COCHIN, especially Fort Cochin has always had a special place in my heart. In the Pre-pandemic days of yore, you would find me often, enjoying the breeze from the Arabian sea sipping a drinkable "Indian" wine at the Bristow Bungalow.
All that changed on January 4, 2020 when it was announced of a world wide pandemic which overtook every one's imagination and occupied all scientific and economic minds for the next two years to coe.
I thought of Cochin
I thought of Masala Dosai, a thin crispy pancake , much reminiscent of a Crepe Breton in Brittany France. During the days to come, becoming a COVID 19 refugee in Miami, separated from many of the good things in life I had become grown accustomed to: Champagne on boarding a Qatar Airways flight, Airline lounges staffed by people who had become your friends and Hotels and Managers such as Mr R of Bristow.
I was in Madrid, enjoying one of those unexpected pleasures in life. Two flights of about 5 hours each, with a stopover at the nice new Alfursan Lounge at Abdul Aziz International Airport I found myself facing a ageing immigration official interviewing the only foreigner on this second flight. He was polite and did not have any inquisitive enquiries and stamps my passport and let me go.
The carousel was rotating with the largest number of cardboard boxes most of them plastic wrapped that I have ever seen. I fondly thought of myself at a similar carousel in Havana when instead of these returnees on vacation from Saudi Arabian workspaces would have been replaced by gaudily dressed, heavily chained (not at the wrist but their gold chains) Cubans of Miami bringing the oft needed supplies in large bags wrapped in blue.
Cochin is in the State of Kerala, and the ruling party is the Communist Party, duly elected and re elected. You can see why I am treated well when they know that I represent the Island most of see through their ideological idealistic eyes. Made a mental note to get in touch with the new ambassador from Cuba to India in New Delhi to inform him of my terrain here in this part of Kerala.
My blue suitcase put in a belated appearance and within a minute I was outside the customs area , nary of scrutinizing official eyes.
I had received a text message from Mr R to say that the driver would be waiting for me outside the exit and imagine my surprise when I saw Mr R himself waiting for me. The airport is more than one hour through rough traffic for this manager of a business hotel in town, but over the years we had built a friendship and shared a few drinks and meals.
I may be Homeless but I do have good friends whose presence are petite intoxicants in this exuberant life.
We had lots to catch up. family dramas and deaths to be accepted. He said: This covid isolation has made every one much closer to their families.
as we approached the bridge built over a century ago by Mr Bristow over the backwaters, Mr R mentioned the magic word: Masala Dosai, the last taste was in this very same geographical terrain , two years and three months and sixteen days ago.
In the early days of my visits to Cochin, I used to visit Krishna Cafe for Masala Dosai and had not been there in ages so imagine my happiness when the car pulled in front of the very same establishment
I recognized the face of the owner seated behind his table in the usual position of a tax collector, taking money from waiters who bring him the bills. A garlanded figure of some God sent blessings in all directions.
It was good to be back in Cochin.
Mr R had organized a heritage property right in the hub of Fort Cochin with its Vasca da gama square, chinese fishing nets and St Francis church.
The manager of the property, Mr Ranjit received us warmly and I was shown to my room.
I knew I will enjoy my stay in Cochin.
Thought of all friends including my brother Eliyahu and visitors from Takaoka and Tehran who have shared this magic with me.
It is nice to come home to Fort Cochin..
