In the Andaman and Nicobar Islands, the fastest thing in government is not a ship, not an air ambulance, not even an internet connection. It is the speed at which names are changed. Old names fall like coconut trees in a cyclone; new names sprout overnight on boards, letterheads and Twitter bios.
First came the airport. Once simply Port Blair Airport, it was renamed Veer Savarkar International Airport back in 2002, in honour of Vinayak Damodar Savarkar, who spent 11 years in the Cellular Jail. The new glass-and-steel terminal now proudly displays its upgraded identity, while islanders quietly calculate ticket fares the way cardiologists calculate risk. The “international” in the name gave the public hope; what actually went international were the airfares. Local leaders and activists have repeatedly raised the issue of unreasonably high ticket prices, poor connectivity and almost non-existent medical evacuation facilities, warning that critical patients struggle to get seats to Chennai, Kolkata or other places in time. For an emergency airlift, families routinely hear figures of ₹3–4 lakh, the sort of number that can give you a second heart attack while you’re arranging treatment for the first. But chalo, naam to deshbhakti wala hai na; health infrastructure can wait for the next notification.
Then came the island trilogy. The modest Ross Island, once the British administrative headquarters and a key site in Andaman’s colonial history, was reborn as Netaji Subhash Chandra Bose Dweep. Pictures were tweeted, speeches were made, and history was invoked. On the ground, though, the old buildings, silent witnesses to the suffering of prisoners and the story of resistance continue to crumble under salt, wind and neglect. The ruins, which could have been a carefully preserved classroom of history, are more like an unattended storeroom of guilt. The state’s heritage policy seems simple: rebrand the past, don’t repair it.
Not to be left behind, Neil Island was renamed Shaheed Dweep, and Havelock Island became Swaraj Dweep, again in the name of honouring Netaji and the freedom struggle. On paper, these names speak of martyrdom and self-rule; in real life, they speak of resort rates and land deals. Tourism studies and investigative reports have repeatedly flagged how rapid, high-end tourism has turned parts of the islands into exclusive zones, land prices shooting up, dependence on tourism increasing, environmental stress rising and local communities feeling pushed to the margins of their own home. For many islanders, Swaraj now means watching multi-crore projects arrive from the mainland while they themselves struggle to get a decent, stable job or an affordable room on the very beach they grew up near.
The latest episode of the renaming serial is more ambitious: it goes after the very capital Port Blair as “Sri Vijaya Puram”, invoking the maritime might of the Cholas. On paper, this sounds grand history, empire, civilisation! On the ground, the same old water crisis, patchy electricity, potholed roads and glacial land conversion processes continue to define daily life. Investigations have described how land conversion rules were frozen in a legal limbo, even as prime government land is smoothly converted for large tourism projects with eligibility norms tailored for big corporate players. Naam Sri Vijaya Puram, haal “please-sanction-my-file-puram”.
Employment? “Zero, but inspirational.” While glossy vision documents promise jobs and “world-class infrastructure”, islanders see something else: tenders so large that local societies and contractors can’t even dream of qualifying, panchayats stripped of cheque powers and small works that once sustained dozens of families now being bundled into big online contracts. Earlier, small panchayat works meant local labour, local income, local dignity. Now the message is clear: rozgār Delhi se aayega, aap bas dekhte rahiye.
Meanwhile, shipping, the lifeline of thousands of daily commuters continues to limp like an overworked bullock cart in the age of bullet trains. The shortage of essential ferries and vehicle ferries has turned everyday travel into a punishment routine. Office-goers, school students, patients and traders line up hoping to squeeze into a boat that may or may not arrive on time. BambooFlat to Chatham and PhoenixBay stretch, once a smooth artery of movement, now feels like a lottery counter, where getting a seat is equal to winning a prize.
Vehicle ferries? Almost extinct.
The few old ones still surviving run like senior citizens forced into marathon races, slow, shaky and overburdened. People wait for hours with their bikes, autos and small goods, only to hear, “Aaj ek hi vehicle ferry chalegi.”
Healthcare, the other lifeline, is in no better shape. GB Pant Hospital, the main government facility, routinely refers serious cases, neurosurgery, complex trauma, cardiac emergencies to mainland hospitals because specialists, infrastructure and advanced care are chronically inadequate. MP have repeatedly written about the lack of proper air ambulance systems and coordinated medical evacuation, pointing out that families already crushed by high ticket prices must somehow raise lakhs in a matter of hours just to have a chance at survival. Airlift bhi kismet se, treatment bhi kismet se, aur upar se naam “international airport”, it’s dark comedy with a boarding pass.
Farther south, Great Nicobar has become a laboratory for mega-projects. A massive port, airport and township complex has been pushed forward despite expert concerns about deforestation, displacement of Nicobarese and Shompen communities, and the destruction of unique rainforest and coastal ecosystems. Wildlife sanctuaries have reportedly been redrawn to make way for concrete; researchers warn that relocating protected areas on paper won’t convince turtles or megapodes to migrate politely to the new coordinates. For local settlers, it is a double blow, they rebuilt their lives after the tsunami, only to now face losing land again to projects in which they barely have a say. Colonialism left by ship; a new form returns by project report.
All of this takes place in an atmosphere where criticism is increasingly unwelcome. As it describe prohibitory orders against protests, locals and even journalists facing surveillance or pressure, and a general sense that speaking up too loudly can invite punishment postings or harassment. “Lok tantra” here feels more like “mute tantra” public participation in theory, public silence in practice.
And finally we reach the symbolic heart of governance: Raj Niwas, the official residence of the Lieutenant Governor, now rechristened Lok Niwas after a central directive to shed colonial labels like “Raj Bhavan” and “Raj Niwas”. The new name means “people’s residence”. It is a beautiful phrase, almost poetic, especially for a building where ordinary people say they have found it increasingly difficult to get meaningful audiences or regular janata durbars for more than a decade. The signboard now proclaims Lok Niwas, but if you ask many islanders, the “lok” seem to be mostly outside the gate. Naam badal gaya, par gatekeeper wahi ka wahi.
So the next time someone proudly recites the new names and says, “Dekhiye, kitna badlav aa gaya,” an islander could reasonably reply:
“Haan ji, board pe bahut badlav aa gaya.Flight ab bhi mehengi hai, ship ab bhi late hai, land ab bhi atka hai, job ab bhi sapna hai, aur hum ab bhi wahi purane Andaman mein phanse hue hain.”
Maybe one day the islands will get the kind of development that doesn’t need a renaming ceremony to justify itself: reliable water, steady power, affordable travel, fair jobs, preserved heritage, and a government that listens more than it brands. Until then, the people of these emerald islands will keep learning new names for the same old problems “Shaheed”, “Swaraj”, “Sri Vijaya Puram”, “Lok Niwas” while quietly wondering:
“In Islands mein vikas ka real spelling kab theek hoga?”
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