Evening rush hour on the islands was a scene unimaginable a decade ago. The influx of two-wheelers has transformed Lakshadweep into an island of constant movement and noise.
Let’s talk about something weird happening in Lakshadweep. Most people would wax lyrical about the beautiful sea, the friendly locals, or the delicious seafood. But there’s this one thing that is completely unexpected but with the potential to drive anyone a bit crazy: the noise.
Specifically, the honking. Oh, the honking.
Kavaratti, the most populated island, has become ground zero for what can only be described as an acoustic nightmare. Picture this: an island so small you could cycle across it in 20 minutes, yet somehow packed with more noise than a city ten times its size. Bikes and scooters zip around like they have got somewhere incredibly important to be. Except, spoiler alert, they really don’t.
Evening gatherings featuring motorbikes have become a common sight across islands, where vehicles serve as both transport and social hubs.
The horn has become an art form here. There are different types, each with its own personality:
- The Loud Honker: Believes volume equals importance
- The Shrill Horn Expert: Capable of shattering glass and eardrums
- The Prolonged Blaster: The 10-second horn that feels like a small eternity
- The Quick-Fire Specialist: The 1-2-3 burst that says absolutely nothing
It’s almost funny how desperately these islands are trying to copy mainland chaos. As if having more noise somehow makes a place more modern or sophisticated. Spoiler alert number 2: it doesn’t.
The absurdity reaches new heights when you consider the logistics. Two-wheelers keep arriving by the dozens on every ship from the mainland, despite two glaring problems that nobody seems to want to acknowledge. First, there’s the obvious lack of proper roads. Most of these bikes end up navigating narrow concrete paths between coconut groves or sandy lanes that were never meant for motorized traffic. Second, and perhaps more crucially, there is the perpetual shortage of petrol. The islands have no fuel stations. Petrol arrives in barrels on ships, is stored in various ration shops, and sold in bottles and cans.
Yet this hasn’t deterred the steady stream of new vehicles. Kavaratti, with its mere 4 square kilometre area and 11,000-strong population, already has over a thousand registered two-wheelers. It is clearly racing towards saturation point, with Minicoy and Androth following close behind. At this rate, there are likely to be more bikes than trees on these tiny coral islands, a thought that would have seemed absurd just a decade ago.
A hired autorickshaw equipped with massive speakers crawls through Kavaratti’s lanes, blaring political announcements. When the constant honking of two-wheelers isn’t enough to fill the island’s soundscape, these mobile loudspeakers ensure no corner remains untouched by the new acoustic culture.
The monsoons are the only saving grace. During those months, the roads become slippery, the vehicles remain parked, and blessed silence returns. It is as if the islands take a deep breath and remember what peace sounds like.
But the moment the rain stops? The noise orchestra starts up again. Engines revving, horns blaring, as if the very act of moving requires a sonic announcement.
Ok yes, this is beginning to sound like a rant but it is more an observation of transformation.
The vehicles represent something more than mere transportation. They are symbols of connection, of a desire to bridge the seemingly infinite distance between island intimacy and mainland mobility. Each honk is a small declaration: we are here, we are moving, we are changing.
Two-wheelers have invaded even the narrowest paths of these tiny islands – where proper roads are few but vehicles are many.
The islanders aren’t importing chaos deliberately. They are exploring new rhythms, testing new possibilities. Progress isn’t always smooth, and socio-cultural evolution rarely follows a neat, predictable path.
The scooters and bikes represent freedom, possibility, even development. But at what cost?
There has always been something magical about island life – its quietness, its connection to nature, its ability to let you hear yourself think. And with each unnecessary honk, that magic gets a little harder to hear.
An old islander finds his solace by cycling to the sea front, one of the few remaining spaces where the rapidly disappearing silence of Lakshadweep still prevails.
Maybe there is a middle ground. A way to have mobility without turning the entire island into a sound pollution festival. A recognition that not every mainland habit needs to be imported wholesale.
For now, the horns continue. The engines keep growling. And somewhere beneath all that noise, the sea continues to do what it’s always done: roll in, roll out, completely unbothered.