Rajat Lall
Swaraj Dweep (Havelock Island), June 10: The sands of Swaraj Dweep still shimmer in the sun, and the waves continue to lap the beaches with quiet rhythm. But behind the postcard-perfect landscape, a growing unease is taking root—one born of reflection, regret, and reckoning.
For many residents of Havelock, formerly a sleepy resettlement colony for post-Partition Bengali migrants from Bangladesh and West Bengal, the boom in tourism has brought prosperity, but not for all.
Starting in the 1980s, the Indian government rehabilitated several hundred migrant families in Havelock, giving them parcels of land to rebuild lives interrupted by political displacement. But over the decades, with little knowledge of real estate or market forces, many residents sold off their land holdings, often for meagre sums, unaware of the goldmine they were sitting on.
The Rise of Havelock
Havelock Island, now officially known as Swaraj Dweep, is often seen as the crown jewel of the Andaman and Nicobar Islands. Over the past two decades, it has transformed from a quiet island settlement into one of India’s most sought-after tropical getaways.
Blessed with pristine beaches, turquoise waters, and vibrant coral reefs, Havelock first drew backpackers and scuba divers looking for an offbeat escape. But as word spread, investors and luxury travellers followed. Today, the island is home to some of the country’s most exclusive resorts, including the sprawling Taj Exotica Resort & Spa and the eco-sensitive Barefoot at Havelock. Radhanagar Beach, one of its main draws, now holds Blue Flag certification and consistently ranks among Asia’s best.
Improved connectivity, through daily ferries, helicopter links, and increased air-sea transport, has only strengthened its appeal. Boutique cafes, dive schools, yoga retreats, and wellness spas dot the island, offering curated experiences for high-end Indian and global tourists alike.
“In the ’90s, a beach-facing two-acre plot sold for ₹50,000,” said Kashav Deb, manager at a local resort. “That same land today would easily be worth ₹8 to ₹10 crore.”
According to local estimates, inland residential plots now fetch ₹25 to ₹30 lakh for just 200 sq. ft. Prime beachfront land often crosses the ₹1 crore mark per small segment. The price appreciation has been astronomical, but many of the original landholders no longer own a square foot of it.
People sold because they had no money. They had families to feed,” said Nath, a coconut vendor. “They never thought this place would become a tourist hotspot.
Several locals echoed this sentiment: a combination of financial distress, lack of education, and total absence of legal or advisory support created a vacuum where informed decision-making was impossible.
In some cases, residents say they were actively manipulated. “There were boys in one family who got addicted to substances given by some agents,” one islander recounted. “Once they were hooked, they pressured their parents to sell land. It broke the family.”
Such stories of coercion and exploitation, though difficult to verify independently, point to a broader failure of governance, especially in protecting vulnerable communities from land speculation and predatory practices.
Today, many of those who once owned large tracts of land on the island now work as gardeners, cooks, cleaners, or security staff on the very properties their families once controlled. “Earlier, that land was ours. Now we work there,” said a former landowner, now employed as a maintenance worker at a luxury resort. “It hurts, watching tourists enjoy what we lost.”
A few have adapted, launching modest homestays, running scuba schools, or operating food stalls. But these success stories are few and far between.
Though government support schemes for tourism entrepreneurship or financial literacy exist on paper, implementation remains patchy. “There’s talk of subsidies and training,” said one middle-aged resident, “but nobody tells us how to apply. The officers don’t come here often.”
With rising land values and increasing interest from investors and developers, there is now a pressing need for legal aid, land literacy programmes, and transparent grievance redressal mechanisms to ensure that further displacement doesn’t take place under the garb of ‘development’.
What is striking is that most locals are not opposed to tourism or change. They understand that development is inevitable. What they seek is a seat at the table and a chance to participate in the prosperity of the island.
“We don’t want to stop growth,” said T.K. Poddar, a vegetable vendor. “We want to grow with it.”
That statement captures the essence of what Swaraj Dweep now stands for: an island of opportunity, shadowed by the mistakes of the past, but still capable of charting a more inclusive future.
As the government courts investment and luxury brands explore new resorts, the question remains: can this paradise still belong to its people?
