HE stood at the water’s edge, the young man, looking across to the far horizon, trying to create in his mind a scene of the 16th Century of the restless waters, the ships with sails and the desolate beach.

“Why did they land here?” he wondered. “What did they do?”
It was such a long, long time ago when a lone ship landed in this tropical island in the 1500s and the first man from India, in the east, whose naked feet touched this land. That man from centuries ago was the ancestral uncle of the young man standing at the beach today.
Shrikar, an engineering student at college in Mumbai would not have known much of this ancestor’s existence had his great grandmother not died. Among her few precious things was a broken amulet in a small tin box, dented and rusted with age.
There was a story attached to the amulet, passed down from generation to generation — the story of a young man, who, fed up at having to live in the dust of poverty, had left home with a few rupees in his pocket to seek his fortune somewhere in the world.
He had said to his sad mother, “I hear at the docks that in far-off lands, there are many riches; riches I will seek and return to lie at your feet, I promise you, so we can have a good life.”
The amulet, a family heirloom, he had  broken in two, leaving one half with his mother for her to remember him by, and  the other half he kept as something he could be recognized by, should he get lost.
He had left one misty morning, and no-one ever saw him again. Centuries had passed, until a research published in a journal in the West Indies documented him as a stowaway who, after the ship landed, had disappeared on the island peopled only by natives.
The story had so intrigued Shrikar, he developed a deep interest in the island, now a tourist destination, and felt like it was his calling to fix the broken link left by his ancestor from India to the West Indies.
He was here now in the 21st Century, not sure what to do, how to trace that link. The locals were peoples of different races, and each day he spent, there was something new and refreshing. A life to live in the sun and sand, the chutney and soca music, the food, fun and freedom, a life to love.
The friendliness of the people was amazing, and Shrikar felt he had found a new family and new home; after all, his ancestral uncle was the first East Indian to set foot on those shores.
The media featured his story, but he was no closer to knowing more about his ancestor until two days before he was scheduled to return home.
A knock at his hotel room early the morning; a tall, strange native with a stony expression and one half of the amulet around his neck, sent Shrikar’s heart racing.
“Who are you?” he asked, somewhat fearful.
But before the man could answer, he said, noticing a slight family resemblance, “You are related to my ancestor.”
“Yes, from a long line of descendants,” the man said, his expression now relaxed.
Shrikar sighed in deep relief. “All I need is something that identifies his existence here; something I can take back to his family.”
“We have been waiting a long time for someone. Follow me.”
The man drove for miles, out of town, in the rural areas, far up the trails, until they came to an old native settlement that time seemed to have forgotten. They continued on rougher trails, thick with wild shrubs, and along the way, Shrikar saw, etched on scattered rocks, the images of  Shiva, the Hindu deity, an artwork that underlined the ancestor’s religion, not to be lost, so someday someone will find it and know he had been here.
“He lived here among the natives, and worked the land to take back riches for his family,” the man said. “But no ships came back for a long time. He had many children, and he grew into an old man, still holding on to a small handcrafted chest  with gold and diamonds to take back home. One morning he did not awake, falling into eternal sleep, and late that afternoon, a ship stopped by, too late.”
That story brought tears to Shrikar’s eyes, and later, he cried openly at what he saw in a small cave, obscured by wild orchids. His ancestral uncle laid on an elevated rock floor in mummified form, the chest with riches by his side.
Shrikar sank down on his knees, and it took him a long time to compose himself.  He couldn’t believe that after 400-plus years, he would be seeing something so extraordinary.
“Why has no one removed the chest?” Shrikar asked.
“Because it had been passed down from the generations that the chest to be taken to his home in India.”
Shrikar shook his head in wonder. “This is so unbelievable, that a man’s promise has been kept alive, even after centuries, by his children from a native woman.”
The detached link was now tied together as his riches crossed the seas to home, a promise from the 16th Century fulfilled this day in the 21st Century.