Trip to Indira Point

URL:http://www.thehindu.com/thehindu/yw/2005/09/09/stories/2005090902290200.htm

S. Balakrishnan 52 (New No. 7) C-1

Phone: R- 2472 61 26 'Gyan Trishul Flats'

O -2822 81 46 Sivan Kovil Street

e-mail: krishnanbala2004@yahoo.co.in

Kodambakkam Chennai - 600 024

Down memory lane:

A trip to Indira Point, 25 years back

A cute shell and a handful of beach sand in a glass jar occupy the pride of place in my showcase. Once a happy reminder of my dream visit to Indira Point, the Southernmost Tip of Indian soil, now they remind me of the devastating Tsunami of December 26, 2004, which has not only devoured that Land’s Tip but also the lives of the men and members of their families (in all 20) who were looking after the lighthouse there, besides a group of international scientists on a research visit there. I shudder even to imagine that the very place where I stood admiring sunset and sunrise has now subsided by 4.5 metres (almost 15 ft.)!

But then that was a quarter century ago. With the prevailing conditions then, it was a sort of an expedition for me to visit that destination.

Parsons Pygmalion Point - that was how the Point was known before it was renamed Indira Point after the visit of Smt. Indira Gandhi, the then Prime Minister, to that spot. Lying at 6° 45’ North Latitude at the foot of Great Nicobar Island, the southernmost Island of the Andaman & Nicobar group of islands, the Point is 2° 05’ further down than the much-celebrated Kanyakumari (8° 5’). The tip is just 91 miles away from Pulo Brase off Achin Head in Sumatra Island of Indonesia, or 144 km. away from Sumatra Island proper. From Port Blair, the capital town of the Island Territory, Indira Point is 300 nautical miles down south.

The three-day-long journey from Port Blair to the Campbell Bay Jetty of Great Nicobar Island - touching Car Nicobar (the district headquarters of Nicobar Group of Islands), Nancowry (an excellent natural harbour) and other islands on the way - cost me just Rs. 39.40 (bunk class without boarding)! When people heard of my ‘crazy’ plan to visit the Point, it was discouragement of all sorts by persons who had never even considered visiting that unique place.

My first aim was to reach Shastri Nagar, 35 km. from Campbell Bay. It was the southernmost civilized inhabitation of India where ex-servicemen settlers had been provided temporary accommodation before they could construct their own house and move in. The bus journey from ‘0’ km. (Campbell Bay) to Shastri Nagar was an amusing one. As the bus had to cross many wooden bridges on the way, which would not bear the weight of the passengers also, the passengers were offloaded before the bridges. After crossing over, it was a mad scramble to conquer their respective seats! I still remember a wedding taking place in one of the villages (probably at the 18^th Km. – people preferred ‘kilometer-names’ to the newly-given ‘Nagar-names’), which was the ‘talk of the Island’. Many of the passengers got down there to attend the wedding, and both the bus driver and conductor enjoyed a hearty feast amidst the blaring of a record player, before resuming the journey.

The North-South Trunk Road ran almost parallel to the seashore, passing through beautiful wayside villages of the adventurous ex-servicemen settlers. They had been drawn from the different states of mainland India with a multi-purpose idea of giving them a new life and at the same time manning the strategically situated remote islands and developing them side-by-side. So to say, to safeguard the motherland even after retirement! Their humble hutments with the wild jungle and their rich green fields and plantations as the background presented a perfect picture postcard look. It is saddening to learn that besides taking the lives of many of these settlers, the fruits of years of their hard work in an entirely new and peculiar environment had also been washed away by the tsunami.

I was hungry when the bus reached 35 km. (Shastri Nagar) at 1 P.M. I had a hearty lunch at the only hotel there - ‘the southernmost eatery of India’ - for Rs. 2.50. I got myself introduced to some ex-servicemen settlers and a few personnel of RRO (Reclamation & Rehabilitation Organisation), who were only too happy to meet an alien’ and readily agreed to render all assistance for my expedition to the ‘god-forsaken point’. Balaiah and Veeraiah, two non-settlers and in their 20s, were chosen as my escorts. With everything fixed, I was so exited that even the dry rottis of the RRO mess tasted quite delicious, and it was all dreams and no sleep that night.

