By Pallavi Raghavan
On paper the Great Nicobar plan is quintessentially 21st-century India: a bold infrastructure push intended to turn a remote Indian Ocean island into a commercial gateway, a defence bulwark and a new urban node. The “Holistic Development of Great Nicobar Island,” approved in various forms since 2021, envisions a trans-shipment port, an international airport, power plants, trunk infrastructure, utilities and a coastal city across roughly 166–200 sq km of a 910 sq km island; a programme whose costs government sources have variously put in the tens of billions of dollars and which has been described in public documents and media reports as a project worth tens of thousands of crores of rupees. Proponents frame it as a strategic necessity that will create jobs, unlock maritime trade and secure India’s eastern seaboard; critics call it an ecological and social catastrophe that risks the survival of indigenous peoples and fragile ecosystems.
We attempt to elucidate what the Great Nicobar development actually comprises, why New Delhi says it needs the project, how it could lift local incomes and strengthen strategic posture, and why the costs, ecological, legal and human, are at the centre of a heated national debate. It draws on government documents, environmental assessments, court records and reporting by international and Indian outlets to cut through the rhetoric and assess whether the island’s transformation can be achieved without destroying what makes it valuable in the first place.
What the project is and what it entails?
The Great Nicobar plan, sometimes called the Galathea Bay or Great Nicobar mega-project, is a multi-decadal programme framed as an integrated package of port, airport, energy, townships and roads. Core elements publicised in official summaries and media accounts include a greenfield trans-shipment port intended to handle double-digit millions of TEUs annually; an international airport with dual civil-military use; power generation and distribution infrastructure; a trunk road network across the island; residential, commercial and industrial zones; and associated logistics and coastal protection works. Government documents and project proponents describe phased delivery over decades, with estimates that port throughput could reach levels that make the site competitive in the wider Malacca-Straits shipping ecosystem.
Official champions present the package as a single “holistic” project rather than a series of disconnected investments. That makes the scale stark, published reports and analyst notes refer to a project footprint of roughly 10–20 per cent of the island, and headline cost figures have circulated in the ₹40,000–₹2.7 lakh crore range depending on what elements are counted and which phases are included. The most ambitious port designs discussed in public reporting target annual capacities in the order of 14–16 million TEUs, numbers that would put the hub in contention with regional transshipment centres if realised, although they depend on massive dredging, reclamation and hinterland connectivity.
Why New Delhi says it is necessary: strategy and economics
Strategically the argument hangs on geography. Great Nicobar is India’s southernmost large island chain, about 90–100 nautical miles north of the entrance to the Malacca Strait, one of the world’s densest maritime chokepoints through which a substantial share of global trade and energy shipments transit. For decades Indian planners have argued that proximity to these lanes, and the ability to host both commercial and defence infrastructure, provides a forward base for surveillance, logistics and rapid military deployment in the eastern Indian Ocean. Public commentary from ministers and analysts stresses the dual civil-military benefits of an airport and port that could support tri-services operations, humanitarian missions and regional logistics. In essence, Great Nicobar is positioned as both an economic node and a strategic outpost in the Indo-Pacific.
Economically, policymakers argue three core payoffs. First, a deep-water trans-shipment facility near the Malacca approaches could capture a share of re-export traffic now routed through Singapore, Colombo and other hubs, raising port income and creating logistics jobs. Second, port and airport investment, combined with connected industrial clusters and tourism development, could spur local and regional growth, generate employment in construction and services, and integrate the Andaman & Nicobar Islands into national supply chains. Third, infrastructure investment is touted as a catalyst for private capital, shipbuilding, refrigerated processing for seafood exports, and green energy projects such as offshore wind and grid modernisation. Government briefings and media summaries project thousands of jobs and substantial revenue streams if the port cellars and city grow to planned scale, though such projections are contingent on global shipping patterns and large follow-on private investment.
How the project could raise local incomes, and for whom?
On paper the economic case for local uplift is straightforward. Construction phases will employ thousands in labour; a port, airport and tourism chain create long-term jobs in cargo handling, hospitality, ship services and logistics; fisheries and aquaculture can be modernised; and improved power and internet connectivity can enable small businesses and services to scale. Government documents and project social impact assessments estimate direct and indirect employment over the project life and promise packages for skill training, land compensation and new civic amenities for Nicobarese communities. Proponents emphasise that improved roads and electrification will reduce isolation for villages and increase market access for farmed and wild-caught seafood, an industry that already sustains livelihoods across the archipelago.
