Warning: This article, written originally in 1979, is reproduced as it is, without effecting any corrections or changes, so as to preserve its originality and ‘antiquity’. Data entry in July 2005.
S. Balakrishnan
[Stenographer Jr.
Press Information Bureau
Port Blair – 744 101 A&N Islands]
krishnanbala2004@yahoo.co.in
DESTINATION SOUTH
PARSONS PYGMALION POINT! The southernmost tip of India! Lying at 6° 45’ North Latitude, at the foot of Great Nicobar Island, Parsons Pygmalion Point forms the southernmost part of India in true sense, though Cape Comorin (Kanya Kumari), at 8° 5’ North Latitude at the southern end of Peninsular India, is erroneously celebrated so. Pygmalion Point, to be very precise, is just 91 miles away from Pulo Brase off Achin Head in Sumatra Island of Indonesia, or 144 km. away from Sumatra Island. The Point is 300 nautical miles down south of Port Blair. One nautical mile is equal to 1.852 km. You can as well break your head as to how many kms. it comes to when converted, but I am not going to do that. (The Point was later renamed Indira Point, after a visit to that place by Smt. Indira Gandhi, the then Prime Minster of India.)
M.V. Onge, the inter-island ship plying between Port Blair and the Nicobar Group of Islands, berthed at the Campbell Bay Jetty of Great Nicobar Island on Sunday the 22nd April 1979. The whole town, if I may be permitted to describe Campbell Bay as a town, had gathered at the jetty. No, not because I was going there but it was only twice or thrice in a month that a ship/ferry touched Campbell Bay Jetty. Further, it was a Sunday. The Bay was named, if I’m correct, after J. Scarlet Campbell, the then Home Secretary to the Government of India, who came to Andamans to study and report on the working of the Penal System that was in operation at Port Blair.
The three-day long voyage from Port Blair to Campbell Bay was too much for me. The unhygienic stuffy bunk-cum-deck class accommodation made the journey most unbearable. (The toilet was overflowing and I was virtually fasting lest I would be forced to use it. The result was rock-like constipation and painful relief thereafter !) I needed two full days to recover from the travel weariness. For all these, they charged Rs.39.40 – for one way in bunk class without board. While taking rest, I was also gathering information about my destination – Parsons Pygmalion Point.
Everyone tried their level best to dishearten me by all possible means. Oh, what all things they said – one cautioned me that I must traverse through more than 20 miles on foot. Those 20 miles, threatened another friend, were through the deepest forests where there might by pythons, snakes, wild boars and what not. The most scaring thing was that I must swim across a river – a river that flows with great force down from the highest hills, through the deepest forests and valleys. Moreover, it was full of crocodiles too. The thought of crocs with bulging eyes and wide-opened mouth full of saw-like teeth chilled my spine. Did I know swimming, asked one voice. I blinked helplessly. From another corner came a threat that there might as well be some uncivilized Shompen and Nicobari tribal aiming their pointed arrows at aliens. A mere bluff, I learnt later, ‘cause they were all in friendly terms with us.
When I asked them, after hearing all their comments, threats and opinions, if any of them had gone there at least once, the reply from all corners was a feeble ‘no’ ! Was it because none of them had visited that prestigious place that they were preventing me also out of sheer jealousy ? I could not help doubting their good intentions. Was there no other way than to drop the idea, I asked pathetically. I ought to drop that crazy idea, came the insisting reply in chorus. There was also the most complicated process of getting a pass to enter into that area. This was really going to be a tiring business, I knew, for I had had an experience at Deputy Commissioner’s Office in Port Blair for getting the ‘Pass for entry into the reserved tribal areas’. Enough of that !
With a broken heart, which could not be put together with any brand of adhesive, I was measuring the tiny market street of the little town of Campbell Bay. Well, why not meet Mr. Nedumaran, a gentleman referred to me by a friend at Port Blair? It struck me so suddenly. Thanking my memory for its timely help, I went and met him. It was he who injected hope in me. He assured that ex-servicemen of Tamil Nadu (to which State in mainland I belong to) settled at Shastri Nagar would help me more than in one way to see that place. I made a decision, a momentous decision indeed, to start the very next morning itself towards Shastri Nagar.
The State Transport Service bus, which had seen its good times long, long back, left Campbell Bay, or ‘Zero’ km. in precise technical terms, at 11 A.M. on April 24, 1979, for Shastri Nagar. Shastri Nagar is 35 km. away from Campbell Bay town and is the southernmost civilized inhabitation. Ex-servicemen settlers had been provided temporary accommodation there before they could construct their own house and move in there. The settlers, when they talk about their places, name them in technical terms only. I mean their calling their villages by kilo meters and not by the lovely names. For an instance, Shabnam Nagar is called 18 km., Gandhi Nagar as 30 km., Shastri Nagar as 35 km. The distance is calculated with Campbell Bay as the base, which means it is 0 km. Well, to come to the original track, the bus was proceeding towards 35 km. On the way, I, along with all the passengers, had to get down from it many times, because the wooden bridges across the streams were too weak for the whole weight. After every time the bus had crossed over to the other side, there was a mad rush among the passengers to catch their thrones in the bus. On that day, there was a marriage in one of the villages (probably at 18 km.) which was the ‘talk of the island’ right from 0 km. to 35 km. The driver and conductor got down there and had hearty feast in the marriage house. Many of the passengers also got down there to attend the marriage. And then, as the bus sped down the trunk-road towards Shastri Nagar as if it had acquired some extra energy, the blah-blah of the record player from the marriage house died down.
The journey was quite interesting – the road was almost parallel to the sea shore with ups and downs. It passed through the beautiful intermediate villages of the adventurous ex-servicemen settlers. They had been drawn from the different states of India with a multi-purpose idea of giving them a new life and at the same time to man the strategically situated remote islands; that is, to live there and safeguard the frontiers, a duty which they performed sincerely when they were in the Forces. Naturally, the remote areas would be developed side-by-side. I could see their lovely hutments, and their rich green fields and plantations – the fruit of the striving lot. To put it in a nutshell, it was as interesting as any other rural area in India – calm, beautiful and above all, hospitable.
It was around 1 P.M. as the bus reached 35 km. I had a hearty meal in the only hotel there. I say it was a hearty meal, because I was proud that I was taking my lunch in the southernmost hotel and that too just for Rs. 2.50 only! Later, I got myself introduced to some personnel of RRO (Reclamation and Rehabilitation Organisation) and some ex-servicemen settlers. The RRO personnel had been stationed there to clear and reclaim the forest areas for rehabilitation purpose. They all laughed at my crazy idea of visiting that Point. But when I persisted, it was once more a repetition of dangers that I might encounter en route. I was adamant and did not yield to their threats; at least I tried to put up a show outside. Well, was that for what I had come all the way spending money like anything ? I showed my persistence. “I must go; come what may”, I just stood firmly stuck to my plan. So they had no other way than to arrange for my journey. Balaiah and Veeriah, two non-settlers, were chosen to guide and escort me en route to Pygmalion Point. Everything was fixed up and settled. I was in so a happy mood that even the chapattis (rotti) of RRO mess tasted so delicious to me. I was all dreams and could not sleep well.
At last long the day dawned – Wednesday the 25th April 1979. The unforgettable expedition started at 7 AM sharp from Shastri Nagar. Wearing shorts, a T-shirt and a cap on, my antique camera swinging from my shoulder, I was all set for the long, enjoyable walk. I thought of myself as Tensing on the Himalayan expedition. Balaiah in front and Veeriah behind me, we marched ahead.
A little later, a shortcut branched off into the woods from the trunk-road. For saving time and energy (I doubt the second point), we chose the shortcut. A half an hour walk through the steep, very narrow rugged footpath brought us again to the black-topped trunk-road. We were all sweating and heaving like tired horses. The two ‘freelance guides’ assured me that about five miles walk had been saved. Left to me, I would have desired the roundabout smooth path. Another two hours walk brought us to the Galathea Basin.
The 40.700 km. long black-topped trunk-road also ended there. The Project Yatrik had constructed this road – an appreciable effort indeed. This is called the North-South Road and is the southernmost trunk-road of our country. Likewise, there is the East-West Road of 41 km. length, also starting from Campbell Bay town. These are the only two black-topped roads in the whole of the island. A board put up by Project Yatrik at the ending point warned:
STOP
CROCS CROSSING
CROCS BURROW
It was 9.30 A.M. Now, we had to cross River Galathea. But alas, the small country boat (dinghy) was lying securely tied to on the other bank. The dinghy had been kept there for the use of lighthouse personnel. [There was no bridge then. So we had only to cross it either physically or by boat.] River Galathea drains out herself into the mighty Indian Ocean at that point. Our calculation went wrong and it was high tide then. In addition, the flow of water down the stream was unusually strong, said my guides. Drift logs were coming down the river. And there were hungry crocodiles too, I remembered and shuddered. A floating log or, for that matter, even a leaf, appeared to our eyes as hungry crocs. We startled at the sounds of falling twig or leaf into the river, because to us it was the sound of crocs’ splashing tail. The two expert guides who had crossed the river on many occasions for collecting forest products such as honey, coconuts, etc., advised me that it was better to wait till the low tide set in. With the dinghy lying on the other shore, we had no other choice but to wait and wait.