It was 7 A.M. sharp, Wednesday the 25^th April 1979, when we started trekking. After walking for a while on the trunk road, we took a shortcut, which would save us five miles of walk, my guides assured. Sweating and panting, after half an hour’s climb through a steep, narrow and rugged path, we again touched the blacktopped road. Another two hours walk brought us before a board put up by Project Yatrik, which warned, “STOP. CROCS CROSSING. CROCS BURROW”. It was the end of the 40.700 km.-long North-South Trunk-road. We were at Galathea basin.

River Galathea is one among the five perennial rivers, all of which are found only in the Great Nicobar Island. She courses through 40 km. from Mt. Thullier range to the Indian Ocean. Her width ranges from 25 ft. to 100 ft. and depth, 15 to 20 ft. She is navigable 30 km. upwards from the mouth. Though she wore a deceptive look of a calm and smooth- flowing river, I realized her force even as we waded across during low tide, after waiting for 3 ½ hours. (Later, a bridge has been constructed, I understand.)

Our next point of halt was Chingen hamlet, a cluster of five huts of the Nicobari tribal. We quenched our thirst with tender coconuts @ Rs. 1/- My escorts shared among themselves a whole bottle of toddy for Rs. 3/- We continued to trudge through the jungle path, avoiding the roundabout beach route, as we had to reach the Point before sunset. We came across some men who were clearing the forest for an airstrip. Munching the abundantly growing wild betel (paan) leaves, we proceeded ahead.

As I stood on the beach, with the gentle waves lapping at my feet, it was 5.20 PM. It was a brilliant sunset, a mesmerizing moment. It was so serene and silent that I even felt a bit scared. To believe in myself that I was really at the Land’s Tip, I put into my mouth a pinch of the beach sand and drank a few drops of the seawater. Overwhelmed, two drops of my tear mingled with the mighty ocean water.

A few employees of the Lighthouses Department, along with their family members, including infants (Believe me!), were living in that remotest edge of the remotest island, 51 kms. away from any sort of basic amenities. I could not help admiring their tenacity to live in such an out-of-the ordinary place to eke out a living. No electricity, no tap water, no doctor and no school. If at all they had a transistor radio, it was their only mode of keeping in touch with the outside world. Out of the provisions we carried with us, the men prepared stew for us. I washed it down with water, as it was neither sufficient for the three of us nor tasty. As there was no electricity and nothing to do, we went to bed by 6.30 PM itself, as darkness had swooped on the area by 6 PM itself. Being 1,200 kms. East of mainland India, there is a time difference of one hour. We slept on the open verandah, just 200 metres away from the ocean, in peace with Mother Nature. As if to bless me, there was a light drizzle in the midnight.

The dawn found me at the beachfront by 4 AM. The roaring ocean, buzzing breeze, chirping birds and rustling flora – it was tranquil Nature all around. Intoxicated with the beauty of the place and foolishly gazing at the southern side, mistaking it for east, I completely missed viewing the sunrise!

The view from atop the lighthouse lifted my spirits. A marvelous blue ocean on one side and lush forest in different shades of green on the other, with a clear blue sky spread over. As there was no gas supply, the light was not functioning. A wooden plaque announced that the lighthouse was inaugurated by the then Vice-President, Mr. Pathak, in 1973. The men told me that construction work had started way back in 1969 itself. It is situated in the South Bay of the area.

As we climbed down, the men were gracious to share their morning tea with us. Before they left for a hunting expedition into the forests along with their dogs, I took a snap of them at the base of the lighthouse. Thanking them sincerely for all their help and secretly admiring them, I left Parsons Pygmalion Point, leaving my heart there and carrying a cute shell and a handful of beach sand. I must admit I was even jealous of them – to live in the lap of Mother Nature and to get paid for it too! It was 7 AM, the same time we had left Shastri Nagar the previous day.

