The Art Of Nonchalance

In their rush for popular addresses, hordes of visitors to the Andaman Islands neglect its languid capital entirely. Here's why they're making a big mistake.

- SIDDHARTH DASGUPTA

THE GATHERING OF four to fi ve chai stalls couldn’t care less. Excitable tourists are tolerated, chai addicts are welcomed, and idle writers are viewed through a curious gaze—all with that special brand of nonchalance so specific to island life. As you sip unhurriedly on a small glass of chai with a sweet, ginger-rich aroma, the backdrop wraps itself around your imagination.

Up ahead, a short boat ride away on the Andaman Sea, lies Ross Island. Once a fabled address christened the ‘Paris of the East’—replete with a pulsating social life, a printing press, an exquisitely appointed grand ballroom with flooring of rare padauk wood and the dreamlike splendour of an opera house—it now rests in ruins as a theatre of enigmas. Decrepit cathedrals, fragments of buildings that once were, and the ghosts of better days lie ensnared in the embrace of age-old banyans and the voraciousness of plant and animal life. A few light beams and sound checks reveal that it’s almost time for the daily (except Wednesdays) Sound & Light Show—a riveting presentation of the island’s origins.

Closer to the Aberdeen Jetty, boats of all sizes and capabilities bob about on the water, either taking passengers across to Ross or simply lying anchored, having been done with the day. The evening breeze has reduced Port Blair’s yearlong balminess and humidity to a pleasing mélange of sea, sky, clouds, and desire. This is the special cocktail of island life. Not much happens, but the heart gets stirred.