Before seeing Galathea, I had imagined of her to be of a shallow creek with ankle-deep flow. In fact, her mights are many. Perennial rivers are almost nil in the Andaman &Nicobar Group of Islands. Great Nicobar Island is the only exception. It has not one but five perennial rivers. Galathea is the principal among them. It is the longest river with 40 km. length. Near the source, which is hardly approachable due to thickest vegetation, she is about 25 ft. wide and near the mouth she is about 90’ wide with an awesome flow. She has a navigable 30 km. upwards the mouth. There are some tributaries to her. She flows down south from Mt. Thullier range. The depth ranges from 15 to 20 ft. on an average. The banks are covered with abundant growth of wild bushes, towering trees, swinging creepers and grass lands.
The name Galathea struck so strange to me. When I asked my two guides, they explained it so simply - the word ‘Galath’ in Hindi means ‘wrong / mistake / incorrect’ they explained, and said that because the river was in spate quite often and unexpectedly at that and proved ‘wrong’ the calculations about her flow and force, hence the name ‘Galathea’. Fantastic story, I chuckled to myself when I read the truth in a book, later. In 1846 AD, the Danish war vessel ‘Galathea’ voyaging around the world spent some months in the Nicobar Islands. The ‘Galathea’ expedition surveyed much of the coast for coal and other minerals. It named the principal river of Great Nicobar Island as Galathea. There is also another statement that Chola Kings of Thanjavur in Tamil Nadu knew the river quite earlier as ‘Kalathi River’.
I was most excited to stand on the sandy banks of Galathea. I remembered that the mighty Chola Kings of Tamil Nadu had these Islands under their domain and that Rajendra Chola –I himself or his naval contingent had made an expedition to the Nicobars. The inscriptions on stone and the palm leave manuscripts speak of that historical expedition. The mightiness of the naval force of the Chola Kings well back in 1050 A.D. is astonishing. I was overwhelmed with mixed feelings as I imagined myself to be the next person to set his foot on the banks of Galathea from the same Thanjavur ! My imagination went further wild and I day-dreamt that my expedition, too, would be spoken of greatly and inscribed at least on paper. Because others might fail to do this great task, I decided to accomplish the task myself.
Well, to come to the stream of story, we decided to take shelter from the scorching sun in a lovely thatched hut. The hut had been put up with an artistic taste in the mid-river, probably by Project Yatrik men. A narrow bamboo bridge linked it with the bank. We waited… waited … and waited there impatiently, every now and then watching the position of tide.
On one of our such anxious waiting near the basin, we sighted two men far off on the other bank. Balaiah told me that they must be the men of Lighthouse at Pygmalion Point. At once, we shouted in our full throat to attract their attention. They were more concentrated in hunting and fishing to listen to our shouts. Soon, they went further deep into the thicket and vanished. Our idea was that we could request them to row the dinghy to our side for our crossing the river. Eagle-eyed, we waited under the hot sun to spot them on their return. After some time, they appeared and we started shouting at the top of our voice. To attract them, I shouted that I was a reporter of a popular press at Madras (now Chennai) and that I had come all the way from there only to see them and their place, and waved my antique camera also. I wonder how I bluffed such things, that too in the top of my voice. All our calls of “oh baiah, baiah” (Oh, brother, brother) fell on deaf ears. Of course, they did turn at us once, but waved off their hands and kept coolly moving on their way. How we felt at that moment! We were completely exhausted because of the shouting and the pricking sun. Thank Goodness, some good soul had dug up a small well there. It was some four feet deep and the water was not so saline. We drank that and quietly returned to the hut and comfortably stretched ourselves down on the bamboo flooring for some time.
By around 1 P.M., the low tide was slowly setting in. As before, the two guides stepped into the river to assess the force of flow. They declared that they felt it was secure enough then to cross on foot. On the earlier occasions, they had exclaimed that the force was just terrific and reasoned in a professional tone that there ought to have been some downpour up in the hills, last night. I nodded in support of their statement. So, as they stepped in, I followed them. When I reached almost the mid-river, my legs trembled due to the strong flow. I was loosing my hold, I feared. Scared by that, I took to my heels and was again on the same bank. I was completely shaken. I felt that Galathea would have washed me away to be swallowed in by the hungry ocean. I had escaped death, and what a terrible death it would have been by the marauding crocodiles! My negative imagination is always very, very wild, to say the least. The reader might think that had I died I would not be bothering with this boring piece. Well, it is God who decides.
They had somehow managed to cross the river. On seeing me staying on the same bank, they were astonished and rather upset. What then ? Must they cross back and re-cross taking me with them ?! No, it was impossible, they shouted; the flow was dreadful and they had never experienced such a hardship while crossing. Their nervous tone plainly said that they were really shaken. Or should we return for good, they questioned. No, it was impossible. I took the opportunity to repeat their own words.
Cursing me within their hearts for my ‘courage’, they set in the task of reliving the dinghy from the muddy bank into the stream. Because low tide had set in, the dinghy stood stuck up in the muddy bank. It was only with considerable struggle that they could push and pull the dinghy into the water. The dinghy was of 12‘x 4‘ size. But alas, a giant uprooted trunk was lying flat on the way. To bring the boat to the stream they had two courses – both impossible - either lift the boat above the trunk or bring it around the trunk in the muddy bank.
On seeing them sweating, I gathered all the courage I could from all my corners and asked them to give up that effort. They went wild and shouted at me madly that I ought to have prevented them in the outset itself. I just swallowed in their hard words along with saliva. If I had to reach the desired destination, I had to keep myself very, very cool. Self-pity overwhelmed me. So one of them came up to the midstream. I stepped into the stream praying all gods, goddesses, angels and sub-angels. Camera in one had and footwear in the other, and clasping my feet to the ground for strong hold… only god knows how I crossed the mighty Galathea. I was in one piece on the other bank. We were glad that all the three reached the other bank safely. It was by then 1.45 P.M. We were much more mentally exhausted than physically. We relaxed for some time.
I shudder even to think of Galathea’s force. How innocent she looked from the banks; just like a shinning glass sheet under the Sun ! The water was so clear and still that, in a photograph taken by me, the reflection of the thickets on either banks dupes the real one ! But what a force even at the time of low tide. They (my guides) had chosen that particular spot as the safest and shallowest point for crossing purposes. The depth there even during low tide was above my waist. Then imagine the flow during high tide and during rainy seasons ! If my legs had trembled a bit more out of over fear, sure enough Galathea would have toppled me down and offered me to the monster ocean. In fact, it was only after crossing her that I realized her full might.
Before and after crossing her, I took some snaps around the place. The roots of an uprooted tree appeared as if a magnificent flower. Sharing our experience of the terrific drama, we slowly reached Chinge village.
At 2.15 P.M., we set our foot majestically on the sands of Chinge village. That village, it would be appropriate to call that as a hamlet, was merely a cluster of about five huts of the crudest form one could imagine of. That was the only Nicobare village in the whole of the East coast of that Island. Four kids and an old lady were there. All the others had gone away, probably to Campbell Bay. Earlier, while we were waiting near Galathea basin, we saw at a distance two of their Odies (native craft of Nicobarese) sail out majestically in the ocean towards Campbell Bay direction.
We were terribly hungry by then; especially me, for I ate nothing since morning. Balaiah and Veeriah had assured me of plentiful coconut palms on our way. To my dismay, we found only very few coconut palms, and neither they had any fruits. We requested the old lady for some tender coconuts. “Roopaiah ?”, she demanded for money (rupee) in her broken Hindi. We couldn’t help giggling at her Hindi. Veeriah produced three rupees, and only then did she order a five-year-old boy to pluck three, and only three, coconuts for us. I wondered that even people living in such remotest areas knew the value of money ! Even it would have taken more time for my eyes to have winked, but the little boy was atop the little coconut palm. From there he posed all smiles for a snap which I had captioned as ‘The Prince of Coconut Empire’. The cool and sweet water quenched our thirst pleasantly, but the little quantity of tender kernel increased further our hunger. But my guides were not satisfied with that: they needed something very special and strong. They asked for toddy. The old lady pretended that there was no stock at all. On much persuasion and after showing the rupee notes only, she asked one of the girls to bring from somewhere nearby a bottle of toddy. If my memory is not that bad, that cost Rs. 3/- or so. I wanted to taste toddy and so took a mouthful and gulped a little. What a pungent smell ! I spat the rest on the ground. Even that little amount that I took in was giving a burning sensation for a long time afterwards in the stomach.
