For those making the long journey to a Christian-Hindu ashram founded by Benedictine monks in southern India, writes David Berry, the rewards are rich and unpredictable

It is dawn and I am in a Catholic church in south India that resembles no church I have ever been in before. The building is bright pink and not round or rectangular but octagonal. It resembles a giant insect that is resting on the ground before launching itself into space.

On the roof, there is no comforting cross but an array of life-size statues depicting Jesus, St Peter, St Paul, St Benedict, painted in red and green, and turquoise and gold.

Inside, it feels more like a mosque than a church. The marble floor is empty but for half a dozen pews curved around the perimeter and some 20 prayer mats pointing towards a small altar lit by candles and decorated with flowers. Then the Mass begins and things become even stranger.

Fr Paul, a middle-aged Indian with horn-rimmed glasses and casual smile, starts not with a prayer but a chant. In Sanskrit. Om bhur bhuvah svah tat savitur varenyam, which translates along the lines of “salutations to the Word which is present in the earth, the sky and that which is beyond. Let us meditate on the glorious splendour of that divine giver of life.”