From the memorable streets of Fort Kochi with its shoreline of fishing nets we kept heading south, further into the contradictions that are southern India. We finally stopped at the seaside resort town of Varkala Beach (not to be confused with Varkala town.) It’s a town that seems to only know sunsets given it faces west over the Arabian Sea.

Varkala Beach sits on the top of cliffs that run above a golden crescent of beach. A path runs along the clifftop and is lined with tourist shops so that when you are out for a walk you can admire the scenery or shop for jewelry or clothing. The clothing is typical Indian hippy fare, while the jewelry is Ladakhi or Tibetan. There’s actually a large community of Tibetans here and when you chat with them they get quite miffed at the Kashmiri traders who have set up shop selling Tibetan knock-offs.

The other amenity offered by the clifftops are coffee shops—with real espresso and lattes! Funny how after a few weeks of travelling, the taste of real coffee and muesli with fresh fruit in the morning was more like ambrosia than any Indian food offering. Chilling in the morning sipping a latte and listening to Van Morrison or Indian chanting while watching the blue waves and the fishermen out catching the evening meal was, well, it was relaxing after the previous weeks of running.

We finally made it down the long set of stairs to the beach and dipped our toes back into real India again—and the Arabian Sea. At the far end of the beach, nearer Varkala Town sits a newer temple that celebrates the fact that, beyond the tourists flocking to the sunshine on the cliffs, people have been coming here for generations to venerate their ancestors. They come in long processions crossing from the village over the sand, carrying offerings on their heads. As they near the water, they turn backwards and shuffle down to the shore before tossing the offering backward off their heads. On the sand are ranks of sadhus with the sand brushed clean and flat before them and small flames burning in brass platters. The supplicants kneel in the sand before them and are given tasks they must perform to receive absolution. I watched for a while, raw desperation burned in too many gazes.

It brought home once more just how much Hinduism flows in the blood and the distance between the cliffs and the beach.

From Varkala we kept going south and found our way to Kanya Kumari or Cape Cormorin. Kanya Kumari is a fishing town and also a religious destination for it sits at the farthest southern point of India. If you look left from the point you are looking at the Bay of Bengal out toward Sri Lanka. Look right and you are looking at the Arabian Sea. Look south and you are looking across the Indian Ocean all the way to Antarctica. Kanya Kumari is actually named after the virgin (Kanya) goddess named Kumari who supposedly singlehandedly slayed demons and brought freedom to world. Her temple sits at the southernmost point and people come from all over to watch the sunset and sunrise from this holy place.

When we arrived in the evening our helpful driver first took us to sunset point which sits out of town and offers lovely views of the sunset, but not of the reason we were there – Kanya Kumari. So we returned into town and ventured down into the pilgrim’s bazaar that surrounds the temple with children’s clothing, cashew nuts and dried fruit, flowers and religious offerings, before coming down near the water. There are beggars caught like flotsam in the corners holding out mangled hands. There are candy floss and popcorn hawkers and men selling cheap jewelry. There’s a white horse ready for people to ride and to have their photo taken. But most of all there were the pilgrims and sari’s tied in a mandapa (a pillared covered stone gazebo-type structure) that flapped in the wind. As the sun set, there was a collective sigh from the people and then everyone began to move, leaving the shoreline.

The next morning, we were up early to see the sunrise at the temple. The moon was about half full, but there are times of the year when you can see the sun rise and the full moon set at the same time over three different oceans. We had been told to expect the temple to be less crowded, but our informant was wrong. We arrived about fifteen minutes before sunrise and already the temple areas were thronged and bathers filled the ocean ghats.

Off shore of Kanya Kumari are two small islands. One has a temple memorial built to Hindu apostle Vivekananda who took his preaching far beyond India. The other island holds a 133 ft. statue of the Tamil poet Thiruvalluver whose most famous work was 133 stanzas—thus the height of the statue. He looks back toward Tamil India. The clouds that had formed above Sri Lanka turned a ghostly pink along the edges as the sunrise neared. The crowd was restive, people jostling for pictures—selfies of themselves with the sunrise. Gradually, the sun rose and sprayed columns of light above the temple and statue. It was as if everyone held their breath. Then the sun poked its brazen orange head above the cloud and everyone exhaled.

Around us the throngs began singing a soft hymn to Kanya Kumari.

And then the sacred moment was over. The sun was hot and blinding. The bathers bathed in the ghats. The people took their photos and the white horse began giving pony rides to pilgrim’s children.

We left, but I find myself caught between two memories of the place. The sublime moment of the sunrise voices, and the voices I heard afterward—the mewling sounds of the disfigured and maimed beggars placed in the corners of the temple calling out for money.

As I said—the south. A place of ongoing contradictions.