As we had ample time and were neither in a hurry to return to the hustle-bustle of the so-called civilized society, we took the roundabout foreshore path on our return journey. On the way, we saw a ship wreck, a rusted piece of which is still in my collection. We rested for a while in the settlement of the labourers clearing the forest, who were too happy to share their chukka rotti and black tea with us. Indian hospitality thrives even in the remotest and deepest jungles! As we walked on, we came to the Chingen hamlet of the Nicobari tribal. Balaiah and Veeriah bought two toddy bottles (at my cost). Though the pungent smell was just unbearable for me, I had to literally grin and bear it and them. There I picked up a piece of the hard outer skin of the Pandanus fruit, the staple food of the Nicobarese, which can be pierced open only with an axe. It looked like a brush, and my escorts-cum-guides told me that the Nicobarese use them as bathing brush.

As we reached River Galathea, she was flowing in her full might. Maybe it had rained in the catchment areas. After waiting for the low tide to set in, we crossed her on a dinghy (small country boat), which whirled once violently in the midstream. My expert guides managed the situation tactfully and we landed safely on the other bank in one piece, without falling prey to the hungry crocodiles or the mighty ocean. As we proceeded towards Shastri Nagar, we came across gangs of naughty Nicobar Macaque monkeys, which had plundered and squandered almost all the coconuts in the trees. I also noticed squirrels, which did not have the legendary three stripes on their back (said to have been caused by the gentle patting of Lord Sri Rama in appreciation of a squirrel’s help to Him in the construction of a bridge across Sethu Canal to cross over to Sri Lanka).

By 3.15 PM, we were barging into the tiny restaurant at Shastri Nagar. Starved of a good meal for almost a whole day, we stuffed in whatever was available. After a refreshing bath, I took photographs of all those kind souls who helped me reach my enamoured destination – the Land’s Tip.

It is saddening that many of those kind and helping souls both at Shastri Nagar and Indira Point could be living only in my photographs because the destructive Tsunami of December 26 2004 has not left any trace of them, not even their pucca houses!

-/-

S. Balakrishnan

Phone: R- 2472 61

e-mail: krishnanbala2004@yahoo.co.in Chennai - 600 024

Lamini - Real life story

Lamini

….. S. Balakrishnan

“Two rupees, please”, she demanded sternly when I expressed my desire - in fumbling Nepali – to snap her, snap her with my camera, of course. I fished out a two-rupee note from my fast thinning money purse and gave it to her reluctantly (change was difficult to come by in those days in Sikkim). “Okay”, she beamed gladly and readily posed beside a gigantic prayer wheel. “Must send a copy”, she told me with high expectations in her eyes, having mellowed down a bit by then. “Oh, that is not at all a problem”, she waved her frail hand confidently in the air and told me to hand over the photograph to the SNT (Sikkim National Transport) bus crew to be given to her at the Manilakhang (prayer house) in Geyzing.

Geyzing is a place tucked away in the far-off West Sikkim. A place which can neither be classified as a village nor as a town. But it is an ideal place to live in. For, it has the advantages of both --- a village-like peaceful and pollution-free atmosphere with a trunk-road winding its way further westwards, passing through it. Nearby lies the most revered Pemayangtse Monastery from where I was returning after attending the Tibetan New Year ‘Losar’ festivities. On the other side is the holy Tashiding Monastery, famous for its annual ‘Bumchu’ festival.

“Shall I make tea for you?”, the ripe-old Lamini (Buddhist nun) enquired concernedly, seeing my travel-beaten look. “No, thanks, I just had a lousy special tea at the bazaar tea shop”, I lied, not wanting to drag that elderly Lamini into earthly duties. “Cheats!”, she cursed the hotelwallahs in general and insisted on preparing some tea. I declined the offer half-heartedly, craving within to taste the Tibetan-style salt tea with yak butter.

“Well, may be the next time”, she took my diplomatic refusal seriously and invited me into the Manilakhang. Many a slip ‘twixt the cup and the lip’, consoling myself philosophically, I followed her like an obedient lamb. Once inside the small, dark prayer hall, which had its own special fragrance, she turned out to be a good guide explaining about the deities. After mumbling some prayers before the statue of Guru Rimpoche, she offered holy water, measuring it as if by drops. As it tasted good, I felt like asking for more. But it was holy water and she seemed to be an equitable distributor, a fine quality which our economic ministers lacked, I thought.

