Mainlanders Swap Metro Chaos for Andaman’s Calm and Greenery
By Manu Shrivastava
And then there’s the unquantifiable magic. Sunsets that turn the harbour into molten gold, waves curling over coral reefs just offshore, the occasional dolphin breaking the surface mid-afternoon, moments that turn routine into reverie. Dahiphale takes a slow walk along the pier at dusk, breathing in the scents of fish and salt, the sounds of birds and distant drums from a festival across town.
Step off a flight or ferry into Port Blair, and the difference hits immediately. The city unfolds gently, bathed in sunlight and sea breeze, where roads meander through clusters of coconut palms and the pace of life feels measured, deliberate. Unlike the relentless rush of Mumbai or Delhi, mornings begin with the low hum of local markets waking up, children’s laughter drifting over quiet streets, and the distant call of coastal raptors over the harbour. Time seems to bend around the city, stretching long enough to notice the scent of salt in the air, the green shimmer of hills, and the soft rhythm of everyday life.
Navnath Dahiphale knows this sensation intimately. Founder and owner of the NBD Diagnostic Centre in Port Blair, he straddles two worlds, one dominated by deadlines, hospital corridors, and the ceaseless pulse of Pune and Navi Mumbai, the other ruled by tides, sunlight, and silence. He talks about the cities with the easy fluency of someone who has inhaled their chaos and paid the price. “I shuttle between my homes in Pune and Navi Mumbai for work, and while those cities pulse with energy and opportunity, they never sleep,” he says. “Coming back to Port Blair is like hitting the 'reset' button. Silence here isn’t a luxury you buy; it’s the default. You step outside, and the world exhales with you.”
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| Mainlanders are now realising the benefits of moving to Andaman to avail health benefits |
It’s not just the absence of noise, it’s the presence of everything else. Trees sway, the harbour shimmers in turquoise patches, and the coconut palms whisper in a breeze that smells of distant islands and open seas. Dahiphale walks along the shore and talks about life recalibrating at a cellular level. You almost believe the air itself is administering therapy.
Others have made similar pilgrimages. Arjun Mehra, a 42-year-old former consultant, spent fifteen years in Delhi measuring life in traffic signals and office hours. He now wanders Port Blair’s streets with a grin reserved for the newly liberated. “Here, the only congestion I face is a slow-moving herd of cattle,” he chuckles. “
My lung capacity has improved, yes, but the mental clarity, that’s the real miracle.” Mehra gestures at the winding roads flanked by hibiscus and guava trees, where children pedal bicycles with carefree abandon, dogs stretch in sunbeams, and elderly couples stroll without the press of schedules or deadlines.
For Meera Nair, a writer who relocated from Kochi to a small home near Chidiyatapu, the islands are a daily revelation. “Back in Kochi, urbanisation was catching up too fast. Concrete was swallowing the coastline, and even the backyards had stopped smelling like soil and rain,” she says, her eyes following a flock of pelicans skimming the horizon.
"Here, 'organic' isn’t a marketing buzzword. It’s the papaya growing in my backyard, the fish caught two hours before it hits my plate. The sea is generous, and the land is patient. You don’t need to chase life, it arrives naturally.”
The health benefits are tangible. Doctors on the islands note that “Mainland Migrants” often arrive with what they call “Metropolitan Syndrome”: high stress, vitamin D deficiencies, and respiratory sensitivities worn like badges of survival in the city.
The cure? Oceanic air rich in negative ions that seems to lift the clouds from your mind, forested terrain that invites daily “forest bathing,” and hilly streets that turn simple errands into low-impact cardio. One can watch the transformation unfold, tight shoulders relax, hurried steps slow, and laughter becomes louder, more frequent, less performative.
Beyond the physiological, there’s the social fabric. Andaman & Nicobar Islands pride themselves on being “Mini-India.” Throughout the year, it won't be surprising to find Durga Puja celebrations from West Bengal, witness Pongal from Tamil Nadu, or catch Baisakhi festivities from Punjab, all celebrated with warmth and enthusiasm.
There is a harmony in this cultural mosaic, a sense that diversity is celebrated rather than competed over. Mehra, Nair, and Dahiphale all remark on how refreshing it is to participate in community life without the friction they once took for granted on the mainland.
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| NBD Diagnostic Centre's Navnath Dahiphale |
“This is what people forget to ask for when they chase the metro dream,” he says quietly. “They forget that life isn’t just about arriving. Sometimes, it’s about noticing the light on the water, the pause between waves, the way your own heartbeat slows when the world finally does the same.”
For the growing tribe of mainlanders, the shift is less about escape and more about reclamation. They aren’t running from their cities but towards something older and truer: a life measured in sunlight and seasons, in laughter that isn’t scheduled, in food that tastes like the world itself rather than a label.
In the Andamans, it seems, India’s promise isn’t in glass towers or crowded intersections. It’s in the rustle of leaves, the shimmer of turquoise waves, and the profound, restorative luxury of silence. Here, life is slower, clearer, and infinitely more vibrant, a reminder that sometimes the most radical revolution is simply to breathe.