I’m not quite sure what to write about Fort Kochi. No critiques. I really liked the place. It’s photogenic as heck. Located a little over halfway down the coast of Kerala state, like Goa the area has had layers upon layers of foreign influence. There were the Arab traders who came for the spice. Then the Portuguese, then the Dutch and then the English. Each, I suppose, brought their own addition to the place. The Portuguese increased the spice trade to Europe and brought Christianity and Catholicism here so you find Cathedrals on almost every corner. The Dutch brought trade and a ‘Dutch’ overlay to the old Keralan palace. The English apparently brought laundry services.

Yes, laundry.

In the heart of old Fort Kochi you find the Dhobykama, which literally means laundry family. During the British Raj the English imported laundry workers from Tamil Nadu state because, apparently, they knew how to do laundry properly. All these years later, there are six families left and we spoke to a gentleman who was tenth generation and proudly told how both his children have gone onto university. From what he showed us of his pristine shirts, sheets and dhotis (sarongs that men wear here) he could do my laundry anytime. They were the whitest, best pressed items I’ve ever seen. Move over western dry cleaning. Of course, the Dhobykama may be a dying breed.

The Old Fort Kochi beach front is an amazing amalgam of old and new. A walk in the morning takes you past fishermen casting nets in the surf, fishing boats seeking the tuna leaping just off shore, joggers (ever seen a woman jog in a sari?), old men talking, tourists photo-gawking, even a ‘muscle beach’ corner where the young men have their weights set up to pump iron. Best of all are the ancient Chinese fishing nets (see the photos.) These huge contraptions were brought by the Chinese when they were still trading with Kerala back before Columbus stumbled upon America. They are huge nets draped on poles and cantilevered with ropes of rocks. They dip into the water and then back up, with their load of fish, and are absolutely one of the most photogenic fishing items I’ve ever seen. They are an iconic part of Kerala and one of the emblems of Fort Kochi.

While we were in Kochi we went to see a Keralan dance troupe. These troupes exist in many places in the state and are an attempt to reclaim an ancient Royal Keralan dance form that disappeared when the royal house fell on hard times during the colonial era. The new dance was created in the 1700s and is called Kerala Kathakali. The dancers (all male) wear elaborate costumes and face paint to recreate figures out of ancient tales like the Ramayana. The first part of their performance was acquainting a tourist audience with the amazing eye and hand movements (Mudras.) The eyes are held wide open and dart one way and another in a way that had had the audience chuckling. For some of the characters they place a seed powder in the eyes which turns the whites of the eyes red. With the mudras and the eye movements, these characters are able to hold entire conversations. It was amazing to watch—and exhausting.

Sadly, we left Fort Kochi the next morning, leaving the scent of spice and the sound of the ocean behind for the supposed quiet of the Kerala backwaters. You see, Kerala has innumerable inland waterways that run between rice fields and the narrow dikes that hold the homes of people. Old men fish. Children go to school by boat. People live by the water, bathe in it, wash their dishes in it and drink it. Sadly, the water is green with algae and scummed with the diesel of the 1500 plus tourist boats that ply the supposed backwaters. Needless to say, so many engines means it’s not that peaceful and at night, moored next to a party boat it was even less so. But regardless of the downsides, I was busy with my camera. So much so, I probably looked a lot like those dancers with my eyes darting everywhere.

I know. I saw our boat driver laughing.

I always find it interesting to notice the light when I travel. As a photographer, light is everything, but the light when you travel is more than that. Yes, it’s the atmospherics—here in Mysuru (once Mysore) the sky is hazy pale and the air is perennially tinged with diesel smoke. At the same time it creates a misty light that places a glow across the green rice and sugar cane fields.

But the light also seems to come from the heart of a place. So far, in India, I see the light in the eyes of the people and in the temple flames that burn before Lord Vishnu and the pantheon of gods. It is there in the reflections off the water of lakes and rivers, and off the skin of the bathers at the ghats.

Yesterday, our first day in Mysuru, we visited two temples. The first, the Sri Rangnapatna temple in the ancient city of Sri Rangnapatnum is a living temple with hundreds of pilgrims trying to enter to pay their respects to the Lord Vishnu. We were allowed entry and actually went into the nave to bow to the reclining God. He had half-mast eyes, which our guide told us is typical for South India, but still, they caught the light with a serenity that seemed to fill the air even through the shoving crowd of pilgrims jostling to bathe in the God’s flame and to drink of the purifying water offered by the Brahmin priests. All through this holy time, our guide chanted his prayer so it was a soft song that carried me through the voices of the throngs and the bells of the priests.

Light in the air. Light in the water. Light in the hands reaching. At times it feels as if the light can get inside of us, too, if we will only see and listen.