“Dorje Den! Dorje Den!”, the Lamini exclaimed joyously, pointing out to a framed picture of some religious structure. “But… that is Buddha Gaya, no?”, I muttered confusedly. “Ha, ha, Gaya, Bodh Gaya! I had just returned from that holiest of holy places. Oh, what an experience!”, her whole face lit up as she talked about her month-long stay there. She was as glad as if she had returned from a visit to heaven itself. Probably, she had been nurturing that wish for a very long period, I felt. She opened a heavy wooden box, satin-blackened by constant use, and offered a tiny piece of candy. That was given to her at a shrine in Gaya, she assured me. Whatever its source, I again wished she had given a bit more of it!

Then, like a strict police officer, she asked me which place I belonged to and if it lay beyond Gaya. For a moment I wanted to tell her that Madras (now Chennai) was not anywhere near Gaya. But I changed my idea of teaching geography to that old, gentle lady and, instead, told her that I had to cross Gaya every time I went home. “Oh, how nice indeed!”, she exclaimed like a child, with her eyes wide open. I was glad my lie made her happy.

I was taken aback when the Lamini caught my neck suddenly. Finding no sacred thread around it, she chided me for being so unreligious and kept on searching for a suitable place to tie a small piece of cloth. She would not listen to my mild protests and explanations. The cloth, she emphasized again, was given to her in Bodh Gaya. I suggested that it could be kept safely in my money purse, to which she agreed readily without having an inkling of my materialistic intentions. Contrary to my high hopes, the money purse remains to be an undernourished baby!

The Lamini then pointed out to a packet of offering containing yellow, ribbon worm-like noodle pieces and said in a sad tone that it was not available in Geyzing. At that moment, she appeared to me like a baby complaining about non-availability of her favourite ice cream. Could I send a packet of it from Gangtok, she requested. “It doesn’t cost much … a mere five rupees a packet”, she announced in a matter-of-fact tone. “It can be sent through the SNT crew as explained earlier”, she went on.

Though I did not have much faith in the SNT crew delivering the items to her, an old lady that she was, and particularly the noodle packet, I promised to obey her orders. “Naughty boy”, she remarked lovingly, having developed a liking towards me, as I had towards her. A beautiful relationship had blossomed by that time.

As I took leave of her, she again offered to make tea for me. I knew she did not have gas or electric stove and that lighting a firewood stove would be much troublesome for her. So I politely declined her kind offer once more and promised to come some other time which, I knew, would never be.

“Om ma na pad mi hum”, she spelt out the prayer for me as I started moving out of the compound, rotating the row of prayer-wheels fixed on the outer wall of the sanctum.

As I closed the creaky wooden gate, I saw her seated at the doorsteps of the Manilakhang and methodically reciting the sacred mantra, counting with a 108-bead rosary. The music was scored by her pet dog. By the looks of it, I could guess it was from the plains. Even though I too belonged to the plains, it continued its unfriendly barking till the end.

Will I be ever able to meet this child-like gentle lady? With this question troubling me, I wearily continued my travel.

…

Though I have heard of the saying that a barking dog seldom bites, more so a pet dog of a Lamini which might have been influenced by the principles of peace-loving Buddhism, I was still careful. Her black dog stood at a safe distance – safe for both of us, I calculated mentally. I was not ready to experiment either with the saying or with the dog. Visibly, the Lamini was not there to shoo away the bothering dog. Where could she have gone at this twilight hour and with such a poor eye sight? With this thought worrying me, I did a ‘pradakshana’ (going around the sanctum in a clock-wise route) of the Manilakhang, rotating the prayer-wheels and keeping an eye on the dog as well. After a full circle, with the mystic six-syllable mantra ‘Om ma na pad mi hum’ on my lips (which she had taught me last time), I came out of the compound and walked towards the bazaar. Darkness was slowly blanketing the area.

“Tashi Delek”, (‘Good Wishes’ in Tibetan) I paid my respects as the Lamini approached, struggling with a gunny bag. She stared for a while and mumbled back a feeble Tashi Delek, not recognizing me. Some ten days had passed by then. I pulled out the noodle packet from my rucksack and asked if she recognised me at least then. “Oh, my child, how nice of you to remember this old lady and your little promise to her!”, she was overwhelmed with love and joy. “Come, come, you must have a cup of tea at least this time”, she stressed fondly. I was only too glad to hear that and readily gave a helping hand to pull that gunny bag. I did not want to miss again the chance to drink Tibetan tea. Her goats welcomed her with happy bleatings and surrounded her. She had brought waste vegetable stuff from the bazaar for them.

