Nicobar Narratives

Islanders dreamed of a dependable road from south to north. Development keeps offering the next big promise. If patience could be used for road construction, Andaman islanders would have finished NH4 themselves by now, with enough left over for the Bambooflat–Chatham bridge. The Andaman Trunk Road’s transformation was a dream project for the islanders: a dependable connection from South Andaman through Baratang, Kadamtala and Rangat to North Andaman and Diglipur. Farmers could reach markets more easily. Students could travel with less uncertainty. A family taking a patient to hospital could concentrate on the patient instead of conducting an advance survey of the road. It was a modest dream. A road that remained a road throughout the journey. Instead, we have acquired an advanced education in “balance work”, “revised schedules” and “contract termination”. The public asked for connectivity; it has been enrolled in a correspondence course in civil engineering. Final examination: explain ...

On this Independence Day, when the tricolour rises above our homes, schools and public buildings, my heart feels both proud and restless. Proud, because India’s freedom was won through sacrifice. Restless, because I cannot stop asking myself whether we have truly protected the dream for which that freedom was achieved. We celebrate Independence every year with songs, speeches and flags. But when I look at the present condition of the country, I feel sad and uncomfortable. I feel disturbed when citizens are judged by their name, food, dress, prayer or identity. I feel uneasy when hatred is spoken from public stages, when mobs behave like courts, when fear enters the homes of vulnerable communities, and when ordinary people begin to wonder whether justice will reach them equally. Did our freedom fighters imagine such an India? Did they sacrifice their lives so that one community would suspect another? Did they fight the British only to see Indians divided among themselves by politics, pr...

In most of India a man can still choose his misery: train, bus, car, or flight. In the Andaman and Nicobar Islands the Bay of Bengal has thoughtfully cancelled every option except one. No train to Chennai, no bus to Kolkata, and the passenger ship takes three full days when it bothers to appear on the schedule. For a medical emergency, a college admission, or a funeral, the ship is about as useful as a bicycle in a cyclone. So the islander is left with the aeroplane. And the aeroplane, fully aware that it is the only show in town, behaves exactly like a landlord who owns every flat in the city and has just discovered dynamic pricing. Open any booking site in August 2026 and watch the performance. Near-term Chennai–Port Blair tickets sit smugly between ₹16,000 and ₹19,000. Book a little earlier and you might charm it down to ₹10,000–₹12,000. Leave it late, or simply exist on a busy day, and the fare does a full naagin dance, rising by two or three thousand rupees between refreshes. The ...

Before rebuilding hospitals, the Administration must rebuild people’s trust The Andaman and Nicobar Islands are known across the world for their natural beauty. Tourists admire their blue seas, green forests and peaceful beaches. The islands are also important for India’s security and maritime future. But behind this beautiful picture lies another reality that is rarely discussed, the fear an islander feels when someone in the family becomes seriously ill. For people living on the mainland, reaching a better hospital may simply mean travelling to another town or city. For the people of these islands, it may mean crossing the sea, waiting for a ship or flight, arranging accommodation on the mainland and finding money for treatment. In an emergency, weather conditions, ferry schedules and the availability of an aircraft can decide whether a patient receives treatment in time. The Union Territory is spread across 836 islands, islets and rocky outcrops, of which only 31 are permanently inh...

  Every generation inherits a different India. The generation that fought for Independence dreamed of freedom. The generation that lived through the Emergency fought to restore democracy. Those who came later struggled for social justice, equality and economic opportunity. The youth of today have inherited something different. They have inherited a country full of talent and aspiration, but also one where many young people feel that institutions are becoming less accountable, opportunities more uncertain, and dialogue increasingly difficult. Their struggle is not only about politics. It is about trust, trust in examinations, trust in public institutions, trust in democracy, and trust that their voices still matter. For more than a decade, India's universities have become the conscience of the nation. From Jawaharlal Nehru University to Jamia Millia Islamia, from Aligarh Muslim University to the University of Hyderabad, campuses have repeatedly become places where young Indians ques...

Remembering an Islander who taught us to question, remember and belong. Some people leave behind monuments of stone. Others leave behind institutions. A few leave behind words that continue to breathe long after their voices have fallen silent. Zubair Ahmed belonged to that rare fraternity whose legacy lives not in buildings or titles, but in sentences that still echo across the Andaman and Nicobar Islands. The seventh of July is not merely the day the Islands lost a journalist. It is the day Andaman lost one of its finest storytellers, one of its fiercest questioners, and perhaps one of the last chroniclers who understood that journalism is not merely about reporting events, it is about preserving the soul of a place. For those who knew him only through his byline, he was a journalist. For those who read him regularly, he was an educator. For many young Islanders, he became an unofficial historian who reminded them that Andaman was far more than beaches, tourism brochures and governme...