BOOK REVIEW | Keshav Chandra’s ‘When Turquoise Waters Turned Dark’: An Illustrated History of the Andaman and Nicobar Islands

Written by a former Chief Secretary of the Andaman and Nicobar Islands, Keshav Chandra, When Turquoise Waters Turned Dark is neither a conventional academic book nor a popular history. This 229-page coffee-table book blends concise narratives from the islands’ colonial past with over 80 photographs clicked by Chandra, creating an immersive visual-textual experience.

When Turquoise Waters Turned Dark

An Illustrated History of the Andaman and Nicobar Islands

Keshav Chandra

Penguin India

Pages: 229

Price: Rs.2,599

The book is structured into six thematic sections: the failed British settlement on Chatham Island; Ross Island, once known as the “Paris of the East”; the infamous Cellular and Viper Jails; the idyllic Nicobar Islands; the Japanese reign of terror during the Second World War; and the vibrant indigenous and settler communities.

With their lush tropical forests, turquoise waters, stunning beaches, and heritage monuments, the Andaman and Nicobar Islands are truly a photographer’s paradise. Chandra’s aerial landscape photography is particularly striking, showcasing as it does the serene beauty of Jolly Buoy Island; the raw majesty of the active volcano on Barren Island; the turquoise ocean surrounding the jetty of Chowra Island; India’s iconic Indira Point lighthouse; and the vast shimmering expanse of the Andaman Sea, to name a few. The skies he has photographed are nothing short of breathtaking, each framing a visual ode to the islands’ natural splendour.

Ross Island (now Netaji Subhash Chandra Bose Island) stands as a poignant reminder that nature is the ultimate reclaiming force—a truth Chandra’s photographs capture with striking clarity. His images of the island’s colonial ruins—the soldiers’ barracks, the Anglican Church, the Chief Commissioner’s Bungalow, the Subordinate Club rooms, the Bazaar area, and the printing press—brought back vivid memories of the times I spent there exploring them during fieldwork.

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The portraits and images of the islanders are just as mesmerising. In one photograph, a Shompen man crouches low, blowing on a coconut husk to ignite a fire, while his companions watch intently.

Another photograph captures a Nicobarese elder at home, a half-smoked beedi and a matchbox resting beside him. There is a photograph of a Sentinelese boy standing chest-deep in the ocean, smiling, ready to seize whatever is offered. In another, a young Jarawa boy stares into the camera, the world reflected in his eyes. Elsewhere, a dozen Jarawa children play carefree in the ocean, their laughter almost palpable through the photograph.

In a quiet moment, captured during an Ang-katha (informal school) class, a Jarawa boy rests his head on his knees. The whites of his eyes are pale, and his expression—whether sad or shy—remains a mystery we may never solve. A striking headshot titled “An Onge lady ready to welcome guests” reveals deep wrinkles etched across her forehead, telling stories that words alone could never capture. An Onge elder stares unsmiling into the camera, a wooden bark strap around his head supporting a basket on his back. The whites of his eyes, pale and tinged with red, exude quiet resilience. Andamanese men, adorned with seashells and sporting Nike FC shorts, attempt a traditional dance, a fading echo of a bygone era. An Onge girl perches on a classroom desk like a little princess, her pristine white dress a sharp contrast to her modest surroundings.

A dark epoch

Along with the photographs, Chandra offers a brief account of the islands’ dark past. In 1789, the British East India Company established a settlement on Chatham Island at Port Cornwallis, later renamed Port Blair (now renamed Sri Vijaya Puram), to provide refuge for shipwrecked crews and combat Malay piracy. In 1792, the settlement was relocated to North East Harbour of North Andaman. The punishing climate and staggering mortality rates forced the British to abandon the settlement by 1796.

In 1858, a year after India’s First War of Independence, the British returned to the Andamans to establish a penal colony. Ross Island became the settlement’s headquarters. Named after the British naval officer and surveyor Sir Daniel Ross, it quickly earned the nickname “Paris of the East” for its opulent parties and vibrant social life. Ross Island embodied colonial luxury, a stark contrast to the brutal existence endured by convicts.

The penal colony housed a mix of freedom fighters and criminals. Fleeing inhuman conditions, some sought refuge in the jungles, only to meet a tragic end at the hands of the indigenous people. The islanders resisted British colonisation but were ultimately almost wiped out, primarily owing to alien diseases introduced on the isle.

Chandra recounts that the Andamans’ first brick masonry jail was built in 1867 on Viper Island. Four jails with a capacity to house 2,000 convicts were built here. The construction of the Cellular Jail began in 1896 and was completed in 1906; it replaced Viper Jail, which was shut down the next year.

By May 1912, Indian newspapers began to expose the horrors of this “hell on earth”, sparking widespread outrage. A Jail Committee was formed, and it recommended closing the Cellular Jail and transferring all prisoners to the mainland. Hunger strikes by the prisoners, mass protests in India, and Mahatma Gandhi’s intervention led to the repatriation of political prisoners from September 1937 onwards. During the Second World War, the Japanese occupied the islands and unleashed a new wave of brutality, committing heinous war crimes.

Limitations

Chandra draws from historical sources but rarely cites them, making it difficult to verify his claims. While the photographs are captivating, the captions fail to fully convey their evocative power. Some sections of the book spark curiosity, but the narrative often veers into a dry, report-like tone, weighed down by a deluge of names, dates, and figures that disrupt the flow. The book also contains significant gaps that undermine its overall coherence. Historians are likely to take issue with Chandra’s oversimplification of complex events and sweeping generalisations.

There are a few errors as well. For instance, while discussing the sensational case of the death of a naval brigadesman called James Pratt in 1863, Chandra incorrectly claims that Tytler, the superintendent of the convict settlement, confined the “actual murderer”, Jumbo, at Ross Island for killing Pratt, whereas it was another Andamanese, Jacko, who had killed Pratt while defending his wife from an attempted rape. Jumbo’s prolonged and unjust incarceration was part of Tytler’s broader strategy to subdue the Andamanese.

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Similarly, the book’s geographical division of the Nicobarese is flawed, and its assertion that their religion is “undisguised animism” overlooks the fact that the tribe has converted to Christianity or Islam. Additionally, much of the sociocultural information about the Nicobarese is outdated and fails to reflect their contemporary realities.

The book ends abruptly, overlooking post-Independence history, a critical period during which the Indian government, operating on colonial rationality, further marginalised indigenous communities. It would have benefited from more meticulous editing. Most importantly, it should have avoided problematic terms like “primitive tribe” and “murderous tribes”.

Nevertheless, Chandra’s effort is commendable in capturing both the allure of the islands and their haunting histories. Written in simple, jargon-free language, When Turquoise Waters Turned Dark is an accessible read for lay audiences. What truly sets the book apart is its photography. Featuring rare images of places and indigenous peoples typically off-limits to researchers, it offers a visual narrative that vividly brings the islands to life.

Ajay Saini teaches at the Indian Institute of Technology Delhi. He has extensive research experience in the Andaman and Nicobar Islands.