The surrounding of the ‘village’ was like this: The domesticated wild boar were roaming here and there; the fowls were half asleep in the space below the raised platform of the hut; the dogs, tired of barking at us, needed some rest. A pitiable sight was of the pet parrots. The pair was kept in an open-air prison. A big ring of shell, tied and suspended from one of their little legs, was passed through the horizontal bar of the oval-shaped swing-like frame. A half coconut shell was fixed to the frame in the horizontal bar in between the two birds. This served as the basin for giving food and water. The shell made physical contact between the two impossible. I was most surprised to see such an unnatural thing done by tribal who are described as Nature’s Children ! Probably they learnt this cruel thing from the so-called civilized man who shouts that he respects individual freedom. Poor creatures! I, as well, prisoned them in my camera. The old lady set out to prepare some food. The eldest of the girls who brought the toddy bottle sat down for making balls of the red-colored pandanus paste, the staple food of Nicobarese. I tasted a bit of that; it had no taste whatsoever. The other three children, it seemed from their looks, supervised us. There was no expression of surprise at seeing a stranger with a camera and all that. In fact, I was surprised by their most sober behaviour. Strange indeed, it was only after much persuasion that I could make them agree to pose for a photograph ! The boy who plucked coconuts for us waved back at us, and the tiniest of all the four smiled very shyly at us. We left Chinge village ad proceeded on our way.
It was around 3.30 P.M. and if we were to see the sunset at Pygmalion Point, my guides warned me, I ought to hurry up. So we were forced to avoid the foreshore path, a roundabout way, and entered into the woods. Not much time after that we came across the hutment of Forest Department labourers. One of them informed us that they were surveying and clearing some nearby area for an airstrip. Whether it was for the purpose of third airline service or Air Force purpose, I forgot to ask him. Resting there for a while, we proceeded further ahead and quite soon we saw a signboard. Bearing the words ‘SHIP WRECK’ in bold capitals, the signpost pointed its arrow towards the sea. My guides assured and promised me that they would show me that on our return walk and pressed me to quicken my pace. My loitering would not help us, they decided and practically dragged me ahead. Munching the abundantly growing betel leaves, we pushed fast ahead.
The track was originally formed by motor vehicles when the Lighthouse was constructed at Pygmalion Point, I understood. It was wide enough, but was not a well-beaten path. Uprooted trees lay flat on the way and low branches and twines hit our heads. I was searching for the lurking hostile Shompen tribal men, sleeping pythons and the wild boar, but found nothing. Much appropriately, I remembered the good old catchy stanza of Robert Frost:
“The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.”
Ah, there we were ! At 4.45 P.M., we saw the lighthouse, painted brightly in white and red winding stripes, stand majestically out in a clearing. I just snapped it – of course, with my camera.
The two men whom we sighted on the other bank of Galathea were there. On the sight of them, my guides sprang upon them like hounds upon prey and involved in a nasty quarrel. Why didn’t they row the boat to our bank, demanded our guides. The flow of water was dreadful, they gave the most convincing excuse and made us dumb. I feared that if I let that continue that way, we would be thrown out helplessly into the forest that night. So I changed the subject and cooled them down.
The men’s attraction turned to my side, a new guy to them. The guides were familiar to them. They enquired about me, and I unfolded the cock-and-bull story of reporter and all that to the utmost belief of them, and very innocently changed my camera from one shoulder to the other. They believed my words, their face showed it. Well, that was what I wanted. So everything was settled amicably. I heaved a great sigh of relief and as I glanced at my wrist watch … gosh, it was 5.20 P.M. In a hurry-scurry I loaded the camera and ran to the land’s end.
The marigold Sun had almost dropped into Indian Ocean. Hurriedly I took two snaps of that most memorable scene. I had captioned the snaps as ‘Sun and Shades’, for mostly it is a silhouette of the lush green shore and clouds and reflection of setting sun’s glare in various shades on the waters. No word in any language could express my feelings of those few moments. I was overwhelmed with a mixed feeling of proud and joy as if I had achieved something very very great. I could not believe myself that I was at the southernmost tip of Indian land, the Parsons Pygmalion Point. It was more than a pilgrimage spot to me. I put into my mouth a pinch of salty sand and drunk a little of the seawater. A long penance had been fulfilled. A dream had come true. An indescribable feeling of serenity ruled over there and it was awesome. “Oh, Mother nature, thank You so much!”, I gasped. And, as I closed my eyes, two drops of tear rolled down my cheeks and mingled with the mighty mass of salt water.
I had had to face many problems and difficulties to fulfill my this desire. On such occasions, I gathered hope and strength by sincerely believing that Mother Nature would never let me down as I was on a pilgrimage to adore Her. I was quite right. I hope that she would, one day or another, help me stand at the Northernmost point of India – amidst towering Himalayas, snows and clouds !
Out of the provision we took with us, the men got stew prepared for us at their house. We ate that; though not so nice, we had to and drank water and more of water, because that was neither sufficient for us three. Quite soon, may be as early as 6.30 PM itself, all of us went to bed. There was no electricity and we had nothing to do either. Moreover, we were dog-tired of the day’s journey. The Ocean sung lullabies and sent humming breeze for us, and I entered into the world of dreams. I had a fantastic dream that I had victoriously voyaged to the southern and northern Poles. There is no limit to one’s ambitions, is it not? Though we slept on the open verandah, just 200 metres away from the ocean, it wasn’t cold at all. No mosquito trouble either. As if to add to my happy mood, the sky drizzled for a little while in the midnight.
The dawn found me at the seaside. It was just nearing 4 AM and there was very dim light. The sereneness of the dawn was so enchanting and inexpressible. The sounds were all roused by Nature --- the roaring Ocean, the buzzing breeze, chirping birds and rustling flora --- it was all so lively and lovely. I couldn’t help thinking that man was probably the only creature of Nature that did not enjoy all that charming beauties (of early morning). I was ashamed that I had been so lazy all the past to have missed such a beautiful beginning everyday. Well, that thought was a momentous one. There is no equal pleasure to be lying half awake and half asleep in the bed in the early mornings. Am not I correct? I wished I could merge with that eternal tranquility once for all. The sky was booming with clouds of all shapes and shades. With that background and the waves gently washing my feet, I made a photo of myself. This I captioned as ‘The Sun, Sky, Shore, Sea and Self’. I was wondering why the sun had not risen up as yet. Was he shy of me, or afraid of me ? And, as I turned around, fed up of looking at the same direction, so as not to miss the sunrise as I had almost missed last evening’s sunset, I found to my astonishment that Sun had already risen! How would he rise in the South! I realized that all that time I had been foolishly staring the South. Thus, I missed the golden scene.
I consoled myself that yet another wonderful day had blossomed without my knowledge, as it happens everyday when I struggle to get up from my bed. Later, they (the men working at the lighthouse) took us to the top of the lighthouse. What a marvelous scene from the top! The vast ocean on all the three sides – a blue sheet with twinkling star-like water diamonds. And the blue sky above it like an umbrella. The fourth side was lush green; you can’t find anywhere so many shades in green --- light green, parrot green, dark green, dark black green, and so on. After taking belated snaps of the risen sun and the forest around, we climbed down by the winding staircase.
The lighthouse towers up to a height of 100 ft. It is almost an out and out construction of steel sheets of about ½ inch thickness. Though so close to the ocean, I wondered, how it withstood the sea breeze and strong gales and resisted from rusting. A magnificent construction. The light operates on gas; but at that time as there was no gas, it did not flash any light. The plight of the lighthouse at such a strategic point struck me sorrowfully. I read somewhere in an article that the range of light is 18 to 22 miles/sec. A wooden plaque reads that the lighthouse was inaugurated by the then Vice-President, Mr. Pathak, in 1973. The men told me that the construction work started as back as in 1969. The lighthouse has been safely constructed at a chosen place, which is called the South Bay, 300 nautical miles down south of Port Blair.
The men shared their morning tea with us. What is satisfying to the mind needn’t always be good to our health. I mean taking tea or coffee in the morning (or, for that matter, any time) is to the liking of the mind, but it is not agreeable to our health in the long run. But who minds that and that too when you get it free of cost ! It is more tastier. The men were getting ready for a hunting expedition. I was so proud and also jealous of them. Because they lived in the most remotest area and at the same time away from all happenings and complications of this insane modern world. “These daredevil men”, I admired them within my heart and made them pose for a photo near the base of the towering lighthouse. Their transistor, if at all they had one, was their only agent to know what was going on around them. We people can’t even imagine of such a ‘vexing life’- no dailies and magazines (but Thoreau says “Blessed are they who never read a newspaper, for they shall see Nature and, through her, God”), no other human being than themselves, no shop, no electricity, no films, no this thing and no that thing… no…no… no… ! What a sacrificed living, I was amazed. But then, theirs was also the most sacred living with only the Nature all around them. I prayed sincerely for a moment for the welfare of those boldest men, their bold ladies and tiny tots.
