Water surrounds me on three sides. I am standing inside a temple in Rameshwaram that is built in the middle of the sea, linked to land by a short stretch of road.

There is no deity in this temple. Inside the small inner sanctum, two footprints carved in stone are etched on a chakra. Lord Ram had paused here in his journey to Sri Lanka to rescue Sita, and left his footprints here. This is why the temple is called Ramar Padam (Rama’s footprints).

I climb a flight of steps to the temple’s terrace. The sea spreads out in front of me. The white flecks of its waves lick the shore. This was where Ram had his first glimpse of Sri Lanka, says the priest, pointing to the far horizon.

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Crumbled remains of homes and buildings

Dhanushkodi, located barely 20km from Rameshwaram town, is neither an ordinary beach nor a tourist hang-out.

Like every other town located in and around Rameshwaram, Dhanushkodi too has a mythical connect to Ramayan. Ram broke the bridge to Lanka (Ramar Sethu) with a single stroke from his bow after the war, so that no other army could reach Lanka to invade it. That’s why the town is called Dhanushkodi, from Ram’s bow.

View Full Image The remains of the church’s entrance

I decide to head out to this deserted town to see what remains of it today. Despite the short distance, getting to Dhanushkodi from Rameshwaram isn’t easy. I take an auto to Moonram Chathiram, a few kilometres outside Rameshwaram town. From here, I climb onto one of the small trucks parked by the beach that ferries the few tourists who do visit the ruins.

During the 10km drive to Dhanushkodi, the bumpy road takes us through wastelands layered with sand. Thorny shrubs are scattered about. Suddenly the road’s tar surface disappears from beneath us. We are now driving on an unpaved surface.

The path is filled with huge puddles of water that splash as our tyres wade through. We are soon driving along the Indian Ocean, and through marshlands that form backwaters of the sea.

There isn’t a vehicle or house for miles around—and scarily for me, neither is there a road to be seen. Slowly, to my relief, the waters subside, and patches of land emerge. Shrubs and the trees sprout again from this waste land.

We are soon on a muddy road. Some broken monuments pop up by the sea shore. There are no signboards, but perhaps these abandoned ruins are a rather apt way for a town like Dhanushkodi to introduce me to its story.

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Floating stones were used in building the Ram Setu bridge in the Ramayan

Dhanushkodi used to connect India and Sri Lanka with a railway and ferry service. A train used to leave Madras (now Chennai) and reach a pier near Dhanushkodi, from where passengers boarded a ferry to Sri Lanka. This arrangement was called the Boat Mail. On the night the storm struck the town, this fateful train had been devoured by the water, along with all the passengers on board.

I see broken bricks scattered everywhere. I walk to the most photographed monument in Dhanushkodi—the ruins of a church. It stands tall and roofless. I can still see the outline of the spire. This church is the only ruin in Dhanushkodi which still preserves some traces of its former appearance.

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I spot a few fishermen heading out into the ocean. They live in makeshift huts here at times, although their hometowns are the villages around Rameshwaram town.

Pichimuthu is one of the fishermen. He is in his late 60s with a white flowing beard, and his skin tanned by the sea. Born in Dhanushkodi, he was eight years old when the storm surge struck the town. He was away from Dhanushkodi that night. When he came back, his home had disappeared. The sea had taken away his town, and his family, friends, and everyone he knew had disappeared.

The sunset traces Pichimuthu’s silhouette as he gazes out to the sea. The waves gently flow and ebb, showing no sign of that night when they had raged with an unstoppable fury.

Lakshmi Sharath is a media professional, travel writer and blogger based out of Bangalore. She blogs at Backpakker.blogspot.in

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