The tale of a mother !

I am floating on the sea today. For the first time in my life, I have boarded a ship. Yes, believe me, not a boat, not a yacht, not a cruise, but a real ship—just as we see in a picture book—a giant ship indeed. This time, I have decided to travel to Diglipur, the northern most point of Andaman and Nicobar Islands, following the sea route.

Well, let me come back to what I am truly eager to narrate. It’s been a pretty anxious waiting; have already reached the Haddo Port by an hour ahead.  After completion of formalities, I am granted the access to the boarding jetty. The dazzlingly illuminated ship awaits me with intense suspense. The silver rays—slipping down her milky-white satin skin—enhance her beauty to as immaculate as of the White Queen in my childhood book.  I gaze upon for countless moments---dreaming about her beauty and my first voyage, never perceiving which prevails what.

I am following the queue. The Inspector meets me and greets me smilingly at the boarding gate. And, for the first time in my life, I am stepping in a ship of my dream. The passage leads me to a large hall—full of luggage cages resting upon the walls from the floor to the ceiling—with stairs climbing up from one end. I leave my luggage there and take the stairs. In the first floor, another gentleman greets me. His smiling face inspires me to learn about a critical path leading finally to reach my space in the ship. “Please take the stairs up, cross the Hall diagonally, take the left exit, then you get another stairway, climb up, then you reach the deck, take the right narrow sideway, move to the front, turn left before the Captain’s cabin, your cabin should be there on the left first”, he completes as fluently as the ocean wave flow in a gentle summer noon. I thank him and proceed. The specious Dining Hall inspects me with much curiosity. I forget to greet her as I patiently continue to recite on the path explained by the gentlemen. I keep on climbing up through a slender stairway jutting out over the dancing waves of the ocean, some 40-50 meters below. The patience and endurance always pay and, within infinite time of life, I reach my home on the sea.

It is as neat as my own room at home and as cute as the one of my son. One wide window on the side reveals the world beyond the room. The golden rays of halogen lights of the port peep through. Two single beds are lying calmly with white sheets gracefully spread upon. The other passenger is yet to come, and, I’m not sure, if anyone would ever. Leaving my small luggage there, I come out on the deck—wide with cushioned chairs placed on the middle wall facing the front. I sit upon one.

I used to read lots of fables, like many other children of our time. The Prince crosses seven seas and thirteen rivers to rescue the Princess; the King of the land didn’t have ships, perhaps. So, the Prince had to fly, riding upon the birds, Byangoma Byangami. I used to ponder, if I hadn’t had the privilege of having those caring birds with me even, I would be sailing the course in a large ship—a shining sacred white ship with white sails fluttering.

It’s a dream come through. I am in a dilemma if it is a dream or a reality, and between the battle of dreaming and undreaming or the real and the unreal, I hear the cry of the siren of the ship. I stare on the illuminated jetty slowly drifting away and I find myself alone on the deck, on the sea, in a lone night with a lone moon only accompanying me. The port appears now like an elegant star subtly placed upon a darkened sky. It is almost 9.18 pm and ocean breeze is quite chilly in later half of January. I take the way back to my cabin.

My eyes get a surprised look of an idle bag lying upon the table in my cabin. Hesitatingly I think if I have entered into the right cabin. “Madam, can I come in?”, someone says from behind. I take an 180 degree turn to find a gentleman with two security personnel standing just outside the cabin door. One of his security explains, how urgent business his Sir has in compelling him to go for a hasty boarding onto the ship. It’s nothing for me to decide as the cabin is a two-bedded one and another person is supposed to be there, yet the gentleman’s fervent request appears as if his access to the cabin depends only upon my wishes.

He is undoubtedly a perfect gentleman. He apologetically conveys the compulsion of his sudden arrival owing to attending the mandatory Annual Medical Check up at Port Blair. So long I try to explain that there’s nothing to be sorry about, he continues to feel that he has caused much inconveniences for me. He works as a Pilot in Indian Navy. He is returning to Diglipur, his current official place of posting.