Thanking them sincerely for all their helps, we left that place. Leaving my heart in that most intriguing Point, I carried along with me from the prestigious place a handful of beach sand, a cute shell picked up from that Point, besides photographs. My soul was much tranquil. It was 7 AM, the same time we left Shastri Nagar the previous day.
We had plenty of time on our hand and neither were we in a hurry to return to the intricate society of ours. Therefore, we decided unanimously, of course after some hot debate, to go by the foreshore path. We had some tender coconuts on our way. A look around – below the trees – clearly indicated that the mischievous monkeys had wasted much of the coconuts even before they ripened (matured) well.
I was bugging them like anything that we should not miss the shipwreck, that they got fed up and dragged me to that spot. Whom it belonged to and when and how it wrecked there, I had no idea. So I asked my all-knowing guides. They told in a most sincere tone that it was a Japanese junk and that it got wrecked there due to bombing by the British during II World War. They wanted me to believe that. So, to satisfy them I uttered an astonished ‘Really !’. How far their statement is true, I had no chance to know till now. An anchor and something which appeared like a storage tank were lying ashore. A portion of the sunken ship was peeping out of the Ocean a little distance away. I could very easily remove a piece of the rusted chunk, which is still with me reminding me of those memorable moments.
This time also, we dropped into the lovely little huts of Forest Department labourers. They offered dry chapathi (called ‘chukka rotti’ in Hindi, because it is cooked without applying any oil) and a glass full of black tea (Where from they could get milk in that mid forest?). I was taught that chapathi pieces should be soaked into the tea and eaten. I must admit that I had never seen chapathis of that enormous size – ¼” thick and about 5” in diameter! However, it tasted nice. May be because we were also hungry. A relative boy of them who had come all the way from Katchal Island to see them, joined us from there. Having no company of equal age to play with him there, he was adamant that he ought to leave with us for Campbell Bay. Passing through the woods for some time, we were, once again, back on the silvery sandy beach.
At a distance I could see a huge mass of black rocks. The waves dashed against them and sprinkled pearls in all directions which, sunlit, shined in all the colours of the rainbow. At times, the rocks were completely merged under the waves and as the waves withdrew, the rocks shined like a mass of black gold. Remarkably, I noticed that as far as I could see, that was the only spot with visible coral rocks in the whole of the coastline.
Polished for centuries together by the Ocean with much pain and care in a craftsmanship-like manner, the stones were in so cute shapes that I wished I was rich enough to hire out a vessel to carry all of them to my p(a)lace. Because I am not rich enough for that, they are lying there with nobody to appreciate their beauty. In times of high tides, my guides cautioned, it was risky to walk over the rocks, as one might be dashed off by the waves against the rocks. I mused why some people always looked at the darker side of things! Were they being too cautious or were they pessimists ? We did not have the chance to see the rocks while we went by the wood path. Slowly, slowly the spot came closer to us (not that it was coming towards us, but it came closer because we were going towards that). We waited for an opportunity and when it was tide less, “Quick march”, we shouted and walked over the rocks. As I was appreciating and feeling the beauty of the superbly shaped and polished rocks, I was left behind. They shouted at me and there! A big wave was rolling fast towards that spot. But for a hiding place besides a big rock, I would have been fully drenched!
A while later, we were on the sands of the tiny Chinge Village. This time also, only the same souls were there – four children and the old lady. Balaiah and Veeriah bought two toddy bottles (at my cost!). The odour was much worse this time. How on earth people had a liking for such a stuff, I was amazed. I picked up a piece of the hard outer skin of the Pandanus fruit (being so hard, it can as well be described as the outer skull). The upper part was as hard as a piece of wood, whereas the lower part had fibers, making that piece appear like a brush, a short, stubby brush. The Nicobarese, Balaiah told, use such brush-like things for brushing their body while bathing. To this, the other ‘anthropologist’ Veeriah opposed that Nicobarese rarely took bath. At this, both of them got involved in a very hot discussion. As we left this time, the tiny tot also, along with that boy, waved back at us. But the two elder girls were the most careful not to show any sort of expression on their face and stared at us like stone statues. Bidding farewell to the Chinge Village and the Sons of the Soil, we walked towards the Mighty Galathea River.
River Galathea, it appeared to me, wanted to test our patience once more. Bad luck for us, the low tide had not set in. We had purposefully walked so slowly, wandering hither and thither and taking enough rest, allowing time for low tide to set in. But Galathea was flowing with all her might saying ‘nuts to you’. While we were waiting below the shady trees, I thought that as I come from Tanjore where River Cauvery flows, I should title my writing as ‘Cauvery to Galathea’. However, later I changed it to ‘Destination South’, a most appropriate one, my destination being the real southernmost end. ‘Destination South’ was a scheme drawn by the Tourism Deptt. of India in collaboration with Air India with a view to popularize the Southern States of India among foreign travellers. Thanks to the brain which coined these words, the most suitable to my story.
Well, though the dinghy was lying at our bank only, we dared not cross the river which was running forcefully. We were just in the same position of those Lighthouse men who refused to row the boat to our bank, the day before. While we were waiting helplessly on the southern bank, some of the Forest Deptt. labourers who had been to Campbell Bay the previous day for some purchases, appeared on the northern bank. Their impatient attempts at crossing the river were a sight of fun for us. They stepped into the river many times, but afraid of the flow, retreated. Even without waiting patiently for some five minutes, they would again unsuccessfully attempt every time. On one of their such attempts, they somehow reached the mid river but retreated much scared. At last long, they crossed to our bank, completely exhausted. The water was up to their chest. They needed rest; chatting with us for some time, they moved on their way towards their hutments in the lovely, deep forest.
After patient waiting for some time, we noticed marked signs of receding water level. The hidden parts of fallen trees came to the view and the sandy area expanded rapidly. So we decided to move. We struggled for some time to push and pull the dinghy out of the place it was left by us the previous day, into the stream. We all jumped in and my expert freelance guides took the oars to prove their expertise in oaring. I handed over my life to them and sat ‘happen what may’. The boat approached the mid stream and then … it whirled once violently. Finished, I thought. My imagination, as usual, ran wild and I decided my life woud end either at Galathea, the hungry crocs tearing me into pieces, or in the Ocean. Our scared movements made the boat tilt more dangerously to the sides. By the Grace of Mother Nature, I’m damn sure about this, the situation was somehow tactfully managed by them and we landed on the northern bank safely. If I say that it all happened within a minute, one may not believe me. But the whole journey by itself from one to another bank consumed a bare five minutes only. As it was too shallow near the bank, we jumped over board and the boat was pulled to a safer place and tied there securely. Thank God! Body and soul together, we were safe on the other bank. The hazardest part of the expedition was over, we were glad, and there was no more hurdle. The wristwatch showed me 1.15 PM.
We took the same course while returning … trunk-road, then shortcut through woods and again trunk-road. On the way we came across gangs of monkeys (Nicobar Macaque, the species is called and is found only in Nicobar Group of Islands). I sighted, if my eyes didn’t fool me, (of course, I was wearing my specs) a peculiar species of squirrel whose back had no three stripes and was completely light black in colour. As Shastri Nagar was approaching ahead, we grew more and more hungry and we straight away rushed into the hotel and gulped in whatever was available. The hotel owner was a clever man; he took this situation to his full advantage and served us all those eatables which were lying unsold for days together in the showcase. It was 3.15 PM when we reached 35 km.
As the cry of the stomach was met with, I could not think of other things and it struck me that I ought to take a bath. After a refreshing bath, I photographed all those souls who helped me (to) make my expedition a great success. In the evening, I strolled around the settlement. After dinner, went to bed right at 8 O’clock. As its desire had been fulfilled, the heart was brimming with joy and having walked all the way, my body demanded (for) complete rest. So, needless to say, I had a sound, snoring sleep. Well, that was the story of my Great, Great Expedition to India’s truest Southernmost Point – The Parsons Pygmalion Point ! A thing that intrigues me even to this moment (it might as well intrigue you) is that how that Point got that name? Sounds very silly, nay? Having gone all the way down not knowing the origin of the name Parsons Pygmalion Point !
…..
.
S. Balakrishnan
[Stenographer Jr.
Press Information Bureau
Port Blair – 744 101
A&N Islands]
December 5, 1979.