But the distributional picture is complex. Tribal communities, most notably the Shompen and indigenous Nicobarese, rely on forest and coastal resources and structured settlement patterns; many have limited engagement with formal wage labour. A major, rapid development thrust risks displacing traditional livelihoods and exposing isolated populations to disease, cultural disruption and marginalisation. Observers from civil-society and academia warn that without carefully designed benefit-sharing and long-term protections for customary rights, actual gains for local households may be modest while social and cultural costs mount. In contested impact assessments and meetings recorded in official filings, tribal representatives have repeatedly voiced concerns about resettlement procedures and consultation processes.
Strategic security: reducing vulnerability and creating new vectors
From a defence perspective, a credible port and airfield at Great Nicobar would extend India’s maritime domain awareness, shorten response times to incidents in the eastern Indian Ocean and enhance logistics for sustained naval and air operations. That, officials argue, reduces strategic vulnerability by providing forward basing, redundancy for mainland ports and clearer lines of supply in contingencies, an important attribute in the contest for influence with extra-regional navies operating in the Indo-Pacific. A dual-use airport and hardened logistical nodes would also support humanitarian assistance and disaster relief in an area that has historically suffered severe cyclones and tsunamis.
Yet installations that strengthen India’s reach can also be seen as geopolitical signalling. Regional analysts read the project as partly a response to China’s expanding maritime footprint, port developments, logistics investments, and commercial ties across South and Southeast Asia, and as an attempt to prevent the islands from becoming a domain of influence for other powers. Defence gains carry an implicit requirement for robust security, robust environmental management and resilient civilian infrastructure, all of which add cost and complexity.
Comparisons with adversary projects: why the hurry?
Part of the political urgency stems from global competition. China’s port diplomacy, Belt and Road projects and interest in regional logistics have reshaped Indian Ocean basins; partners from Sri Lanka to Myanmar have opened ports and industrial parks with Beijing’s investment. Indian strategists argue a slow response risks ceding both economic opportunities and influence. In that calculus the Great Nicobar programme is pitched as a counter-project: a sovereign Indian alternative that anchors trade nodes within Indian territory rather than through foreign-owned infrastructure. This geopolitical framing has given the project traction in Delhi, where infrastructure and security ministries see immediate returns in presence and influence. Critics counter that strategic needs do not justify ecological damage and that smarter, lower-impact investments, such as upgrading mainland ports or investing in maritime domain awareness networks, could provide many of the same security benefits at lower ecological and social cost.
Why this project breaks a decades-long pattern of neglect
Historically the Andaman & Nicobar archipelago received intermittent attention from central planners, and Great Nicobar in particular has been peripheral to mainland agendas. The current program represents a scale-up as integrated planning, large capital allocations and explicit tri-service military considerations emerge. It therefore breaks with an older pattern of piecemeal development by treating the island as a center of gravity for eastern maritime policy. For many proponents this is overdue, decades of underinvestment left the islands with limited roads, health infrastructure and energy access; a big-ticket project promises to accelerate upgrades and integrate the territory into national supply lines and services. That narrative has notable political resonance in Delhi: a visible demonstration of national intent in the Indo-Pacific.
Environmental, cultural and legal pushback
The project’s scale has invited vigorous opposition from conservationists, anthropologists and tribal rights advocates. Great Nicobar hosts rainforest, endemic fauna and important turtle-nesting beaches; scientific groups have warned of irreversible biodiversity loss if significant forest and coastal areas are cleared or dredged. International academics, environmental NGOs and some former bureaucrats have publicly urged cancellation or radical redesign, citing risks to endemic species and to isolated tribal communities who have survived with little external contact. Independent reports and NGOs emphasise that even limited contact can introduce disease and cultural collapse among small hunter-gatherer groups such as the Shompen.
Legally, the project has been in regulatory limbo at times. Environmental clearances have been granted and revisited; the government established a High-Powered Committee in 2023 to re-evaluate certain clearances and submitted its report in sealed form to the National Green Tribunal (NGT), citing national security reasons for confidentiality, a move that has intensified calls for transparency. At the same time, the Indian Supreme Court’s May 2025 decision banning retrospective environmental clearances has tightened the legal environment for projects that commence before full statutory approvals, raising the stakes for compliance and increasing judicial scrutiny of large-scale developments. Campaigners have used these legal changes to press for full public disclosure, independent review of ecological impact assessments, and meaningful tribal consultation before any irreversible works proceed.
Investigations and reporting have also alleged procedural shortcuts, critics say some scientific assessments were fasttracked, and some specialist reports remain confidential despite their relevance to public interest. Scholars and NGOs have petitioned courts and international fora arguing that ecological and human-rights costs have been under-evaluated. Government defenders say a closed review was necessary to protect national security considerations; critics say secrecy precludes public accountability for environmental trade-offs.