I wake up from a deep sleep as the shrill sound of siren tears apart the peace of the dawn. The light is yet faint; a cool ocean breeze surrounds me in the deck with utmost care. Holing the railing I look down. The Ship is moored to a huge jetty. I whisper to myself, “Oh I see, it’s Mayabundar!”

A few more hours to spend in the Coral Queen—a cute name of the ship. Being back to the cabin, I find the gentleman has also woken up. He greets me, so do I. He takes me to an unforgettable tour to each of the amazing places within the ship—the slender mast standing tall like the Ochterlony Monument of my lovely city, the giant anchors in the mooring cabin, the frontal deck in the uppermost layer for exclusive use of the crews, the front lights, the fog lights, the life jackets and boats hanging tenderly from the outer walls, the wheels of ropes—treasuring all so fascinatingly new experiences in my life as my dreams of childhood travel along. He explains how such are used and when, in such a well-articulated manner, that my ears can’t freeze for a moment.  Then we move to the space where the soul of the ship resides—the Pilot’s cabin. The semi-circular frontal side is glass-covered, wide enough to accommodate a dozen of people, seating side by side. The navigation wheel is just like as I saw in my childhood book. Through all modernity in saturating the era, it has maintained its ancestral stature and look. The large mechanical compass gently sleeps in the middle of the table—romantically hugged by two electronic compasses. The archaic machine still helps in the event of any system failure of the sophisticated ones or when power supply gets snapped. In the midst of seeing and learning, the Pilot Sir points to a faint line of land dancing upon the emerald waves of Andaman Sea. Does Diglipur await me so passionately? I keep on looking for another endless time, sailing through the moments, interwoven in dreams and reality. The Ross and Smith islands are still connected by the sandbar, the Saddle peak is still capped by a white feather of clouds, the hump of the rocky island is still wet by kisses of morning dew.

“Didi, please come this side”, someone calls me in pure Bengali. Yes, Dipankar has already reached the Ariel Bay port to receive me. Within half an hour, I find myself settled in cosiness of the Turtle House—my home for a four days’ vacation. I have come to meet those distant guests, who would be swimming past a few thousand miles to arrive the desolate shore of Diglipur only to glorify the paths of creations, perhaps. Why do they travel so long? Just to feel mirth in attaining the motherhood; so far in a place, with so much of struggle offered and with so much of determination demanded? I wonder if it’s an allurement of life or a harsh spell of destiny that drives a turtle mother to swim for months to reach here, lay eggs and then swim back for her remote home again.

There are a few species of turtles—green turtle, hawksbill, leatherback, loggerhead and olive ridley—that travel to Andaman for breeding the new generation; they ride over the high tide waves to reach the shore, spend just an hour to lay eggs, and riding over the same receding waves, they swim back to the sea for travelling another thousand miles of journey. The mothers never know if their babies will crawl back to the sea, and how many of them will survive the traps of life; the giant creatures in the sea, learning what to eat and what not, miles of travel through undersea water—somewhere hot, somewhere cold—and finding the home neither they have been to nor seen in life; how pawned is a life by such an inexplicable law of nature that neither liberates them from a longing for the unknown home nor severs the bond of life from the cycle of creations.  None knows who has scripted the commandments for them and why so, in such a crude betrayal of destiny. I bear a dream to meet them—those ill-fated mothers; and I have come only to meet them this time.

There is a strict emergency imposed on the beach. The tourists are not allowed to enter into a few specified beaches at night without explicit permission issued by the Forest officials. In that special moment, the mothers, if scared, shall neither venture into the shore to lay eggs nor be able to keep them alive too for long. I say it is a special moment as the process of laying of eggs depends on numerous laws of nature. It seldom takes place in daytime. There must be a high tide in the night to help the mothers to stride on a sandy beach just wet enough to hold the eggs, and there must be a suitable place for each mother to lay as many as 100 to 150 eggs in complete peace of mind. After laying eggs, they cover it with sand; then slowly grovel down to the sea without looking back even for a single moment. What a strange rule that dictates their fate to define itself? The purest bond has to be severed when the moist skin of the eggs is yet to harden up. The unborn child, shall have to traverse through an unknown meadow of events of life and to sacrifice the life to unfold itself in knowing it, fulfilling it, enriching it and defining it as it would swim though thousand miles of a journey and of dreams to meet their unseen mothers.

