Treasure Islands

As the Indian outpost of Lakshadweep slowly emerges out of obscurity, we discover its visceral beauty and indigenous culture, one small island at a time.

- Mukul & Shilpa Gupta

It must rank as the most inopportune moment for counting life’s regrets. I have just jumped off a boat into the middle of a calm, chameleonic sea that keeps changing its shades of blue and green at differently angled shards of sunbeam. Right now, flapping within touching distance of its undulating bottom, I am in a hushed magical world, far removed from the one I inhabit on terra firma some four metres above and miles beyond. Weeds, plants, sea cucumbers, and gigantic corals bearing ineffable hues are swarming around me. Mimicking my dive instructor, I snap my fingers and something iridescent plays peek-a-boo like a touch-me-not plant. Shoals of colourful fish, big and small, and metallic and muted, nuzzle my fingers while greedily feeding on the crumbs I’m made to proffer; I’m tingled and thrilled. And just then, when I’m having possibly the most captivating time of my life—one I should be savouring—a grating regret chooses to emerge. If only I had paid enough heed to Sir David Attenborough’s programmes on the undersea.

Lakshadweep will rankle you too for your inadequacies. Imagine encountering turtles, carefree and in the wild, and not knowing if they’re the hawksbill or the green sea. Or not recognising sooty tern, the state bird. Imagine not being able to tell a damselfish from a butterflyfish. Or mortifyingly realising that what I had analogously called the touch-me-not plant was actually the Christmas tree worm. But then, discovery of the unknown is what this archipelago of 36 islands does best.