They stood facing each another across the volleyball net, two teams of strapping young boys, one team called itself Bada Enaka, the other, Chhota Enaka. I watched them standing on a high plateau of an island in the remotest corner of the Andaman Sea. It was Kamorta island, part of the Nancowrie group, hit hardest by tsunami on December 26, 2004.One, two, three! The whistle blew and the game started. Strong muscular legs of Nicobari boys, jumping, dancing, leaping, flying behind the ball. Beyond the ‘volleyball court’ lay the ocean, gleaming blue and green in the golden sun. A little further lay the broken island of Trinket. From the epicentre of the earthquake, the tsunami wave had risen and lashed against Trinket. The island broke in two. The little green mantled villages, Bada Enaka, Chhota Enaka and Safed Balu were sucked away by a giant vacuum.Next to me sat Tankumar, captain of this new village where the government had just constructed intermediary shelters. He was a small man, his face seemed filled not with one but many smiles. He started talking. It was the day after Christmas. All of Bada Enaka was asleep. It seemed he was the only human on the shore. Then he saw it coming, the horrible wall of water.He scrambled for a boat, bundled his small family; his wife, Rosalin, his three small children and let the waves carry his tiny vessel into the open sea. The next thing he recalled was fighting the turbulence. He yelled himself hoarse, madly flailed his arms. Then it was silence. He found himself in a crumpled heap on the sands of Kamorta along with huge piles of debris. Just himself, Tankumar; Rosalin and the babies were nowhere to be seen.When we reached the New Bada Enaka it had been six months to the day. We climbed up the rough stone path to the shelters made from CGI sheets where the tsunami-affected were trying to put their lives together. A couple of plastic chairs in a makeshift verandah looked incongruous. “Came floating from Sumatra side, wonders of tsunami!” Tankumar said. “I have found meaning in life. Having lost everything, I have all these people. You see, madam, I became the village captain.” His face creased into a thousand smiles.The game was warming up. Our colleague, Sonkar, took off his glasses, emptied his pockets, and ran lightly to join one of the sides. I watched the graceful boys hit the ball with their closed fists. Every time there was a good hit or a miss, a soft sound of jubilation arose.Their shirts were emblazoned with their names,‘Thomas’ ‘Deepak’, ‘Azar’, ‘Emran’. In the post-monsoon shower, their green shirts stuck to their backs. My colleague Adarsh and I blinked away tears as we handed out the prizes to the winning team. I had just witnessed a sunlit drama of life and death.