The Lamini enquired about my welfare and added that she was pulling on, God knows for how long. After groping with her key bunch for some time, she opened the lock of her two-room accommodation. It was just opposite Manilakhang within the same compound. The first was a kitchen-cum-store-cum-goat-pen, and the other was bedroom-cum-prayer place. I was seated on a ‘moda’ covered with a piece of skin, which I imagined to be yak’s. She placed a ‘chokse’ (Tibetan-style wooden tea-table with wonderful carvings of local motifs of dragon, phoenix, etc., painted in vivid colours) in front of me and offered Tibetan ‘roti’ (a biscuit-like snack made of flour). Scenting the roti, the dog became friendly with me; also came from nowhere another dog and a cat (both of Tibetan stock with lovely white fur) to share the snacks with me. I wondered how she was patiently putting up with so many animals around. Buddhism must have trained her that way, I thought.

Contrary to my belief, she had a kerosene stove. To my full satisfaction, she gave me buttered salt tea in the traditional big Chinese mug, with fried wheat powder to go along. Being a novice to Tibetan food, the powder stuck to the jaws and rendered me speechless. Like an innocent baby, she had a good laugh at my pathetic condition and advised me to gulp down some tea along with the powder.

That helped me tell her the purpose of my visit – to attend the ‘Bumchu’ festival the next day in the nearby Tashiding Monastery. Since it was many years back that she had attended that festival, she was also too eager to attend it, she said. Would any transport be available from Legship, she enquired eagerly. As I was not sure myself, I made a sad face and, instead, asked her if there was any track from Geyzing. “Of course, but I will not be able to accompany you on foot. You see, I am too old to climb the ups and downs all the way to Tashiding”, she said and, to my amusement, made some funny steps.

However, she was hopeful of getting some vehicle from Geyzing itself and was, therefore, all prepared for the journey. She outlined her strategy: the dogs and the cat would be let free to fend for themselves for two days; the goats would be tied up in the pen with two gunny bag loads of fodder, which she had just collected from the vegetable market. “Marvellous”, I appreciated her plan and wished her all the best. With no vehicle at my command, that was all I could do.

As the photo (taken during my last trip) was not ready, I promised her to send it either by post or through some reliable person. Looking at the noodle packet, she smiled as if to say that she had faith in my words. It was only after I told her that I was like her grandson, could I prevent her from paying for the noodle packet. Love, respect and reverence overwhelming, I touched her feet. “You must call on your grandmother whenever you come this side”, she blessed me. “Hope to meet you in Tashiding”, I said as a parting remark. “God willing…”, she added. But God was not willing, it seemed, because I could not meet her in Tashiding.

There was nothing more to talk about. I was just picking up courage to speak even in broken Nepali, and her Nepali was more of Tibetan accent. With her shaky voice, I could not understand much of the rest either. Though, to make her happy, I was constantly nodding my head and showing my teeth in smiles as if I understood every word of her. Words failing, I bid “la su la” (the Tibetan way of saying ok, bye) and stepped out of the warm atmosphere into the chilly darkness.

“As long as this old lady lives, she will pray for you, my son”, the Lamini waved a half-hearted la su la. Her black dog, too, wagged his tail, as if to say good-bye. Had he recognised me as a friend from the plains or was it for the crumb of Tibetan roti I gave him, I still wonder.

As I set the prayer-wheels in motion, they agreed with the lovable Lamini and sung the eternal prayer: ‘Om ma na pad mi hum’, Om, the Jewel in the Lotus!

About two decades have rolled by since our encounter. In the meanwhile, I have also been transferred from the lovely hills of Sikkim to the hot and humid Chennai. Yet, in a corner of my heart I am nursing a fond hope that one day I would go along with my family members to that kindly Lamini and get her blessings. And, I also hope to sip the Tibetan tea after presenting her with lots of yellow ribbon worm-like noodle packets!

-.-

S. Balakrishnan

krishnanbala2004@yahoo.co.in