Monday in Cochin

I took pictures for this day, but somehow lost them!

On Monday morning Claire, Melissa, and I set out toward Mattancherry near Fort Cochin. We had just realized that the buses’ destinations were posted only in Malayalam when Father Junish rode up on his motorcycle and pointed out the approaching bus to Mattancherry. I don’t know how he does it, but Father Junish has a special talent for showing up at just the right moment to save the day.

This brings up an interesting point. Unlike priests and pastors in some other places, the priests we have met in South India seem to take very seriously their call to service, as seriously as nuns do. I was often humbled by the hospitality and helpfulness that they regarded matter-of-factly as their duty and privilege. It was not just because we were Americans or foreigners either: I saw them treat everyone with genuine kindness—parishioners, cooks, watchmen, children, the very old, were all treated with dignity. If anyone ever treated all they met as if they were Christ, it is the Christians I have met in India.

So we boarded the government bus running toward Mattancherry. It was rush hour and crowded, but soon enough we arrived at the end of the line, at the Dutch Palace which was really built by the Portuguese for a local dignitary whose favor they wished to curry back in the 17th century. It looked much like the Durbar palaces of Kathmandu—a rectangle built around a central courtyard, with large alcoves with window seats and windows overlooking the outside view. The upper floor featured two interesting things: frescoes telling the stories of the Hindu gods, still showing their color and liveliness, and a museum on the history of Fort Cochin. We learned, for instance, that saris have only been worn since the 19th century—before that, even the noble women went bare-breasted or perhaps wore a strip of cloth around their chests, beneath their arms. Even then, showing breasts, they didn’t show legs. A real difference in sensibility.

We shopped a little, entering one store to see real or more probably replica antiquities, and headed toward the Pardes Synagogue. The Jewish community in “Jew Town,” as it is called, was quite vibrant during the era of the spice trade, but most everyone moved en masse to Israel in the 1940s, and only a few families and the synagogue remain. When we arrived there were large groups of children waiting to enter, so we didn’t go in.

Instead, we headed for the nearby Jain Temple. Claire has a friend who is Jain and she has visited the temple in Calcutta. Jainism is a reform offshoot of Hinduism. They show deep regard for all living beings. Not only are they vegetarians, but the more religious avoid stepping on insects and do not eat any part of a plant that would kill the organism (such as digging up potatoes).

Around noon each day they sound a bell and feed the pigeons. We arrived in time to walk through the shrines before the bell sounded. They were small and bright, light in color, and otherwise resembled the structure we had seen in Hindu temples, with a main shrine in front with room all around it to circumambulate. We saw women bringing offerings and putting their hands up to bring them as close as they could to the figures in the shrines.

When the bell sounded we went outside and watched two men praying while holding birdseed in open hands. A pigeon landed on one hand and ate as they prayed. Then they walked slowly in a circle, scattering the seed till a circular area about 25 feet across was filled with pigeons eating, pecking, chasing one another, and enjoying their daily bread. It was quite a lovely sight.

By then it was time to move on to our lunch appointment with Chris and Annie. I had picked it out of the guide book, and it turned out to be quite nice, a hotel just behind St. Francis Church, where we sat outside, some of us eating Indian and some sharing pasta. We were just talking about Father Junish when he walked in. Nelson had asked him to try to get train tickets for Claire and me to Coimbatore, and he had stood in line for some time and had ridden his motorbike to deliver them before departing for a meeting in Palliport. For some reason train tickets require travelers’ ages. Junish had made a wild guess, erring on the safe side, making Claire 6 years and me 12 years too young. Thank you, Father Junish, for your many kindnesses!

Claire and I stayed in town while the others left, and returned just in time to see them off. That was when we discovered that I had lost the only key to the cupboard where we had locked our passports and electronics. Panic. We went to see Sister Elizabeth and make confession. Before it was over, four different people and thirty different keys were involved. Sister finally said, “Pray hallelujah hallelujah hallelujah,” so we did, imagining that at the very least they would have to take a sledgehammer to the cabinet and to my budget. After another dozen unsuccessful tries somebody who knows something had brought another set that magically opened the cabinet. Passports found, apologies made, hallelujahs sincerely raised, all with Sister Elizabeth and the others remaining as placid as ever. That night we listened to the voices of song from a nearby mosque, and in the morning we heard prayers raised from a Hindu temple. Hallelujah, hallelujah.