All these happen just in an hour or so as the high tide doesn’t last for a longer time. My voyage to this lesser known part of North Andaman is only to enrich myself with an experience of such unimaginable events of life. It’s been anxious waiting through the day, and through a stoic evening. Time flies stealthily as do my wishes incessantly breaking upon my soul. Only whispers flow from ears to ears; yes, they are coming.

I heard that these species of turtles return to the place for laying eggs where they were once born. It is the tradition, and through ages, they stick to an unscripted rule of the Nature. The mother turtles come from Australia mainly. The forest officials stamp “Australia” on the back of the new-born turtles before their departure to the sea. The mothers who come now mostly carry the mark “Australia” on their back, only to confirm the fact that they indeed were born here. What a magical rule of Nature! Through endless span of time, the mothers make a strenuous journey of a few thousand miles to lay their eggs; only to leave seeds of their creations to prosper in utter nativity. And, they travel back with wet eyes; silently, yet in graceful, dignified and proud manner of attaining the bliss of the motherhood, in a rarest process of creativity. I wonder and between the flowing thoughts, something chokes my throat. Unknowingly, my eyes are filled with tears. I fail to perceive, is it for the pain they bear or the spirit of an infallible mother that outshines the pride of the mightiest lords of the Heaven.

At around 9.30 in the night, I fetch myself to the beach. I whisper in the ears of the Lord, “I shall have a tryst with a mother who bears a complete faith within to leave behind her unborn babies in the care of Mother Nature after a brief sojourn to this distant land.”

A gentle breeze is blowing from the east. The ringing tune of waves has turned into a gargling sound now. The Forest officials have all dispersed in a wide beach. In dim light of my cell phone, I glance upon the shore, and the clock, in one full swing. The voice trembles. Will they come? Will they? At around 11 in the night, I notice some restiveness in those silhouetted movements of the forest officials on the beach. One of them, requests everyone to retreat from the waterline. Are they coming? Yes, she is! Two strings of rays of cell phones are following her linear progress through the wet face of a sandy beach. Thousand miles she has travelled to leave her wishes to be fulfilled in this precious place of the world! After a while, her nervous steps take refuge to a long pause. Holding our breath, we allow our hearts to beat as faintly as it doesn’t break the silence. Only rays of two cell phones are visibly active on this wide beach. We wait patiently to witness an eternal truth so intensely secreted in the texture of creations. Then, the precious moment comes. She lays two eggs in her first release; yes, two together. The breathlessness is choking the flow of time in suspense of events. In a deserted beach, only a few people are witnessing the purest form of creation, while the ocean, the moon, the wind, and the dark sky shower their blessings upon her; to the indomitable spirit of a mother. Never ever have I felt such a purity of love expressed so soulfully for a mother in this heartless world.

The forest officials are progressively removing the gathered sand from the laying location. I can see her face now. The delight in offering her best creation upon the lap of the Nature and the modesty of pride in defeating all adversities have turned her face into an angelic one. The glimmers of a satisfying motherhood are emanating even in the darkest corner of the world. What are those sparkling dots in corner of those tiny eyes? I wonder and I stoop down. Is she crying? Is she crying in pain—of traversing a path of destiny, of orphaning the babies once born, of anxieties of their wellbeing—or in the divine pleasure of motherhood? I place my palm gently upon her wet sand-strewn back. Her angelic face bears the signature of delight—an elegant smile—while the teardrops are still dangling upon her half-closed eyes. I listen to her whispers, “Yes, I have become a mother!” A brief pause intervenes and she, perhaps, whispers again. Perhaps, she prays for the wellbeing of her babies; I don’t know, if it’s been an expression of unbearable pain too.

She has completed what she has to. She is returning; not to return again, without even looking behind. Slowly, she creeps on; towards those crashing waves, to an ocean full of contentment, to an abode that have nurtured her dreams to prosper. She proceeds on with her fatigued steps narrowing the distance between the land and the water, her dreams and, her existence and that of her children. She travels back along the path that her unborn babies will follow in a near future.