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The Evening Prayer of the Monsoon

Here, the rhythm is not set by clocks, but by water. The great, silent kettuvallams —houseboats with curved wooden roofs like the ribs of a whale—drift without urgency. An oar dips. A kingfisher, a streak of turquoise fire, dives and disappears. The lagoon accepts everything: the rain, the sun, the fallen mango leaf, the echo of the church bell from the shore. God-s Own Country

They call it God’s Own Country, and if you stand here at the edge of the backwaters at dusk, you begin to understand why. The Evening Prayer of the Monsoon Here, the

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