The cover of Tim Severin’s book ‘The Sindbad Voyage’ (1982), which chronicles his ambitious 9,600-kilometer journey from Oman to China. The book provides rare insights into Lakshadweep’s traditional society just before it began experiencing significant modernization.
In 1982, when British explorer Tim Severin sailed into the Lakshadweep archipelago, he was, in his own words, likely the first Westerner to visit since India’s independence. His journey, meant to recreate Sindbad’s legendary voyages, instead documented something equally remarkable: the last days of a unique island society that had remained virtually unchanged for centuries.
Severin’s mission had begun with the construction of the Sohar, a 26-meter vessel built exactly as ancient Arab ships would have been. The wooden planks were sewn together with coir rope, four tonnes of it, harvested from Lakshadweep’s coconut husks, without using a single nail. This challenging endeavor was made possible by Ali Manikfan, a remarkable islander from Minicoy whom Severin would come to call his “Man in a Million.”
Manikfan proved to be far more than just a master shipwright. As Severin wrote, he was a renaissance man who could “cook and sew, sail a boat, mend an engine, or make up a book of accounts.” Most impressively, through years of careful observation, “he knew the Latin name of every fish and shell on his islands.” Under his leadership, thirty shipbuilders camped in the Omani port of Sur, where they constructed the Sohar in less than a year.
Ali Manikfan in his later years. This self-taught polymath from Minicoy Island was described by Tim Severin as his ‘Man in a Million’ for his encyclopedic knowledge of traditional shipbuilding, marine life, and navigation that proved crucial to the success of the Sindbad Voyage.
The ship would eventually carry Severin on an epic 9,600-kilometer journey from Oman to China. But it was his stop in Lakshadweep that would provide the most fascinating insights into a way of life that was already beginning to fade.
The Lakshadweep Severin encountered was still operating under systems established centuries ago. Each island functioned as an autonomous commune, governed by a council of men who made decisions through consensus. These councils had no formal power. Their authority came purely from community respect and tradition. In his writings, Severin marvelled at how this seemingly fragile system had created one of the most peaceful societies he had ever encountered.
The colonial records he studied showed no instances of murder or violent assault. The worst crime typically recorded was coconut theft, and even then, the punishment was remarkably gentle. Offenders would simply be asked to sit in a corner facing the wall, like children in time-out. In this close-knit community, such mild public shaming was enough to maintain order.
A photo of a Chetlat girl that Tim Severin and his crew encountered. According to Severin, “Few Chetlat islanders had ever seen a stranger, and their women and girls ‘looked like clusters of tropical flowers scattered at random among the trunks of the coconut palms’…” (PC: Tim Severin, The Sindbad Voyage)
The only other significant transgression was failing to participate in communal rat hunts, organized to protect the islands’ vital coconut crops. These hunts were community events where young men would climb trees and shake the branches while others waited below with sticks. Even here, the system showed remarkable flexibility; those who missed a hunt could make amends by producing five dead rats within a few days. This gentle approach to governance had been deliberately protected during the British colonial period, when Lakshadweep was declared a restricted area to preserve its unique culture. The system worked because it was built on something more powerful than law enforcement: a deep sense of shared responsibility and mutual dependence.
The contrast with today’s Lakshadweep is stark. The islands now house a population of over 70,000, compared to around 35,000 in Severin’s time. Modern administrative systems have replaced the traditional councils. Police stations stand where once public shame was the only law enforcement needed. Tourism, while still restricted, has brought new influences and economies to the islands.
As seen in this photo excerpt from the book, skilled ropeworkers from Agatti Island demonstrate traditional ship-building techniques during the construction of the Sohar in 1980. Using coconut coir rope from Lakshadweep, they stitched the wooden planks together without using a single nail, following ancient Arab seafaring methods. (PC: Tim Severin, The Sindbad Voyage)
Perhaps the most significant change is in the relationship between the people and their environment. In Severin’s time, this relationship was seamless, and exemplified by people like Manikfan, who could read the sea like a book and knew every creature in it by name. Today, while fishing remains important, many younger islanders are more likely to seek government jobs or mainland opportunities than to learn traditional maritime skills.
Yet, remarkably, some elements of the old ways persist. The islands still maintain some of the highest literacy rates in India, a tradition that predates modern education systems. The crime rate, while no longer near-zero, remains among the lowest in the country. And in some of the more remote islands, community decisions are still made through consensus rather than decree.
Often mistaken in popular retellings for Ali Manikfan of Lakshadweep, this photograph actually shows Saleh Khamees, a veteran sea captain from Sur, Oman in conversation with Tim Severin (right) before the Sindbad Voyage. While Manikfan would later become crucial to the Sindbad Voyage’s success, it was conversations like this one with Khamees that laid the groundwork for the project. (PC: Tim Severin, The Sindbad Voyage)
Severin’s voyage, which ended up covering nearly 10,000 kilometers, was successful in proving that ancient Arab sailing vessels were capable of long-distance travel. But perhaps one of its more valuable legacies is this snapshot of Lakshadweep at a crucial turning point, capturing the last moments of an ancient way of life just as it began to transform.
Today’s visitors to Lakshadweep still find beautiful coral islands with turquoise lagoons and swaying palms. But Severin’s account reminds us of something less visible: a lost social paradise where community consensus replaced law enforcement, where shame was punishment enough, and where men like Ali Manikfan could build ships without nails and name every fish in the sea.
The Sohar in its final resting place outside Muscat’s Al Bustan Hotel, a fitting monument to both Tim Severin’s vision and Lakshadweep’s maritime heritage. Built using traditional methods with over 600 kilometers of Lakshadweep coir rope and not a single nail, the ship’s preservation celebrates not just Severin’s achievement but also the vital contribution of craftsmen like Ali Manikfan and the rope-makers of Agatti Island, who helped prove that traditionally constructed vessels were capable of legendary feats of navigation. (PC: @alexander_mcnabb, Instagram)
As Lakshadweep faces new challenges, from climate change to development pressures, Severin’s observations feel particularly poignant. They remind us that the islands once sustained a different way of living, one that balanced human needs with natural limits, and maintained order through cooperation rather than control. It’s a legacy worth remembering as the islands chart their course into the future.