Warning: This article, written originally in 1979, is reproduced as it is, without effecting any corrections or changes, so as to preserve its originality and ‘antiquity’. Data entry in July 2005. krishnanbala2004@yahoo.co.in
S. Balakrishnan
[Stenographer Jr.
Press Information Bureau
Port Blair – 744 101 A&N Islands]
krishnanbala2004@yahoo.co.in
DESTINATION SOUTH
PARSONS PYGMALION POINT! The southernmost tip of India! Lying at 6° 45’ North Latitude, at the foot of Great Nicobar Island, Parsons Pygmalion Point forms the southernmost part of India in true sense, though Cape Comorin (Kanya Kumari), at 8° 5’ North Latitude at the southern end of Peninsular India, is erroneously celebrated so. Pygmalion Point, to be very precise, is just 91 miles away from Pulo Brase off Achin Head in Sumatra Island of Indonesia, or 144 km. away from Sumatra Island. The Point is 300 nautical miles down south of Port Blair. One nautical mile is equal to 1.852 km. You can as well break your head as to how many kms. it comes to when converted, but I am not going to do that. (The Point was later renamed Indira Point, after a visit to that place by Smt. Indira Gandhi, the then Prime Minster of India.)
M.V. Onge, the inter-island ship plying between Port Blair and the Nicobar Group of Islands, berthed at the Campbell Bay Jetty of Great Nicobar Island on Sunday the 22nd April 1979. The whole town, if I may be permitted to describe Campbell Bay as a town, had gathered at the jetty. No, not because I was going there but it was only twice or thrice in a month that a ship/ferry touched Campbell Bay Jetty. Further, it was a Sunday. The Bay was named, if I’m correct, after J. Scarlet Campbell, the then Home Secretary to the Government of India, who came to Andamans to study and report on the working of the Penal System that was in operation at Port Blair.
The three-day long voyage from Port Blair to Campbell Bay was too much for me. The unhygienic stuffy bunk-cum-deck class accommodation made the journey most unbearable. (The toilet was overflowing and I was virtually fasting lest I would be forced to use it. The result was rock-like constipation and painful relief thereafter !) I needed two full days to recover from the travel weariness. For all these, they charged Rs.39.40 – for one way in bunk class without board. While taking rest, I was also gathering information about my destination – Parsons Pygmalion Point.
Everyone tried their level best to dishearten me by all possible means. Oh, what all things they said – one cautioned me that I must traverse through more than 20 miles on foot. Those 20 miles, threatened another friend, were through the deepest forests where there might by pythons, snakes, wild boars and what not. The most scaring thing was that I must swim across a river – a river that flows with great force down from the highest hills, through the deepest forests and valleys. Moreover, it was full of crocodiles too. The thought of crocs with bulging eyes and wide-opened mouth full of saw-like teeth chilled my spine. Did I know swimming, asked one voice. I blinked helplessly. From another corner came a threat that there might as well be some uncivilized Shompen and Nicobari tribal aiming their pointed arrows at aliens. A mere bluff, I learnt later, ‘cause they were all in friendly terms with us.
When I asked them, after hearing all their comments, threats and opinions, if any of them had gone there at least once, the reply from all corners was a feeble ‘no’ ! Was it because none of them had visited that prestigious place that they were preventing me also out of sheer jealousy ? I could not help doubting their good intentions. Was there no other way than to drop the idea, I asked pathetically. I ought to drop that crazy idea, came the insisting reply in chorus. There was also the most complicated process of getting a pass to enter into that area. This was really going to be a tiring business, I knew, for I had had an experience at Deputy Commissioner’s Office in Port Blair for getting the ‘Pass for entry into the reserved tribal areas’. Enough of that !
With a broken heart, which could not be put together with any brand of adhesive, I was measuring the tiny market street of the little town of Campbell Bay. Well, why not meet Mr. Nedumaran, a gentleman referred to me by a friend at Port Blair? It struck me so suddenly. Thanking my memory for its timely help, I went and met him. It was he who injected hope in me. He assured that ex-servicemen of Tamil Nadu (to which State in mainland I belong to) settled at Shastri Nagar would help me more than in one way to see that place. I made a decision, a momentous decision indeed, to start the very next morning itself towards Shastri Nagar.
The State Transport Service bus, which had seen its good times long, long back, left Campbell Bay, or ‘Zero’ km. in precise technical terms, at 11 A.M. on April 24, 1979, for Shastri Nagar. Shastri Nagar is 35 km. away from Campbell Bay town and is the southernmost civilized inhabitation. Ex-servicemen settlers had been provided temporary accommodation there before they could construct their own house and move in there. The settlers, when they talk about their places, name them in technical terms only. I mean their calling their villages by kilo meters and not by the lovely names. For an instance, Shabnam Nagar is called 18 km., Gandhi Nagar as 30 km., Shastri Nagar as 35 km. The distance is calculated with Campbell Bay as the base, which means it is 0 km. Well, to come to the original track, the bus was proceeding towards 35 km. On the way, I, along with all the passengers, had to get down from it many times, because the wooden bridges across the streams were too weak for the whole weight. After every time the bus had crossed over to the other side, there was a mad rush among the passengers to catch their thrones in the bus. On that day, there was a marriage in one of the villages (probably at 18 km.) which was the ‘talk of the island’ right from 0 km. to 35 km. The driver and conductor got down there and had hearty feast in the marriage house. Many of the passengers also got down there to attend the marriage. And then, as the bus sped down the trunk-road towards Shastri Nagar as if it had acquired some extra energy, the blah-blah of the record player from the marriage house died down.
The journey was quite interesting – the road was almost parallel to the sea shore with ups and downs. It passed through the beautiful intermediate villages of the adventurous ex-servicemen settlers. They had been drawn from the different states of India with a multi-purpose idea of giving them a new life and at the same time to man the strategically situated remote islands; that is, to live there and safeguard the frontiers, a duty which they performed sincerely when they were in the Forces. Naturally, the remote areas would be developed side-by-side. I could see their lovely hutments, and their rich green fields and plantations – the fruit of the striving lot. To put it in a nutshell, it was as interesting as any other rural area in India – calm, beautiful and above all, hospitable.
It was around 1 P.M. as the bus reached 35 km. I had a hearty meal in the only hotel there. I say it was a hearty meal, because I was proud that I was taking my lunch in the southernmost hotel and that too just for Rs. 2.50 only! Later, I got myself introduced to some personnel of RRO (Reclamation and Rehabilitation Organisation) and some ex-servicemen settlers. The RRO personnel had been stationed there to clear and reclaim the forest areas for rehabilitation purpose. They all laughed at my crazy idea of visiting that Point. But when I persisted, it was once more a repetition of dangers that I might encounter en route. I was adamant and did not yield to their threats; at least I tried to put up a show outside. Well, was that for what I had come all the way spending money like anything ? I showed my persistence. “I must go; come what may”, I just stood firmly stuck to my plan. So they had no other way than to arrange for my journey. Balaiah and Veeriah, two non-settlers, were chosen to guide and escort me en route to Pygmalion Point. Everything was fixed up and settled. I was in so a happy mood that even the chapattis (rotti) of RRO mess tasted so delicious to me. I was all dreams and could not sleep well.
At last long the day dawned – Wednesday the 25th April 1979. The unforgettable expedition started at 7 AM sharp from Shastri Nagar. Wearing shorts, a T-shirt and a cap on, my antique camera swinging from my shoulder, I was all set for the long, enjoyable walk. I thought of myself as Tensing on the Himalayan expedition. Balaiah in front and Veeriah behind me, we marched ahead.
A little later, a shortcut branched off into the woods from the trunk-road. For saving time and energy (I doubt the second point), we chose the shortcut. A half an hour walk through the steep, very narrow rugged footpath brought us again to the black-topped trunk-road. We were all sweating and heaving like tired horses. The two ‘freelance guides’ assured me that about five miles walk had been saved. Left to me, I would have desired the roundabout smooth path. Another two hours walk brought us to the Galathea Basin.
The 40.700 km. long black-topped trunk-road also ended there. The Project Yatrik had constructed this road – an appreciable effort indeed. This is called the North-South Road and is the southernmost trunk-road of our country. Likewise, there is the East-West Road of 41 km. length, also starting from Campbell Bay town. These are the only two black-topped roads in the whole of the island. A board put up by Project Yatrik at the ending point warned:
STOP
CROCS CROSSING
CROCS BURROW
It was 9.30 A.M. Now, we had to cross River Galathea. But alas, the small country boat (dinghy) was lying securely tied to on the other bank. The dinghy had been kept there for the use of lighthouse personnel. [There was no bridge then. So we had only to cross it either physically or by boat.] River Galathea drains out herself into the mighty Indian Ocean at that point. Our calculation went wrong and it was high tide then. In addition, the flow of water down the stream was unusually strong, said my guides. Drift logs were coming down the river. And there were hungry crocodiles too, I remembered and shuddered. A floating log or, for that matter, even a leaf, appeared to our eyes as hungry crocs. We startled at the sounds of falling twig or leaf into the river, because to us it was the sound of crocs’ splashing tail. The two expert guides who had crossed the river on many occasions for collecting forest products such as honey, coconuts, etc., advised me that it was better to wait till the low tide set in. With the dinghy lying on the other shore, we had no other choice but to wait and wait.
