early closing hours. We would do it this time. And buy spices from Mattancherry for friends in Delhi. But at first we would comadose. I ran my hands over her hair just like her grandmother used to do. When she enjoyed it her eyes would be half closed with contentment and memories. There were sparks between strands like miniature lightning. Hacienda, cats, rain. There was coffee and cake. Writing desks, little kids and laughter. She alternated between parts, differing lives. Fierceness burnt in her eyes, clouding soon with sympathy.

“Come here, don’t suffer,” she said. I opened my eyes to navigate my way towards her. The clock on the mobile phone showed 6.30. PM. A six-hour siesta.

Siesta?

***

There was a candlelight vigil that evening for Asifa, the nomadic kid brutalised and killed for political ends. It was organised by Keralite and Kashmiri lads who distributed candles lit in paper cups. Some wore guyliners which made their eyes more intense. It already shone with purpose. Each time I saw these Kashmiri men – they manned leather and artefact shops along the sea from Kovalam to Varkala and Fort Kochi – I used to wonder how they felt living among a lot largely oblivious to their issues. Hailing from Kerala and fairly infomaniac myself, I became privy to their deeper issues only recently. Demand for Azaadi, freedom, is just the obvious one. The one simmering, manifesting in Intifada and Jihadi. There were umpteen others about to blow up – rarely seen, seldom discussed. Probably why they chose to be here. We walked by the Old Harbour where the lawn was filled with neglect and dried twigs. Last season there stood a vintage Merc which I used to pause by each time, too enamoured to take pictures.

“It is a season thing,” the elderly watchman informed me. “They will now bring it back with the next season.” It sounded like an elevation into the ranks of an attraction in itself. It had my vote.

Our room at The Tower was traditional avant-garde – kasavu-bordered saris hung in place of windows, knotted at four corners. Long-armed wooden chairs with bright pink cushions faced the mirror. Like most heritage properties in Fort Kochi, it had a tall ceiling with wood beams and floors. The distinct mouldy smell that comes with heavy moisture on wood hung in the air. Mosquitoes flung themselves about taking courage from the net which was entangled around an ornamental post. Black out curtains, low lights, scented bathroom. But the noise insulation was wanting: we woke to the mike testing.

***

The first time I visited Alice Delices was during the Biennale. Talking to her and meeting her family left me numinous. Her days began at 4 AM working the industrial size oven; freshly baked bread and cakes would be available at her bakery soon after. Each day of my week-long stay at Fort Kochi began with black coffee and bread here. I was staying at Walton’s then, my all-time favourite. Afterwards I would return to the homestay and sit under the glade in the courtyard garden watching the big, wrinkly leaves sweat in the sun. Repair to my room for some reading and smokes. It was heartrending to watch Mrs Walton’s face fall when I informed her that I had breakfast. But nothing in the world could make me give up freshly baked bread.

After checking in, we walked to the delice. The interiors were cavernous, brimming with positivity and good vibes. That’s the thing about open spaces – it conjures familiarity and breeds bonhomie. We exchanged warm smiles with other guests and sat down on wood benches. An upcoming trip was planned. Politics discussed. Photography books were browsed. Cute little standees stood on the tables with little negatives pinned to them. The one on ours had an Indian family; the woman wore her pallu over the head, a fiercely moustached man with kind eyes and a little boy frowning at the camera. Idiom Bookstore, Anokhi and the synagogue we would visit after comatose.

As we sat watching the rain from the top of the red oxide stairway, it occurred to us that we were late for the synagogue – again. 

(All photographs are aerial shots of Fort Kochi and the surrounding Arabian Sea taken with my Phantom 4 Pro aerial camera. Please don’t reproduce without permission. Ask and thou might even receive the hi-res ones.;)