EXPERIENCE
On the edge of time
KALYANI CANDADE
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An account of a disturbing drive through the Jarawa Reserve on the Andaman Trunk Road.
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Photo: Kalyani Candade
Uneasy journey: The convoy at the reserve.
It was the first time in my life I could not bring myself to take a picture. A million thoughts skittered around in my head — voices of the writer, photographer, anthropologist inside… telling me I was a fool to miss such a fantastic phot
o opportunity. I remained frozen.
Dignity personified
Outside our window, within 10 feet of us, stood an ebony-coloured woman, bare-chested, beads around her neck and a string skirt around her waist, proud, unselfconscious, and a dignity as old as the islands itself. JARAWA! I gulped. We were face to face with one of the last stone-age tribals in the world, and there was a strange queasy feeling in the pit of my stomach. The driver slowed down. “I’m not permitted to stop, ma’am, but you can take a quick photo without a flash,” he offered. I didn’t move, couldn’t take my eyes off her face.
We were driving down the Andaman Trunk Road, through the Jarawa Reserve between Jirkatang and Middle Strait. “You might see Jarawa if you’re lucky,” we were told at the tourism centre. “Real, live, stone-age tribals — one of the last in the world — right on the roadside. You have to get a permit, though, and be sure you don’t get late for the convoy.”
Code of conduct
We left before dawn to make it to the entry point by 6 a.m. There was a long line of vehicles, trucks, buses, tourist taxis. Outside was a board with convoy timings. And another with rules. Vehicles were not to stop inside the reserve. Jarawa were not to be photographed. They were not to be given lifts. Breaking the rules might lead to damage of property and danger to life. The intent was clear; we were to leave them alone. And oh yes. They were not to be fed.
Actually, that was when the strange queasiness began. As the vehicles revved up and the convoy started moving, my daughter had a question. “Mom, why am I feeling like we’re entering a wildlife sanctuary?” I felt the same way. The vehicles moved together, so the pace was slow. We saw an abandoned Jarawa community dwelling. And then, the woman, expressionless. In one hand she held a bunch of bananas. My uneasiness grew.
Soon we passed a couple of children, who tried to wave us down. “Can’t stop, the police vehicle is right behind us,” the driver informed us. As we passed them, something landed in my lap. Two pinkish berries! We held on to the berries for a long time, savouring the experience of this offering from another era, almost another time zone.
Wrenching experience
But there was more to come. Another group of children, teenagers with arrows, youngsters in tow. A teenager signed for us to halt. A youngster jumped on to the running board. We watched, dumb. “Kuch do!” said the youngster. When we didn’t respond, he tried again. “Khana do”. We looked at each other. “Give him some banana if you have,” said the driver. “Our snacks make them sick. They can’t digest oil and salt.
” Not knowing if we were doing the right thing, we handed over some bananas. Somewhere deep inside of me, something wrenched.
Another curly mop, ebony face in another window. “Paan hai?” I watched in dismay. The child must have been around eight. He surveyed the interior of the car curiously. They seemed friendly enough now. But we had just hea
rd that they had just killed a group of settlers who had dared to venture into their fishing territory…
Meanwhile, the driver was busy striking a deal with one of the older boys. It was simple — anything you wanted that they could get for you, in exchange for one Rs.10 note. Coins were not acceptable. This time the deal was for an arrow. The boy was to keep it ready, and the driver would take it the next day. “Kab?” asked the boy. “Rangat Rani ke saath?” What will he do with the money? I wondered. Take it to Rangat and buy paan?
The driver turned to me. “Take your pictures quickly, we must move”. I looked at the glorious subjects and decided I didn’t want to take pictures. Not because the board said I shouldn’t, but because I didn’t want to add to the indignity we were already heaping on to this once-hostile community that is now cornered, desperate, and reaching out to us.
We left the Jarawa behind soon, but in my mind was a frozen image. An ebony-coloured little boy standing on the edge of time.
Is slow degradation and death the only road ahead for him? Or is there a way in which he can make a dignified choice?
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