Isle of Right

But these are worries for those mired in the past. In truth, the Bangaram Island Resort—the only one in Bangaram, one of the 36 islands that make up the archipelago—with its smiling waiters in fish motif lungis, sombre locals and curious guests, and the stillness of perspiring ivory grains under the afternoon sun when all must sleep on ground or swim beneath, remains unchanged.

For over two decades, the island has played host not to the prototype beach bum with a propensity for nosing out flea markets, but to a marginally more distinguished set comprising professional divers, politicos, honeymooners, and people who heard about it from friends, and flew down to ratify its almost mythical existence.

Concrete huts decorated with cane furniture are shaded comfortably by palm trees in front, and a blooming forest with a muggy lake and a helipad behind. The linen in the bedroom is freshly starched, there is sufficient mosquito repellent to fell a plague, and if you want to watch TV or read a newspaper, well, keep wanting.

A faded notice requests guests to abstain from taking home the jewel in the archipelago’s crown, which in death turns into the white sands that fringe the island. But the hollow clunking that emanates from many bags as they are loaded onto the boat home betrays an indifferent avarice.

Bangaram is not for the slothful, and ‘‘arise and away with you’’ is a motto the strong aroma of sulphur in the cold bath water brings home well. On my first day, I jumped off a glass-bottomed boat and chased rainbow-coloured fish around coral boulders.

Flapping within the wreckage of a 70-year-old boat proved even more fun, and the sighting of a luscious but malevolent-looking moray eel and a manta ray amidst sea cucumbers, yolk bright and silver fish were just a few of the afternoon’s high points.

There’s more. Swimming, kayaking, diving in the darkest deep; a picnic lunch on a neighbouring island and the bloodthirsty thrill of night fishing.

This was our story: Brooding sky, lemon slice of moon, seven lines in the water, seven expectant faces gradually turning morose, then sullen and sleepy. After an interminable hour, a robust red snapper was undone by its own cupidity, and the boat turned hurriedly home. The fish was baked until its skin fell off in steamed layers, and although the vanquisher was too tired to eat, the others consumed the well-won remains.

But exertion has many names and Bangaram allows indulgences. A walk around the island takes 20 minutes, and at low tide the warm waters diminish to four feet. You can stroll to the middle of the sea, and watch the caramel sun melt into recess, revealing all the colours in the palette of the Creator. At night, slivers of plankton are set alight by the phosphorescence within, and the sand metamorphoses from indigo darkness into a winding rind of silver.

A week later, burnished brown, I return home to Mumbai. I see no stars in the sky and the sand on Chowpatty Beach is the faded brown of a teabag. Legend has it that if you snorkel in the city’s waters you just might be able to see as far as your foot. I realise that it is not just Lakshadweep’s inherent beauty that draws me to it time and again, but also the disparity between its islands and the real world. Perhaps then, there is no better place to return to and create more memories.