Nature’s golden hour creates the perfect lighting for this evening performance at Kavaratti jetty. The setting sun paints the sky in colors that would make any cinematographer envious.
The Lakshadweep Islands are one of the few regions in India without a single theatre or cinema hall. Infact, the local Islamic customs here consider these unnecessary evils, and they are regarded as taboo. But oddly enough, watching TV, selling movies at shops, or even filming movies is allowed. A curious contradiction, right?
In a rare cinematic venture, the Malayalam film Anarkali captured the postcard-perfect scenery of Lakshadweep.
Despite the islands being a paradise of breathtaking beauty, only a few production houses from Kerala have braved the journey to capture this untouched land on film. As the popular Malayali cinema actor Prithviraj, whose 2015 movie Anarkali arguably brought Lakshadweep to a wider Kerala audience, said, “You can go anywhere in the world, but if you want to go to Lakshadweep, it’s not that easy.”
But for those who live there, the absence of a movie theatre hardly seems like a loss. You see, for the discerning observer, there’s a different kind of movie playing out everywhere you look. Lakshadweep doesn’t need theatres because it offers real-time, full-immersion cinema, right in front of your eyes.
Take a moment, and just look. Then, see. And finally, watch. Soon, you’ll realize that Lakshadweep is an ongoing reel of entertainment.
One of the regular bleating performers in Lakshadweep’s daily comedy show delivers an impromptu close-up worthy of any Hollywood headshot.
For instance, the goats bleating in different pitches all through the day? They bring to mind the hilarious antics of the penguins from Madagascar. A mother hen proudly strutting about with her tiny brood of chicks in tow? That’s Snow White and the Seven Dwarves for you! And cats, constantly chasing shrews in a never-ending Tom and Jerry-esque slapstick comedy, are a daily affair.
But let’s not forget the less endearing moments—like the spider webs spun all over the houses and trees. Not exactly Spiderman, mind you, more like Arachnophobia!
While not quite the friendly neighborhood Spider-Man, this arachnid actor provides its own daily drama in the islands’ natural theater.
The real magic of Lakshadweep lies in its ever-changing canvas of colours. The waters surrounding the islands put on a spectacular show that no CGI could ever replicate. In the shallows near the shore, the water shimmers in translucent turquoise. Further out in the lagoon, it transitions to a deeper azure, while the open sea beyond the reef presents a majestic deep blue. These aren’t static colours either. They shift and transform with the movement of clouds overhead, the position of the sun, and the changing tides.
Against this liquid rainbow, tall coconut palms stand stoically, their fronds swaying in perfect choreography with the sea breeze. At sunset, when the sky explodes in shades of orange and pink, these palms become dramatic silhouettes, creating a natural cinema screen that puts IMAX to shame.
Nature’s special effects department puts on a spectacular show as monsoon waves crash against a Lakshadweep jetty, creating a perfect rainbow in the spray.
And then, there’s the sea. The vast, unpredictable, blue expanse that surrounds us all. It throws up all kinds of references, depending on where you are looking. Sitting on the beach, watching the water’s surface ripple mysteriously? Well, that’s Jaws, isn’t it? Just waiting for something ominous to appear.
A glance at the eerie shipwreck resting on the southern end of Kavaratti Island brings to mind Poseidon and its ill-fated journey across the seas. Dive underwater, and it’s straight out of Finding Nemo: clownfish darting between corals, just as they do in Pixar’s world.
A rusty shipwreck rests off Kavaratti’s south eastern coast. The MV Nand Aparajita’s 2010 misfortune now serves as a dramatic backdrop against moody monsoon skies, looking like something straight out of ‘Poseidon’.
The underwater realm is perhaps the most spectacular theater of all. Schools of parrotfish paint the water in flashes of electric blue and green. Moray eels peer out from coral crevices like suspicious movie villains. Elegant angelfish glide past like celebrated divas, while tiny damselfish dart about like overenthusiastic extras.
A moray eel plays the classic movie villain, lurking in its coral hideout while parrotfish swim past in blissful ignorance.
Living in Lakshadweep offers more than just visual entertainment: it is a masterclass in mindfulness and natural history. Here, time moves at its own pace, governed by the rhythm of tides rather than the ticking of clocks. The absence of urban distractions creates space for deeper observation and contemplation.
Watch a hermit crab methodically searching for a new shell, and you’ll learn about patience. Observe how the coral reef ecosystem functions, and you will understand more about community and interdependence than any management textbook could teach. The islands offer daily lessons in sustainability, showing how humans can live in harmony with nature when they respect its boundaries and rhythms.
Tiny hermit crabs take center stage against the backdrop of Lakshadweep’s waves, patiently performing their age-old routine of shell-hunting.
In our hyper-connected world of endless notifications and constant entertainment, Lakshadweep provides a rare opportunity to disconnect and engage with a more meaningful show: the theater of life itself. Here, every sunrise is a curtain-raiser, every sunset a grand finale, and every moment in between filled with countless small dramas playing out in the sky, on land, and beneath the waves.
As for the travellers themselves? Well, we might fancy ourselves swaggering across the islands like Jack Sparrow from “Pirates of the Caribbean.” In reality, most of us probably resemble the bumbling but endearing Mr. Bean, navigating this unfamiliar paradise with a mix of wonder and mild confusion.
Who needs movie theaters when you have front-row seats to this kind of show every evening.
In the end, maybe that’s the reason Lakshadweep has no need for theatres. There’s no shortage of cinematic magic when you live in a place where nature is the director, the land and marine animals are your cast, and the sea is the ever-changing set. The islands offer a form of entertainment that no artificial venue could match, one that educates while it entertains, that awes while it amuses, and that reminds us of our place in the greater story of life on Earth.
Lakshadweep is, in itself, a continuous, immersive movie, one that doesn’t need a ticket to watch.
Just open your eyes, and let the show begin.