The island of Great Nicobar is speckled with modest settlements. People from Bengali, Tamilian, Telegu, Ranchi, Punjabi and Maharashtrian communities left their homes in Peninsular India from 1969 onwards to colonize and gradually develop the island, originally occupied by Nicobarese and Shompen societies alone. Ever since then, they’ve cut down slivers of forest along the eastern coast to build homes alongside their allotted land, surrounded by paddy fields and coconut plantations. Within 30 years of their arrival, they collectively started schools and medical centres, set up a Forest Department, an Agricultural Department and several police stations – all distributed across a long road that ran along the coast, originating at Campbell Bay and ending at Indira Point, the southernmost tip of India.
Then, in 2004, a tsunami hit, washing out decades of hard work and development, not to mention hundreds of lives and homes. Ever since, the survivors have crawled back to a semblance of what once was, aided by Government subsidies and rations. Today, the previously spread-out habitation has shifted to a clumped distribution of nine villages along a new road – running along the coast and through forested hills for 35 kilometres.
When I came to the island to study human-macaque interactions, I had planned to divide my work into behavioural observations of the monkeys, and one-on-one interviews with the local communities to better understand their take on the issue, their experiences and collective histories. For the past six months, I’ve been regaled with tales of the monkeys I’ve grown so fond of. Simultaneously, though, I’ve been caught in an endlessly looped battle of wits – that of the peoples’ plight and the macaques’ actions. Picking a side can never be part of a scenario like the one present here – my heart wishes to be parted like my methodology, lending complete sympathy to both the people and the macaques.
Despite this, a new itch has been occupying my mind off-late, one of metropolitan disgust and guilt.
Having grown up in a place like Mumbai, where trust is scarce and home exists behind two closed doors bolted tight, places like the Andaman and Nicobar Islands seem like a confusing paradox of society at first glance. Here people enjoy company, the notion of having visitors arriving unannounced, making tea for a crowd, sharing meals and lives. Here, time is a gift that’s meant to be shared, not a constraint within which life seems fleeting. People from the metros shy away from interaction; we shield ourselves behind the illusion that sparing a moment to hear someone out will eat into our minimal allotment of cosmic time. Where did this manic selfishness arise? Or rather, when? Perhaps our fear of the unknown is further exacerbated by our unwillingness to learn more about the people around us. In a society where people are more numerous than our cranial capacity to retain, and where everyone is a stranger living by an unwritten code of order amuck observable chaos, could one open their arms wide and share tea, food and time? Even the eternal optimist within me leans towards a resounding, ‘‘no’’.
I’ve been to nearly 200 homes here in Great Nicobar. Most of these homes are left ajar, often with a flimsy curtain hanging by the doorframe. The shuffle of my feet and some stirring barks from nearby dogs attract the residents’ attention. Immediately a chair is produced, chai is placed over the stove and conversation is struck – all before knowing who I am or where I’ve come from. I was worried about being an intruder, an inconvenient blotch on their routine days. This anxiety didn’t last long, though. I soon found that wondering if a family would rather I didn’t visit is an insult to their culture of hospitality. Rejecting an invite to come in, have some nimbu paani or chai, or to stay for lunch is an offence akin to outright rudeness. I began to relax, welcome the hospitality, home-cooked meals and willing company with open arms, and it transformed the way in which the locals perceived me too. I became one of them, one who held onto no pretence or inhibition, and who partook of their characteristic islandic gossip. I have the families here to thank for my own personal growth – these lessons and realizations can’t be shaken irrespective of where I go from here.
When people who have so little, who’ve lost so much, can give so voluntarily without batting an eyelid, what is it if not arrogance that makes the privileged so stingy with their time, courtesy, respect and love? Sure, I may not welcome strangers into my home without a care in the world from here on out. But I know my conscience will sting deep if I fail to extend at least a shred of the decency that has been showered upon me through my travels.
Then, in 2004, a tsunami hit, washing out decades of hard work and development, not to mention hundreds of lives and homes. Ever since, the survivors have crawled back to a semblance of what once was, aided by Government subsidies and rations. Today, the previously spread-out habitation has shifted to a clumped distribution of nine villages along a new road – running along the coast and through forested hills for 35 kilometres.
When I came to the island to study human-macaque interactions, I had planned to divide my work into behavioural observations of the monkeys, and one-on-one interviews with the local communities to better understand their take on the issue, their experiences and collective histories. For the past six months, I’ve been regaled with tales of the monkeys I’ve grown so fond of. Simultaneously, though, I’ve been caught in an endlessly looped battle of wits – that of the peoples’ plight and the macaques’ actions. Picking a side can never be part of a scenario like the one present here – my heart wishes to be parted like my methodology, lending complete sympathy to both the people and the macaques.
Despite this, a new itch has been occupying my mind off-late, one of metropolitan disgust and guilt.
Having grown up in a place like Mumbai, where trust is scarce and home exists behind two closed doors bolted tight, places like the Andaman and Nicobar Islands seem like a confusing paradox of society at first glance. Here people enjoy company, the notion of having visitors arriving unannounced, making tea for a crowd, sharing meals and lives. Here, time is a gift that’s meant to be shared, not a constraint within which life seems fleeting. People from the metros shy away from interaction; we shield ourselves behind the illusion that sparing a moment to hear someone out will eat into our minimal allotment of cosmic time. Where did this manic selfishness arise? Or rather, when? Perhaps our fear of the unknown is further exacerbated by our unwillingness to learn more about the people around us. In a society where people are more numerous than our cranial capacity to retain, and where everyone is a stranger living by an unwritten code of order amuck observable chaos, could one open their arms wide and share tea, food and time? Even the eternal optimist within me leans towards a resounding, ‘‘no’’.
I’ve been to nearly 200 homes here in Great Nicobar. Most of these homes are left ajar, often with a flimsy curtain hanging by the doorframe. The shuffle of my feet and some stirring barks from nearby dogs attract the residents’ attention. Immediately a chair is produced, chai is placed over the stove and conversation is struck – all before knowing who I am or where I’ve come from. I was worried about being an intruder, an inconvenient blotch on their routine days. This anxiety didn’t last long, though. I soon found that wondering if a family would rather I didn’t visit is an insult to their culture of hospitality. Rejecting an invite to come in, have some nimbu paani or chai, or to stay for lunch is an offence akin to outright rudeness. I began to relax, welcome the hospitality, home-cooked meals and willing company with open arms, and it transformed the way in which the locals perceived me too. I became one of them, one who held onto no pretence or inhibition, and who partook of their characteristic islandic gossip. I have the families here to thank for my own personal growth – these lessons and realizations can’t be shaken irrespective of where I go from here.
When people who have so little, who’ve lost so much, can give so voluntarily without batting an eyelid, what is it if not arrogance that makes the privileged so stingy with their time, courtesy, respect and love? Sure, I may not welcome strangers into my home without a care in the world from here on out. But I know my conscience will sting deep if I fail to extend at least a shred of the decency that has been showered upon me through my travels.
