Cut off from mainland for decades, ₹100cr Rainbow bridge means a world to Perumbalam island

Kochi: For thirty years, Rosily has walked the same corridors of the GHS LP School in Perumbalam Island in Cherthala Taluk in Alappuzha, first as a student with a heart full of dreams, and now as an attendant. In the early 90s, when she cleared her Class 10 exams with high marks, she set her sights on a nursing career in Kochi. But in an island panchayat trapped in the middle of the vast Vembanad Lake and dictated by the chug of a ferry, dreams often ended on the shores. People like Rosily say that with the inauguration of the ₹100-crore Vaduthala-Perumbalam Rainbow Bridge, the next generation won't have to go through what they suffered.

On March 7, when Chief Minister Pinarayi Vijayan opens the bridge to traffic, it will do more than connect two points on a map. For nearly 13,000 residents, it marks the end of a “generational exile”, decades of struggle against isolation, economic stagnation, and the literal life-and-death stakes of living off-grid.

A life governed by the ferry clock
Life in Perumbalam has always been clocked. The rhythm of every household was dictated by the State Inland Water Transport Department (SWTD) boats and the panchayat-run Jankar (vehicle ferry). With the lake being unusually wide at this point, the crossing was never a simple task, and the islanders lived in the shadow of the mainland’s silhouette. From their shores, they could see Tripunithura, Kumbalam, and Poothotta in Ernakulam and Vaikom in Kottayam, yet those places often felt as distant as another continent.

With jankar services ending at 8.45 pm and the last boat at 9.45 pm, the island effectively locked its doors to the world every night. Missing the last connection wasn't just an inconvenience; it was a forced sleepover on the mainland.

“All of us, including our ancestors, have suffered,” says Raju, who runs a shop near the Market Jetty. “Even for urgent work, you had to be back before the boat service ended. I’ve had to sleep at the Panavally Jetty, shivering and fighting off mosquitoes, just because I missed the last boat. Even women and children would be stuck there all night, waiting for the 5.30 am service. We haven't even gone for a second-show movie in years,” he added.

The psychological toll was immense. “People on the mainland actually hesitate to send brides to Perumbalam. Countless wedding proposals were cancelled once the prospective families visited the island and realised they had to wait hours in a queue just to leave,” Rosily added.

Even for those with qualifications, the water acted as a barrier to employment. Aswathy, a trained lab technician born in Panangad, moved to the island after marriage, thinking she could continue her career but she was wrong.

“I applied to several labs on the mainland, but they rejected me the moment they saw my address. They said I wouldn't be able to meet shift requirements or come to work on time because of the travel issues. Finally, I had to stop working. Now, I bake cakes at home and sell them to islanders,” Aswathy recalled.

Education suffered a similar fate. While children on the mainland had access to a variety of schools, Perumbalam parents often felt forced to stick to the local government school to avoid the risks of the water. “If you send a child to a school outside, a parent has to travel with them on the boat every day. Now, for the first time in our history, school buses will actually drive to our houses,” said Shibu Kothattu, a grocery shop owner.

For those who did venture out, the memories are often traumatic. Namitha, who attended school in Udayamperoor, still remembers a stormy evening in Class 5. “I had to take the boat to Poothotta. One day, the wind was so strong that the boat lost control, and water started gushing in. I was screaming, fearing for my life. I nearly stopped going to school after that.” Namitha also recalled her wedding day, where she had to arrange special boats at ₹7,000 per day, yet many relatives still couldn't make it. “From now on, people don't have to worry about all those,” she said.

Because every bag of cement, vegetable crate, and household appliance had to cross on a jankar, prices on the island were higher than on the mainland.

“A loaded truck is charged ₹500 on the Jankar, and an empty one returning costs ₹250,” explained Somesh, a truck driver. “We have to charge the customers an additional ₹1,000 to compensate for the fees and the four hours we lose waiting in queues. With the bridge, we will have more trips and no waiting time.”

The absurdity of the situation is most visible in the island’s parking habits. While many residents own cars, the island’s roads are eerily quiet. “Most people park their vehicles at paid sites or relatives' houses on the mainland. Bringing a car across on the jankar isn't practical and economical,” Rosily explained.

The human toll: Mid-water emergencies
The most harrowing stories, however, are medical. When the ferries stopped at night, the island became a fortress. “There were times we had to carry patients to the mainland in our small country boats because the ferries weren't running. Braving the currents in the dark with a critical patient is something I’ll never forget,” said Anilkumar, a fisherman.

Mahila, 73, remembers a night 15 years ago when a pregnant woman was being carried to the jetty but couldn't wait any longer. “She delivered her baby right at my doorstep. We had to make temporary arrangements there and then carry her on an armchair to the local health centre. These are the dark memories of not having a bridge,” she said.

Bridge of unity
The fight for the bride was waged across decades and political lines. KP Sashikumar, Congress Block President and INTUC leader, emphasises the unity behind the cause: “The growth of Perumbalam was witnessed through various UDF and LDF governments. Finally, the bridge has become a reality. We all welcome it and are thankful to the government, irrespective of political affiliation.”

One of the most striking individual protests came from Arjun Santhosh. In 2016, as a 9th-grader, Arjun began swimming 3km across the lake every day to reach his school in Poothotta. “He braved wild currents and heavy rains,” says his father, Santhosh. “The government finally intervened and promised that the bridge would be built.” Arjun, now a PG student, is finally seeing that promise kept. “Sometimes I arrive from Kannur late at night and have to wait at the jetty until morning. All that changes now,” he said.

As the inauguration nears, the mood on the island is electric. Even those whose livelihoods depend on the current system are celebrating the progress. P Santhosh Kumar, a jankar engine driver, acknowledges the shift. “I’ll be jobless, but I don’t mind. We have all suffered too much," he said.

The economic impact is already being felt. Land values that once hovered around ₹50,000 per cent have skyrocketed to ₹3 lakh. Families who once fled the island, like Sandhya S, the state’s first woman licensed to operate high-power boat engines, are planning their return.

The 1.157 km long structure, with its iconic rainbow-colored bowstring arch, is more than a feat of engineering by the Uralungal Labour Contract Cooperative Society (ULCCS). According to Jess Lal of ULCCS, everything except the final tarring is complete, and KSRTC has already conducted successful bus trials.

To celebrate, the islanders have planned a symbolic act of defiance against their self-imposed old curfew. On the night of March 7, they have booked two tourist buses. They aren't going to a political rally; they are going to a mall in Kochi for a second-show movie.