Before seeing Galathea, I had imagined of her to be of a shallow creek with ankle-deep flow. In fact, her mights are many. Perennial rivers are almost nil in the Andaman &Nicobar Group of Islands. Great Nicobar Island is the only exception. It has not one but five perennial rivers. Galathea is the principal among them. It is the longest river with 40 km. length. Near the source, which is hardly approachable due to thickest vegetation, she is about 25 ft. wide and near the mouth she is about 90’ wide with an awesome flow. She has a navigable 30 km. upwards the mouth. There are some tributaries to her. She flows down south from Mt. Thullier range. The depth ranges from 15 to 20 ft. on an average. The banks are covered with abundant growth of wild bushes, towering trees, swinging creepers and grass lands.
The name Galathea struck so strange to me. When I asked my two guides, they explained it so simply - the word ‘Galath’ in Hindi means ‘wrong / mistake / incorrect’ they explained, and said that because the river was in spate quite often and unexpectedly at that and proved ‘wrong’ the calculations about her flow and force, hence the name ‘Galathea’. Fantastic story, I chuckled to myself when I read the truth in a book, later. In 1846 AD, the Danish war vessel ‘Galathea’ voyaging around the world spent some months in the Nicobar Islands. The ‘Galathea’ expedition surveyed much of the coast for coal and other minerals. It named the principal river of Great Nicobar Island as Galathea. There is also another statement that Chola Kings of Thanjavur in Tamil Nadu knew the river quite earlier as ‘Kalathi River’.
I was most excited to stand on the sandy banks of Galathea. I remembered that the mighty Chola Kings of Tamil Nadu had these Islands under their domain and that Rajendra Chola –I himself or his naval contingent had made an expedition to the Nicobars. The inscriptions on stone and the palm leave manuscripts speak of that historical expedition. The mightiness of the naval force of the Chola Kings well back in 1050 A.D. is astonishing. I was overwhelmed with mixed feelings as I imagined myself to be the next person to set his foot on the banks of Galathea from the same Thanjavur ! My imagination went further wild and I day-dreamt that my expedition, too, would be spoken of greatly and inscribed at least on paper. Because others might fail to do this great task, I decided to accomplish the task myself.
Well, to come to the stream of story, we decided to take shelter from the scorching sun in a lovely thatched hut. The hut had been put up with an artistic taste in the mid-river, probably by Project Yatrik men. A narrow bamboo bridge linked it with the bank. We waited… waited … and waited there impatiently, every now and then watching the position of tide.
On one of our such anxious waiting near the basin, we sighted two men far off on the other bank. Balaiah told me that they must be the men of Lighthouse at Pygmalion Point. At once, we shouted in our full throat to attract their attention. They were more concentrated in hunting and fishing to listen to our shouts. Soon, they went further deep into the thicket and vanished. Our idea was that we could request them to row the dinghy to our side for our crossing the river. Eagle-eyed, we waited under the hot sun to spot them on their return. After some time, they appeared and we started shouting at the top of our voice. To attract them, I shouted that I was a reporter of a popular press at Madras (now Chennai) and that I had come all the way from there only to see them and their place, and waved my antique camera also. I wonder how I bluffed such things, that too in the top of my voice. All our calls of “oh baiah, baiah” (Oh, brother, brother) fell on deaf ears. Of course, they did turn at us once, but waved off their hands and kept coolly moving on their way. How we felt at that moment! We were completely exhausted because of the shouting and the pricking sun. Thank Goodness, some good soul had dug up a small well there. It was some four feet deep and the water was not so saline. We drank that and quietly returned to the hut and comfortably stretched ourselves down on the bamboo flooring for some time.
By around 1 P.M., the low tide was slowly setting in. As before, the two guides stepped into the river to assess the force of flow. They declared that they felt it was secure enough then to cross on foot. On the earlier occasions, they had exclaimed that the force was just terrific and reasoned in a professional tone that there ought to have been some downpour up in the hills, last night. I nodded in support of their statement. So, as they stepped in, I followed them. When I reached almost the mid-river, my legs trembled due to the strong flow. I was loosing my hold, I feared. Scared by that, I took to my heels and was again on the same bank. I was completely shaken. I felt that Galathea would have washed me away to be swallowed in by the hungry ocean. I had escaped death, and what a terrible death it would have been by the marauding crocodiles! My negative imagination is always very, very wild, to say the least. The reader might think that had I died I would not be bothering with this boring piece. Well, it is God who decides.
They had somehow managed to cross the river. On seeing me staying on the same bank, they were astonished and rather upset. What then ? Must they cross back and re-cross taking me with them ?! No, it was impossible, they shouted; the flow was dreadful and they had never experienced such a hardship while crossing. Their nervous tone plainly said that they were really shaken. Or should we return for good, they questioned. No, it was impossible. I took the opportunity to repeat their own words.
Cursing me within their hearts for my ‘courage’, they set in the task of reliving the dinghy from the muddy bank into the stream. Because low tide had set in, the dinghy stood stuck up in the muddy bank. It was only with considerable struggle that they could push and pull the dinghy into the water. The dinghy was of 12‘x 4‘ size. But alas, a giant uprooted trunk was lying flat on the way. To bring the boat to the stream they had two courses – both impossible - either lift the boat above the trunk or bring it around the trunk in the muddy bank.
On seeing them sweating, I gathered all the courage I could from all my corners and asked them to give up that effort. They went wild and shouted at me madly that I ought to have prevented them in the outset itself. I just swallowed in their hard words along with saliva. If I had to reach the desired destination, I had to keep myself very, very cool. Self-pity overwhelmed me. So one of them came up to the midstream. I stepped into the stream praying all gods, goddesses, angels and sub-angels. Camera in one had and footwear in the other, and clasping my feet to the ground for strong hold… only god knows how I crossed the mighty Galathea. I was in one piece on the other bank. We were glad that all the three reached the other bank safely. It was by then 1.45 P.M. We were much more mentally exhausted than physically. We relaxed for some time.
I shudder even to think of Galathea’s force. How innocent she looked from the banks; just like a shinning glass sheet under the Sun ! The water was so clear and still that, in a photograph taken by me, the reflection of the thickets on either banks dupes the real one ! But what a force even at the time of low tide. They (my guides) had chosen that particular spot as the safest and shallowest point for crossing purposes. The depth there even during low tide was above my waist. Then imagine the flow during high tide and during rainy seasons ! If my legs had trembled a bit more out of over fear, sure enough Galathea would have toppled me down and offered me to the monster ocean. In fact, it was only after crossing her that I realized her full might.
Before and after crossing her, I took some snaps around the place. The roots of an uprooted tree appeared as if a magnificent flower. Sharing our experience of the terrific drama, we slowly reached Chinge village.
At 2.15 P.M., we set our foot majestically on the sands of Chinge village. That village, it would be appropriate to call that as a hamlet, was merely a cluster of about five huts of the crudest form one could imagine of. That was the only Nicobare village in the whole of the East coast of that Island. Four kids and an old lady were there. All the others had gone away, probably to Campbell Bay. Earlier, while we were waiting near Galathea basin, we saw at a distance two of their Odies (native craft of Nicobarese) sail out majestically in the ocean towards Campbell Bay direction.
We were terribly hungry by then; especially me, for I ate nothing since morning. Balaiah and Veeriah had assured me of plentiful coconut palms on our way. To my dismay, we found only very few coconut palms, and neither they had any fruits. We requested the old lady for some tender coconuts. “Roopaiah ?”, she demanded for money (rupee) in her broken Hindi. We couldn’t help giggling at her Hindi. Veeriah produced three rupees, and only then did she order a five-year-old boy to pluck three, and only three, coconuts for us. I wondered that even people living in such remotest areas knew the value of money ! Even it would have taken more time for my eyes to have winked, but the little boy was atop the little coconut palm. From there he posed all smiles for a snap which I had captioned as ‘The Prince of Coconut Empire’. The cool and sweet water quenched our thirst pleasantly, but the little quantity of tender kernel increased further our hunger. But my guides were not satisfied with that: they needed something very special and strong. They asked for toddy. The old lady pretended that there was no stock at all. On much persuasion and after showing the rupee notes only, she asked one of the girls to bring from somewhere nearby a bottle of toddy. If my memory is not that bad, that cost Rs. 3/- or so. I wanted to taste toddy and so took a mouthful and gulped a little. What a pungent smell ! I spat the rest on the ground. Even that little amount that I took in was giving a burning sensation for a long time afterwards in the stomach.
