Anuradha Rao was one of the lucky survivors of the tsunami that devastated the Andaman & Nicobar archipelago in 2004. Alongside the loss of human lives, there was large-scale destruction of pristine jungles, endemic wildlife and historical sites. The 500-odd islands, home to several indigenous tribes living deep in the forests, were damaged beyond recognition under the combined onslaught of an earthquake and the gigantic waves that followed it.

Rao recounts how that fateful day began with a bright and beautiful sunrise. “It was 7am and I was seated in my usual boat, all set to sail to Ross Island. I heard a rumbling roar and, before I realised what it was, a massive wave hit the boat. I was flung into the air under the impact, and landed with a thud, completely soaked with sand and seawater. Even before I could recover from this shock, another wave hit even harder and I once again survived the sucker punch. Unfortunately my two brothers died that day, as they were in another boat that had been shattered to pieces. My younger sister, Natasha Rani, too survived the tsunami as she was inland at Port Blair.”

Show must go on

At the crack of dawn each day, Rao, a sprightly 55-year-old today, still takes the first boat from Port Blair to Ross Island. She guides and educates tourists at the isolated island, which has several well-preserved ruins dating back to the days of British and Japanese rule in Andaman Islands. With 37 years’ experience behind her, the resident guide earns about ₹10,000 a month during the off-season and double that when the sightseers arrive in droves from October to March.

“I adore this deserted Ross Island, where the Indian navy has discreet operations for the protection of the Andaman Islands. Travellers mostly arrive in the evening to witness the impressive sound-and-light show, so Ross Island is devoid of people the rest of the day, but I never feel lonely. The local birds, squirrels, lizards, feral cats, spotted deer and untamed rabbits keep me company,” she says.

Her favourite creatures are the bulbuls with their melodious calls. Some deer even have names and respond when she calls to them, following her around the island as she lectures to camera-touting tourists. Suddenly she pulls out a baby squirrel from the folds of her dress, where it had been tucked away all this while, and feeds it milk using a syringe. She had rescued the little one after it had fallen from a tree. “I am not married, hence I have adopted these adorable creatures, who give me unconditional love,” she explains.

Even as a child, she preferred to play with rats and cats rather than other children, she says. “When I was seven, my mother once caught me eating mud. She beat me black-and-blue for not spitting it out. Actually I had a tiny baby rat, which was my playmate, hidden in my mouth and my mom was aghast. But she and my dad soon realised that I loved animals more than human beings and indulged me.” Tragically, she lost her father when she was just twelve.

‘Paris of the East’

A fourth-generation islander, she proudly recounts how her great-grandfather Krishnaswamy arrived here from Madras years ago. His expertise in woodcraft fetched him a job at the Chatham Saw Mill, an island near Port Blair. The saw mill had been established in the early 1880s to cater to the growing need for wood in the area, as settlements in Port Blair were slowly expanding back then. The British also processed a huge amount of timber for London, New York and other European cities. Sadly, when the Japanese invaded the island in 1942, they launched an attack on the saw mill, leading to the mass killing of its unsuspecting workers, including Rao’s great-grandfather. “Today his name is etched as one of the martyrs on a plaque at the mill.”

She passionately explains to tourists how Ross Island was once known as the Paris of the East, serving as the British capital of Andaman Islands. Its grand colonial residences were lavishly furnished. There were barracks, tennis courts, swimming baths, a bazaar with a bakery, and even a desalination plant for freshwater. All of this changed forever following two disasters in quick sucession — a mighty earthquake on June 26, 1941 measuring 7.7 on the Richter scale; and the Japanese invasion during World War II. When tragedy struck yet again in the form of the tsunami, Ross Island shrank greatly in size.

Today, vestiges of its colonial glory, such as the Commissioner’s residence, church, powerhouse, printing press and bakery are all in a dilapidated condition, overgrown with gnarled gigantic roots. “Like this lonely island, I am a loner with my wildlife and unseen Indian navy,” she says. She is practically its unofficial queen, overseeing the birds taking wing under the azure skies and surrounded by the emerald waters.

The writer is a photographer and wildlife enthusiast based in Noida

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