Lakshadweep

Union Territory

Capital : Kavaratti

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There is a mystery associated with islands. A landmass entirely surrounded by waters that could only be chanced upon by sea in the past, unlike now. What could we find there? Will it be safe? To capture this same mystery is why I set my novel “The Princess who ran away” on a fictitious island named Saagaradatthi.

I have visited islands but never actually lived on one. The thought itself seems fascinating, further fuelled by a novel that I read some time ago. I remember when my dad bought me The Secret Island by Enid Blyton, the first of her adventure novels in the Secret Series. I was probably 10 years old then. It gripped me from the very first chapter, so much so that I found it hard to put down and I decided to carry it to school. In between classes I would pull it out and read. At that point I was vaguely aware of a rule in school that children were not supposed to read story books in class except during the library period. I thought it was an unfair and entirely stupid rule. And being someone who gave scant regard to rules such as these I sat and read. A boy, whom we shall call Ashok, saw me reading and warned me that he would complain. I dismissed his threat but I did keep the book in. Nevertheless, when our class teacher, who happened to be my favourite teacher and who I could say with some assurance also liked me, came in, he snitched on me. That snitch bitch! I explained to ma’am that I only read in between classes. She, I guess, wanted to be fair and asked me to give up the book. I could take it back only when I called my father to school. That was so unfair. In fact, even at the age of ten I found the whole thing absurd. Before I gave up the book I pleaded and pleaded but she wouldn’t budge. I only wish I had slammed the book on Ashok’s head before I gave it up. Anyway, I somehow didn’t have the courage to tell my dad to come to school for this. I know you might think it silly, I think it too now, but at that point I was terrified. I didn’t stop begging her to give me the book but nothing worked. In the end I had to forget about asking her and she stopped being my favourite teacher. Days passed into months, my book remained with her physically and in my head mentally. I must have given it a thought almost every day but I still couldn’t speak to my dad about it.

My final exams for the 6th std came and went. It was time for the report card. My father always came for the report cards and parent-teacher meetings. It was always a time of dread and fear. My report cards most often read as: Very talkative and naughty. Good in studies. Can improve.

I already knew what would be said of me and how my dad would respond. But this time I even had the story of my book to be revealed. Ma’am mentioned it to my dad and I wished that the Earth would open up and consume me. I was so embarrassed to even look at my dad’s face. I remember he had a look of surprise when she said that she had kept my book with her for months, and that I hadn’t mentioned anything of this to him. That report card meeting was the longest meeting I can remember it to be. Every second felt like a year as they discussed about how little I studied, how poor my concentration was, how naughty I am, how talkative I was and yet I hadn’t spoken about the book at home. By the end of the meeting I had sprouted roots in the concrete floor and my face turned into a tomato. I got the book back and I held it firmly in my hand that had become a shaking leaf. On the way back home, my father looked at me and said, ‘You know, you can tell me anything. I wouldn’t be angry with you over such things.’ I nodded.

I would go ahead to crash two cupboards from the biology lab in the 7th std, get called out in front of the whole school for a prank I played in 10th, skip a final exam in my 11th because I did not study for it, and many more such occasions to increase the grey hairs on my parents heads. But I made it a point to tell my parents everything, sooner or later.

Now to come back from my digressions, I got the book back and began to leisurely read it in the start of my summer vacations. The Secret Island spoke of the adventures of four kids learning to live on a deserted island and the difficulties they surmount. I am a slow reader; transporting myself into the pages of the book with every line I read, wishing that I too could live on an island. Till date, it remains one of my favourite Enid Blyton novels.

Talking about islands, my mind is travelling to Lakshadweep now. Lakshadweep is an archipelago, with its name meaning “one hundred, thousand islands”. It’s a little hard to imagine that many mounds of land floating in the Arabian sea. Maybe there were many more such lands in the sea in the past and it’s possible that some went under sea due to various reasons. Or maybe the ancestor who coined the word might have been a fantastic exaggerator with a vivid imagination. As of now there are around 39 islands and islets with many of them uninhabited. So this is where I decide to travel on my flying dining chair. I park my dining chair on the sands of Kavaratti and stretch out luxuriously in the sea. I lay floating on the waters, allowing the waves to rise and dip me rhythmically in them. Swimming in the sea always helped in working up an appetite. Was it the salt in the sea, or the sun shining down, or the constant struggle against the waves and currents that made a person hungry and obviously dehydrated? I remember swimming in the Dead sea and feeling extremely thirsty in a short span that I had to rush out through the green-brown mud and gulp down a litre of water before I could get back in again.

So while I was in the sea, a table and stove and utensils materialised on the beach, under the shade of a few coconut trees. All kept ready for me to cook. And cook what? A special fish curry of Lakshadweep, called Mus Kavaab. It’s traditionally made with Tuna but I caught the King fish for the dish. After dousing the fish with spices I cook it in an earthen vessel (for the best flavours) with onions and tomatoes and a thick coconut paste with spices. The end result? Delectable! The fish pieces are cooked soft, with the flavours of cardamom and cloves and red chillies and coriander permeating its layers. They break apart gently between the teeth, disappearing quickly down the throat, making you put piece after piece into the mouth. It’s eaten with rice and I’ve cleaned the plate of every grain.       

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After enjoying the flavours of the Mus Kavaab on the beach, I decide to strap the containers of curry and rice on my dining chair to take it back home. Fish curry tastes best on the second day. On the first day the spices form a layer of garment on the fish but on the second day the spice and the fish become one, completing their union.

One day I shall eat Mus Kavaab prepared by a chef in a restaurant in the Lakshadweep islands. Till then I shall eat it on my dining chair while being transported to the glorious sun, sand and sea.