The surrounding of the ‘village’ was like this: The domesticated wild boar were roaming here and there; the fowls were half asleep in the space below the raised platform of the hut; the dogs, tired of barking at us, needed some rest. A pitiable sight was of the pet parrots. The pair was kept in an open-air prison. A big ring of shell, tied and suspended from one of their little legs, was passed through the horizontal bar of the oval-shaped swing-like frame. A half coconut shell was fixed to the frame in the horizontal bar in between the two birds. This served as the basin for giving food and water. The shell made physical contact between the two impossible. I was most surprised to see such an unnatural thing done by tribal who are described as Nature’s Children ! Probably they learnt this cruel thing from the so-called civilized man who shouts that he respects individual freedom. Poor creatures! I, as well, prisoned them in my camera. The old lady set out to prepare some food. The eldest of the girls who brought the toddy bottle sat down for making balls of the red-colored pandanus paste, the staple food of Nicobarese. I tasted a bit of that; it had no taste whatsoever. The other three children, it seemed from their looks, supervised us. There was no expression of surprise at seeing a stranger with a camera and all that. In fact, I was surprised by their most sober behaviour. Strange indeed, it was only after much persuasion that I could make them agree to pose for a photograph ! The boy who plucked coconuts for us waved back at us, and the tiniest of all the four smiled very shyly at us. We left Chinge village ad proceeded on our way.
It was around 3.30 P.M. and if we were to see the sunset at Pygmalion Point, my guides warned me, I ought to hurry up. So we were forced to avoid the foreshore path, a roundabout way, and entered into the woods. Not much time after that we came across the hutment of Forest Department labourers. One of them informed us that they were surveying and clearing some nearby area for an airstrip. Whether it was for the purpose of third airline service or Air Force purpose, I forgot to ask him. Resting there for a while, we proceeded further ahead and quite soon we saw a signboard. Bearing the words ‘SHIP WRECK’ in bold capitals, the signpost pointed its arrow towards the sea. My guides assured and promised me that they would show me that on our return walk and pressed me to quicken my pace. My loitering would not help us, they decided and practically dragged me ahead. Munching the abundantly growing betel leaves, we pushed fast ahead.
The track was originally formed by motor vehicles when the Lighthouse was constructed at Pygmalion Point, I understood. It was wide enough, but was not a well-beaten path. Uprooted trees lay flat on the way and low branches and twines hit our heads. I was searching for the lurking hostile Shompen tribal men, sleeping pythons and the wild boar, but found nothing. Much appropriately, I remembered the good old catchy stanza of Robert Frost:
“The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.”
Ah, there we were ! At 4.45 P.M., we saw the lighthouse, painted brightly in white and red winding stripes, stand majestically out in a clearing. I just snapped it – of course, with my camera.
The two men whom we sighted on the other bank of Galathea were there. On the sight of them, my guides sprang upon them like hounds upon prey and involved in a nasty quarrel. Why didn’t they row the boat to our bank, demanded our guides. The flow of water was dreadful, they gave the most convincing excuse and made us dumb. I feared that if I let that continue that way, we would be thrown out helplessly into the forest that night. So I changed the subject and cooled them down.
The men’s attraction turned to my side, a new guy to them. The guides were familiar to them. They enquired about me, and I unfolded the cock-and-bull story of reporter and all that to the utmost belief of them, and very innocently changed my camera from one shoulder to the other. They believed my words, their face showed it. Well, that was what I wanted. So everything was settled amicably. I heaved a great sigh of relief and as I glanced at my wrist watch … gosh, it was 5.20 P.M. In a hurry-scurry I loaded the camera and ran to the land’s end.
The marigold Sun had almost dropped into Indian Ocean. Hurriedly I took two snaps of that most memorable scene. I had captioned the snaps as ‘Sun and Shades’, for mostly it is a silhouette of the lush green shore and clouds and reflection of setting sun’s glare in various shades on the waters. No word in any language could express my feelings of those few moments. I was overwhelmed with a mixed feeling of proud and joy as if I had achieved something very very great. I could not believe myself that I was at the southernmost tip of Indian land, the Parsons Pygmalion Point. It was more than a pilgrimage spot to me. I put into my mouth a pinch of salty sand and drunk a little of the seawater. A long penance had been fulfilled. A dream had come true. An indescribable feeling of serenity ruled over there and it was awesome. “Oh, Mother nature, thank You so much!”, I gasped. And, as I closed my eyes, two drops of tear rolled down my cheeks and mingled with the mighty mass of salt water.
I had had to face many problems and difficulties to fulfill my this desire. On such occasions, I gathered hope and strength by sincerely believing that Mother Nature would never let me down as I was on a pilgrimage to adore Her. I was quite right. I hope that she would, one day or another, help me stand at the Northernmost point of India – amidst towering Himalayas, snows and clouds !
Out of the provision we took with us, the men got stew prepared for us at their house. We ate that; though not so nice, we had to and drank water and more of water, because that was neither sufficient for us three. Quite soon, may be as early as 6.30 PM itself, all of us went to bed. There was no electricity and we had nothing to do either. Moreover, we were dog-tired of the day’s journey. The Ocean sung lullabies and sent humming breeze for us, and I entered into the world of dreams. I had a fantastic dream that I had victoriously voyaged to the southern and northern Poles. There is no limit to one’s ambitions, is it not? Though we slept on the open verandah, just 200 metres away from the ocean, it wasn’t cold at all. No mosquito trouble either. As if to add to my happy mood, the sky drizzled for a little while in the midnight.
The dawn found me at the seaside. It was just nearing 4 AM and there was very dim light. The sereneness of the dawn was so enchanting and inexpressible. The sounds were all roused by Nature --- the roaring Ocean, the buzzing breeze, chirping birds and rustling flora --- it was all so lively and lovely. I couldn’t help thinking that man was probably the only creature of Nature that did not enjoy all that charming beauties (of early morning). I was ashamed that I had been so lazy all the past to have missed such a beautiful beginning everyday. Well, that thought was a momentous one. There is no equal pleasure to be lying half awake and half asleep in the bed in the early mornings. Am not I correct? I wished I could merge with that eternal tranquility once for all. The sky was booming with clouds of all shapes and shades. With that background and the waves gently washing my feet, I made a photo of myself. This I captioned as ‘The Sun, Sky, Shore, Sea and Self’. I was wondering why the sun had not risen up as yet. Was he shy of me, or afraid of me ? And, as I turned around, fed up of looking at the same direction, so as not to miss the sunrise as I had almost missed last evening’s sunset, I found to my astonishment that Sun had already risen! How would he rise in the South! I realized that all that time I had been foolishly staring the South. Thus, I missed the golden scene.
I consoled myself that yet another wonderful day had blossomed without my knowledge, as it happens everyday when I struggle to get up from my bed. Later, they (the men working at the lighthouse) took us to the top of the lighthouse. What a marvelous scene from the top! The vast ocean on all the three sides – a blue sheet with twinkling star-like water diamonds. And the blue sky above it like an umbrella. The fourth side was lush green; you can’t find anywhere so many shades in green --- light green, parrot green, dark green, dark black green, and so on. After taking belated snaps of the risen sun and the forest around, we climbed down by the winding staircase.
The lighthouse towers up to a height of 100 ft. It is almost an out and out construction of steel sheets of about ½ inch thickness. Though so close to the ocean, I wondered, how it withstood the sea breeze and strong gales and resisted from rusting. A magnificent construction. The light operates on gas; but at that time as there was no gas, it did not flash any light. The plight of the lighthouse at such a strategic point struck me sorrowfully. I read somewhere in an article that the range of light is 18 to 22 miles/sec. A wooden plaque reads that the lighthouse was inaugurated by the then Vice-President, Mr. Pathak, in 1973. The men told me that the construction work started as back as in 1969. The lighthouse has been safely constructed at a chosen place, which is called the South Bay, 300 nautical miles down south of Port Blair.
The men shared their morning tea with us. What is satisfying to the mind needn’t always be good to our health. I mean taking tea or coffee in the morning (or, for that matter, any time) is to the liking of the mind, but it is not agreeable to our health in the long run. But who minds that and that too when you get it free of cost ! It is more tastier. The men were getting ready for a hunting expedition. I was so proud and also jealous of them. Because they lived in the most remotest area and at the same time away from all happenings and complications of this insane modern world. “These daredevil men”, I admired them within my heart and made them pose for a photo near the base of the towering lighthouse. Their transistor, if at all they had one, was their only agent to know what was going on around them. We people can’t even imagine of such a ‘vexing life’- no dailies and magazines (but Thoreau says “Blessed are they who never read a newspaper, for they shall see Nature and, through her, God”), no other human being than themselves, no shop, no electricity, no films, no this thing and no that thing… no…no… no… ! What a sacrificed living, I was amazed. But then, theirs was also the most sacred living with only the Nature all around them. I prayed sincerely for a moment for the welfare of those boldest men, their bold ladies and tiny tots.
