Nature Knows Our Name: The Nicobarese People
- Matrena Martin
- Aug 1
- 6 min read
Updated: Aug 2
There are places on this earth that do not need to announce themselves. They do not clamor to be seen, nor do they bend. They endure silently, and adapt.
Car Nicobar or Pū, is one such place.
Here, in the southern arc of the Andaman and Nicobar Islands, time is not a line but a loop. Life exists in cycles - of tides and trees, of moonlight and monsoon, of stories passed from grandmother to grandchild.
For those of us who belong to these islands - nature is not separate from self. The living world is our inheritance. And on most days, it is also our teacher.
I share with you some stories of my people and our home.
Kusü
The annual calendar includes many festivals, some of which were adopted from Christian missionaries, although most are rooted in rituals that involve nature. These festivals serve as markers of the community’s relationship with the ecosystem. Personally, the most memorable festivals have always been Christmas and Kusü, as both take place during the school holidays. As children, we were encouraged to participate in rituals to “call the rains,” where simple practices celebrating a healthy ecosystem are observed.
Christmas brings the entire island together; we go caroling throughout the month, while Kusü reminds us of the abundance of green and the vast ocean that surrounds us. It is a month of gratitude for everything nature has to offer. It feels like an offering of goodwill passed from one village to the next. Among the fifteen villages, it is said that wherever the first drizzle falls is where the ritual begins.
Many families gather in a designated home, often that of an elder or the longest-standing house in the community. Each family contributes whatever their garden yields: coconuts, wood, bananas, roots, and fresh ocean catch. Elders, who are the keepers of ancestral knowledge, teach the preparation of a special dish that is cooked through the night, stirred in a silent dance.
The dish, once cooked, is doughy and sweet. It is wrapped in a leaf, and the first portion that comes out of the vessel is sent to the neighboring village, signaling that they may begin their own Kusü, also known as Kinropo.
Kusü is an auspicious time, as the Nicobarese deeply embrace their culture and sacred knowledge. During the food preparations, the process is carried out in silence. No man-made metals or utensils are used. It is believed that we must use what we make. The intention is to remove “non-Nicobari” elements from our lives and celebrate who we are as humans. In our language, the word tarik means human, and it is also commonly used to refer to a Nicobarese person.
Storage is done using baskets woven by the community. One of my favourites, which I still use today, is the Kunheal - a thorny rattan stem used to grate coconuts and make oil. Kusü is brought to every home by the elders. The word itself means blessings and good health. It is marked in front of our homes by a stick planted in the soil. This stick holds a tender coconut and a tender coconut leaf, symbolising the beginning of good times.
The Cicadas’ Call
My grandma once said, “Come home before the cicadas’ call.” It was her way of marking the setting sun and the arrival of darkness - a time when the forest floor becomes difficult to navigate and there is no light to guide you home. Over time, it became a common practice: to return home when the cicadas began their song. The children followed this obediently.
It was one of those beliefs with no clear origin, perhaps simply never questioned, and yet it was followed without resistance.
There was no time on the clock - there was no clock at all. There were house rules, not written down, but understood. An unspoken rhythm shaped our days, held together by the quiet trust within the family.
Listening to the Land
The Nicobarese have embraced nature’s cadences and woven them into the fabric of their lives. Gardens and orchards are carefully nurtured and provide food for the community. Nuances of knowledge are passed down through generations and continue to be respected and followed. No one goes into the ocean when it is furious. Avoiding the forest during the rainy season is another saying passed down by elders, and we continue to honour it.
My grandma had knowledge of medicinal plants that she learned from her parents. She knew which plants could soothe body pain when infused in hot water; which leaves to apply on wounds to help them heal faster; and how to draw out a blood clot using a fish’s mouth. I witnessed these practices in my household whenever there were mild illnesses. This reflected her deep-rooted knowledge and lived experience of the relationship between the body and nature.
Interacting with animals through hunting and fishing has always been a vital part of our lives. For me, catching crabs is the most exciting part of my time back home. An entire cycle of weather is understood and observed to predict when the crabs will emerge from their burrows. It is not merely a task, but a reflection of intuition and reciprocity with nature.
It is observed that crabs come out during the full moon and high tide because they can hear the shore drawing closer.
During this time of year, the air is cooler, and the elders say crab meat can be consumed as it is warming in nature. The tribe relies on moonlight to go out hunting. They stand between the shoreline and the forest, believing the crabs come out to take a bath before returning to their burrows. This experience is often described as a game of hide and seek, one that mirrors the rhythm between humans, the land, and the sea.
The tides play a significant role in deciding what is consumed from the ocean’s offerings. During low tide, in shallow waters, octopuses reveal themselves under the rocks and are gathered for food. Catching shellfish becomes an activity shared by children and their parents, who search together near the shore.
Carrying Home
A pair of king coconuts were gifted to my parents at their wedding by my grandparents as a symbol of growth and good health. At my wedding, my mother continued this tradition and gifted us a pair of king coconut saplings, flown from the Andamans to Jaipur. The plants had to pass through uninformed airport security, who nearly stopped me from carrying them, comparing the saplings to copra and claiming they were flammable.
It has now been eight months since they were planted, and today, they are thriving in my garden.
Two Ways of Seeing
I believe indigenous ecology is anchored in tradition and cultural practice, while modern ecology is data-driven, shaped by scientific reasoning and backed by research. Indigenous knowledge does not simply solve problems; its threads are woven with emotion, respect, and the identity of a people who see themselves as belonging to the ecosystem, rather than separate from it. Their identity is incomplete without the land, just as the land is incomplete without them.
For example, a plant may be labeled a weed in a textbook, its characteristics listed and classified. But when a story shared by a community reveals a relationship with that same plant, perhaps one used in rituals, or one revered for its rare appearance in a particular forest - suddenly, that plant carries meaning.
Even the exchange of plants from one garden to another becomes a moment of connection, a gathering of families, a quiet ceremony of respect.
Of Belonging and Becoming
Many times, I have found myself in conflict when trying to understand the beliefs of my community, especially as someone who belongs to a tribal culture. With the privilege of education and exposure to diverse cultures across India, the instinct to reason often overshadows and blurs the quiet magic of belonging. Belonging, for me, is a space where I question but do not reason. I find tension between the world I was exposed to and the world shaped by ancestral knowledge. Over the years, I have learned not to reason, but to belong.
The Nicobarese have preserved ancestral wisdom and cultural practices as essential parts of their identity. While modern ways of living and reasoning do seep into my time at home, I make a conscious effort to block them out in order to truly be present.
Today, my understanding of Nicobarese culture is not rooted in scientific reasoning, but in lived experience, ancestral wisdom and a deep, reciprocal relationship with the environment.
As a Nicobari girl now living in the city, I continue to chase my dreams while staying grounded in where I come from. I carry both worlds within me and live these dual realities with pride.
The Nicobarese way teaches us that nature has always known our name. And if we are quiet enough, if we stop reasoning long enough to simply listen - we might just remember how to answer.
About the author
Matrena is a girl of the forest, and then, of the island. Her escapes are quiet, into the woods or adrift like a lone coconut on the sea. She finds joy in simplicity and weaving creativity into life as a form of survival. Working with her hands keeps her sane, connected and whole, it's how she listens inward when the world is too loud.
She can nap anywhere a moving bus, a patch of grass, or mid-conversation (no offence).
Comments