Katchatheevu: A forbidden island opens its gates briefly

The beaches of Katchatheevu have no sand. There are variously coloured corals, shells and skeletons of sea beings instead.

Greenish-blue water, cool through the seasons, surround them.

Every nook rings with the perpetual music of waves, only its rhythm changing with the tide. Forbidden to man — both Indian and Sri Lankan — this stunning 282-acre islet remains pristine.

Last year, after a gap of nearly three decades, Sri Lanka decided to allow Indians to visit St Anthony’s shrine, the only man-built structure in the uninhabited island, for two days. That was more like a peace offering to mark the end of a long-drawn civil war with the LTTE. But for the fishermen of Rameswaram, stepping foot in Katchatheevu has been like returning home, not just a pilgrimage.

This year, registrations at Rameswaram began weeks ago. On March 19, multiple counters of police, customs, revenue, coastal security and others were set up. Fisher-folk – sleepy babies perched on hips, huge steel vessels filled with food on one hand and a water-can on another, bags over shoulders – queued up at the jetty as early as 3am. Over 3,000 huddled there. Ten boats were rejected, and several people went back dejected.

After over 12 hours, our boat left the jetty with 41 passengers. It was a fishing trawler, and had no seats. You could plonk down on the floor, or perch on its sides. In all, 81 mechanised fishing vessels and 34 country boats fitted with outboard engines left the jetty that day.

Rumours were rife that the ‘super moon’ would make the sea rough. “Day before yesterday, winds were wild. Electric wires snapped and set 20 houses on fire. I wonder how it will be today,” said Fatima Mary, who had visited Katchatheevu once before, in 1981. She was a young bride then. Now, she has a college-going daughter but she didn’t come for the trip. “It’s expensive. We have to pay Rs350 per head. Also, after the fire, many of us were scared and decided against travelling with children on the big moon day,” Mary added.

“Hush! Even the tsunami spared us. When St Anthony is watching over us, what is a stupid moon!” Rani J retorted. This was Rani’s first trip to Katchatheevu. Yet she could speak authoritatively about the island. In fact, everyone in the boat, except the baby, a toddler and a 12-year-old, knew its history.

The story so far
At the beginning of the 17th century, the Ramanad and Sivaganga regions were ruled by the Sethupathis. They had 69 villages and eight islands, including Katchatheevu. For rituals at the Ramanatha temple, the milk from cows grazed in Katchatheevu was used. Later, when missionaries came to Rameswaram, many converted to Christianity, and St Anthony’s church was built around 100 years ago. Fishermen of the region believe that Saint Anthony — ‘Anthoniyaar’ to them — had visited India long ago.

Folklore says that he was distractingly handsome with long beautiful hair. He noticed that the churchgoers were gaping at him, paying scant attention to his sermons. So, he shaved off his hair, keeping just a small circle in the centre. This ‘Anthoniyaar mottai’ has become a fashion among devotees.

Post-independence, the islet came under the government of India. The fishermen would go there often to fish, dry their nets, and rest. In 1974, the International Maritime Boundary Line (IMBL) was settled in the Palk Strait, and Sri Lanka bagged the islet. Indian fishermen and pilgrims were still allowed access without any travel documents.

Soon, however, tensions between Tamils and Sinhalese soured Sri Lankan-Indian relations. In 1982, the Lankan government barred Indians from participating in the church festival, and fishermen were no longer permitted to fish around the islet.

But the sea between Rameswaram and Katchatheevu feeds close to 3,500 fishing vessels from India alone. Fishermen inevitably strayed across the IMBL and came under attack from the Lankan Navy. Several were killed and injured. These incidents inflamed regional passions further.

Across the waters
The journey to Katchatheevu is no odyssey. It takes just three hours to traverse the 18 nautical miles, and as the waters are familiar to the fishermen, even country boats make it through effortlessly.

At the first glimpse of the island, everybody in the boat leaned out to stare. Long sighs followed, all joyous.

Although the fishermen believe St Anthony to be their ‘Paathukaapu Kadavul’ — the God who looks after them and the sea — at least a third of the travellers were Hindus, and about 100 were Muslims. For them, the island is about their identity, not necessarily religious. “That was our land. Indira Gandhi gave it away without asking us, and now, we can’t even fish in our waters,” Arasu R, a fervent activist, explained.

Arasu has been to Katchatheevu five times earlier, but only once with permission last year. Wasn’t he scared? “What’s there to fear? Do I have to seek permission to visit my home, my land? I am not a terrorist; I go there to worship our God. It is an undeniable part of our culture, and we mean no harm,” he said.

He believes that if permission had been easier to procure, at least one lakh Tamilians would go here. But the authorities don’t care, he said. “They harass us. They didn’t even make provisions for drinking water or toilets today at the check-in counters. While frisking, officers threw out food wrapped in plastic covers. Fishing tokens aren’t given for these two days, but do they feed us then? No!”

Surprise! Surprise!
“They are the agents of Yama,” Murugesan, an old fisherman, had said about the Lankan Navy before we landed. He had lost a relative to their bullets, and had had many close calls while fishing. Everyone in the boat had apprehensions. There was just one check-in counter, and a thin rope barricade on the beach.

Several Lankan officers walked up and down. Surprisingly, they were all smiles.

The islet was bustling. Small groups had cleared shrubs and set up camps. Fires were lit, food was being cooked. Our group had brought ten hens to slaughter for a feast. Like a scene from the teething days of civilisation, make-shift houses were being made, bartering this for that. There were Lankan stalls selling candies, soaps, biscuits, jaggery and St Anthony pictures. Many ran to find a dark spot behind the shrubs to relieve bursting bladders. Shy women simply had no choice.

Meanwhile, an evening mass was on at the church. It is a tiny shrine, with a huge empty ground in front, where thousands gathered. Most men were drunk by then. “That’s nothing new. Our men have to drink for happiness and for sadness. You watch out,” Rani warned before rushing off for the sermon.

“It is surprising how food was seized while a stupendous amount of alcohol escaped the authorities,” exclaimed Dr N Kannan, professor of sociology from Thirunelveli, who had come for research.
Past midnight, all settled down to sleep. There were no beds. You just had to find a reasonably smooth surface. But there were no mosquitoes, and with a huge moon right above, sleep came easy.

Next day, at around seven, the church mass began. This time, all 6,000 plus on the islet were in attendance. Several Lankan authorities were present. After the ceremony, all were asked to clear out from the island by 11am. The walk back to the beachfront was long. Everybody dragged their feet, a heavy heart compounding the weight of the luggage.The Lankan officers seemed contrite. “We aren’t bad people. We are like you. I have never beaten up a Tamilian. Believe me,” a young officer said.
The return trip was sombre. Everyone vowed to come back again next year, despite the hardship. “Anything is OK, if it is for Katchatheevu,” Mary said.