Thanking them sincerely for all their helps, we left that place. Leaving my heart in that most intriguing Point, I carried along with me from the prestigious place a handful of beach sand, a cute shell picked up from that Point, besides photographs. My soul was much tranquil. It was 7 AM, the same time we left Shastri Nagar the previous day.
We had plenty of time on our hand and neither were we in a hurry to return to the intricate society of ours. Therefore, we decided unanimously, of course after some hot debate, to go by the foreshore path. We had some tender coconuts on our way. A look around – below the trees – clearly indicated that the mischievous monkeys had wasted much of the coconuts even before they ripened (matured) well.
I was bugging them like anything that we should not miss the shipwreck, that they got fed up and dragged me to that spot. Whom it belonged to and when and how it wrecked there, I had no idea. So I asked my all-knowing guides. They told in a most sincere tone that it was a Japanese junk and that it got wrecked there due to bombing by the British during II World War. They wanted me to believe that. So, to satisfy them I uttered an astonished ‘Really !’. How far their statement is true, I had no chance to know till now. An anchor and something which appeared like a storage tank were lying ashore. A portion of the sunken ship was peeping out of the Ocean a little distance away. I could very easily remove a piece of the rusted chunk, which is still with me reminding me of those memorable moments.
This time also, we dropped into the lovely little huts of Forest Department labourers. They offered dry chapathi (called ‘chukka rotti’ in Hindi, because it is cooked without applying any oil) and a glass full of black tea (Where from they could get milk in that mid forest?). I was taught that chapathi pieces should be soaked into the tea and eaten. I must admit that I had never seen chapathis of that enormous size – ¼” thick and about 5” in diameter! However, it tasted nice. May be because we were also hungry. A relative boy of them who had come all the way from Katchal Island to see them, joined us from there. Having no company of equal age to play with him there, he was adamant that he ought to leave with us for Campbell Bay. Passing through the woods for some time, we were, once again, back on the silvery sandy beach.
At a distance I could see a huge mass of black rocks. The waves dashed against them and sprinkled pearls in all directions which, sunlit, shined in all the colours of the rainbow. At times, the rocks were completely merged under the waves and as the waves withdrew, the rocks shined like a mass of black gold. Remarkably, I noticed that as far as I could see, that was the only spot with visible coral rocks in the whole of the coastline.
Polished for centuries together by the Ocean with much pain and care in a craftsmanship-like manner, the stones were in so cute shapes that I wished I was rich enough to hire out a vessel to carry all of them to my p(a)lace. Because I am not rich enough for that, they are lying there with nobody to appreciate their beauty. In times of high tides, my guides cautioned, it was risky to walk over the rocks, as one might be dashed off by the waves against the rocks. I mused why some people always looked at the darker side of things! Were they being too cautious or were they pessimists ? We did not have the chance to see the rocks while we went by the wood path. Slowly, slowly the spot came closer to us (not that it was coming towards us, but it came closer because we were going towards that). We waited for an opportunity and when it was tide less, “Quick march”, we shouted and walked over the rocks. As I was appreciating and feeling the beauty of the superbly shaped and polished rocks, I was left behind. They shouted at me and there! A big wave was rolling fast towards that spot. But for a hiding place besides a big rock, I would have been fully drenched!
A while later, we were on the sands of the tiny Chinge Village. This time also, only the same souls were there – four children and the old lady. Balaiah and Veeriah bought two toddy bottles (at my cost!). The odour was much worse this time. How on earth people had a liking for such a stuff, I was amazed. I picked up a piece of the hard outer skin of the Pandanus fruit (being so hard, it can as well be described as the outer skull). The upper part was as hard as a piece of wood, whereas the lower part had fibers, making that piece appear like a brush, a short, stubby brush. The Nicobarese, Balaiah told, use such brush-like things for brushing their body while bathing. To this, the other ‘anthropologist’ Veeriah opposed that Nicobarese rarely took bath. At this, both of them got involved in a very hot discussion. As we left this time, the tiny tot also, along with that boy, waved back at us. But the two elder girls were the most careful not to show any sort of expression on their face and stared at us like stone statues. Bidding farewell to the Chinge Village and the Sons of the Soil, we walked towards the Mighty Galathea River.
River Galathea, it appeared to me, wanted to test our patience once more. Bad luck for us, the low tide had not set in. We had purposefully walked so slowly, wandering hither and thither and taking enough rest, allowing time for low tide to set in. But Galathea was flowing with all her might saying ‘nuts to you’. While we were waiting below the shady trees, I thought that as I come from Tanjore where River Cauvery flows, I should title my writing as ‘Cauvery to Galathea’. However, later I changed it to ‘Destination South’, a most appropriate one, my destination being the real southernmost end. ‘Destination South’ was a scheme drawn by the Tourism Deptt. of India in collaboration with Air India with a view to popularize the Southern States of India among foreign travellers. Thanks to the brain which coined these words, the most suitable to my story.
Well, though the dinghy was lying at our bank only, we dared not cross the river which was running forcefully. We were just in the same position of those Lighthouse men who refused to row the boat to our bank, the day before. While we were waiting helplessly on the southern bank, some of the Forest Deptt. labourers who had been to Campbell Bay the previous day for some purchases, appeared on the northern bank. Their impatient attempts at crossing the river were a sight of fun for us. They stepped into the river many times, but afraid of the flow, retreated. Even without waiting patiently for some five minutes, they would again unsuccessfully attempt every time. On one of their such attempts, they somehow reached the mid river but retreated much scared. At last long, they crossed to our bank, completely exhausted. The water was up to their chest. They needed rest; chatting with us for some time, they moved on their way towards their hutments in the lovely, deep forest.
After patient waiting for some time, we noticed marked signs of receding water level. The hidden parts of fallen trees came to the view and the sandy area expanded rapidly. So we decided to move. We struggled for some time to push and pull the dinghy out of the place it was left by us the previous day, into the stream. We all jumped in and my expert freelance guides took the oars to prove their expertise in oaring. I handed over my life to them and sat ‘happen what may’. The boat approached the mid stream and then … it whirled once violently. Finished, I thought. My imagination, as usual, ran wild and I decided my life woud end either at Galathea, the hungry crocs tearing me into pieces, or in the Ocean. Our scared movements made the boat tilt more dangerously to the sides. By the Grace of Mother Nature, I’m damn sure about this, the situation was somehow tactfully managed by them and we landed on the northern bank safely. If I say that it all happened within a minute, one may not believe me. But the whole journey by itself from one to another bank consumed a bare five minutes only. As it was too shallow near the bank, we jumped over board and the boat was pulled to a safer place and tied there securely. Thank God! Body and soul together, we were safe on the other bank. The hazardest part of the expedition was over, we were glad, and there was no more hurdle. The wristwatch showed me 1.15 PM.
We took the same course while returning … trunk-road, then shortcut through woods and again trunk-road. On the way we came across gangs of monkeys (Nicobar Macaque, the species is called and is found only in Nicobar Group of Islands). I sighted, if my eyes didn’t fool me, (of course, I was wearing my specs) a peculiar species of squirrel whose back had no three stripes and was completely light black in colour. As Shastri Nagar was approaching ahead, we grew more and more hungry and we straight away rushed into the hotel and gulped in whatever was available. The hotel owner was a clever man; he took this situation to his full advantage and served us all those eatables which were lying unsold for days together in the showcase. It was 3.15 PM when we reached 35 km.
As the cry of the stomach was met with, I could not think of other things and it struck me that I ought to take a bath. After a refreshing bath, I photographed all those souls who helped me (to) make my expedition a great success. In the evening, I strolled around the settlement. After dinner, went to bed right at 8 O’clock. As its desire had been fulfilled, the heart was brimming with joy and having walked all the way, my body demanded (for) complete rest. So, needless to say, I had a sound, snoring sleep. Well, that was the story of my Great, Great Expedition to India’s truest Southernmost Point – The Parsons Pygmalion Point ! A thing that intrigues me even to this moment (it might as well intrigue you) is that how that Point got that name? Sounds very silly, nay? Having gone all the way down not knowing the origin of the name Parsons Pygmalion Point !
…..
.
S. Balakrishnan
[Stenographer Jr.
Press Information Bureau
Port Blair – 744 101
A&N Islands]
December 5, 1979.
Warning: This article, written originally in 1979, is reproduced as it is, without effecting any corrections or changes, so as to preserve its originality and ‘antiquity’. Data entry in July 2005. krishnanbala2004@yahoo.co.in
