We hunched over practically illegible record books, sweating next to a moody fan and watched over by a chipped statue of Saint Anthony and the hardboiled gaze of Cochin’s last Portuguese bishop. Every ten minutes or so my father and I traded profound observations.
“Everyone here married their cousins.”
“Look how many people died of worms.”
“Worms and swelling.”
“Swelling—is that a disease?”
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