Local communities: impact and mitigation
Nicobarese communities and the Shompen stand at the centre of the human cost debate. Historically, the Nicobarese have hybrid economies combining plantation labour, fishing and small-scale agriculture; the Shompen are among the region’s most isolated hunter-gatherer groups. For them, roads and large projects change access to forest resources, alter seasonal movement patterns and invite outsiders whose diseases or cultural norms can be catastrophic. Human rights groups warn that even well-meaning resettlement and employment schemes can erode customary governance and leave people worse off in intangible but profound ways.
How, then, could development be softened for communities while preserving core objectives? The literature on large infrastructure in fragile socio-ecological contexts recommends several interlocking approaches. Prior, free and informed consent based on culturally appropriate consultation, not checkbox meetings; supplemented by detailed, publicly available social impact assessments and transparent grievance mechanisms; Community-owned benefit streams including guaranteed shares of port or tourism revenue routed to local development trusts; Health safeguards, vaccination, disease surveillance and ring-fenced health budgets, to prevent catastrophic outbreaks from outsider contact; Phased and reversible development with minimum-impact engineering where possible; and Legal protections for land-use rights and cultural practices, enforced through independent monitoring.
Government documents and some project proponents indicate elements of these approaches are intended in policy design, and social impact assessments submitted to authorities include compensation and relocation plans. But critics argue that design intent must become enforceable commitments codified in project financing and law, with independent monitors empowered to suspend work if conditions are breached. The recent sealed HPC report and NGT filings underscore a continuing demand for stronger, enforceable safeguards and for opening project science to public scrutiny.
Is there a path to reconcile development and protection?
The question is not binary. Several pragmatic steps can reduce risk without abandoning strategic objectives.
First, reduce the project’s ecological footprint. That means avoiding the most sensitive coastal stretches and turtlenesting beaches for port siting, prioritising brownfield upgrades to existing mainland ports where feasible, adopting construction methods that minimise dredge plumes, and expanding no-go marine protected areas. Independent scientists should be commissioned to run baseline studies and time-stamped climate-vulnerability assessments.
Second, apply a phased model with strict go/no-go triggers. Early phases could prioritise limited, reversible investments, port pilots, harbour works that avoid large reclamation, communication and surveillance nodes, coupled to independent monitoring and community consent. Only if environmental baselines remain stable should larger reclamations be authorised. This approach aligns strategic urgency with the precautionary principle, reducing the chance of irreversible harm.
Third, lock in community benefits and safeguards contractually. Make compensation, health commitments, vocational training and cultural protections conditions precedent for finance drawdowns and for permitting. Build community ownership into enterprises, fisheries co-ops that have exclusive access to certain zones in exchange for conservation practices. Fund independent health systems to protect isolated groups. These are costly but would reduce long-term social liabilities.
Fourth, create a transparent governance architecture for security-sensitive projects. Where confidentiality is truly required for national security, mechanisms should nonetheless allow vetted expert review and parliamentary oversight under seal rules rather than blanket secrecy. The judiciary’s recent scrutiny of ex-post facto clearances indicates that the legal environment will penalise opacity; proactively opening science to third-party review will reduce legal risk and improve legitimacy
A Test of Governance
Great Nicobar sits at the intersection of three imperatives that modern states routinely struggle to reconcile: security, development and conservation. India’s strategic logic for an eastern Indo-Pacific hub is understandable in geopolitical terms, proximity to vital sea lanes, improved maritime reach and a sovereign alternative to foreign-owned transshipment nodes are tangible benefits. Economically, a well-designed port and linked infrastructure could create jobs and catalyse growth in an otherwise remote territory.
But the project’s history so far, rapid clearances, sealed reports, contested assessments and vocal scientific opposition, shows why the island has become a litmus test for how India balances competing priorities. If New Delhi insists on strategic presence without rigorous environmental safeguards, carefully negotiated tribal protections and transparent governance, it risks delivering a hollow victory; infrastructure on a devastated island with damaged communities, fragile ecosystems and costly legal battles. Conversely, a cautious, phased model, one that locks in enforceable benefits for local peoples, minimises ecological footprints and subjects the project to independent scientific scrutiny even where national security concerns exist, would meet strategic aims while preserving the island’s ecological and cultural patrimony.
Great Nicobar is therefore not just an infrastructure project; it is a test of India’s capacity to translate strategic ambition into sustainable action. The choices Delhi makes in the next phases will determine whether the island becomes a resilient hub that secures national interests and uplifts local livelihoods, or a cautionary tale in whose shadow ecosystems and cultures were sacrificed for geopolitics.