I don't want to write about this place. Few people know of it; fewer still visit. Perhaps that's the way it should be. In this rapidly shrinking world, there ought to be somewhere that remains remote, even obscure; set apart in space and time; offering the promise of mystery, the romance of discovery. Lakshadweep—the name comes out in a sigh. In Sanskrit, it means One Hundred Thousand Islands, although in fact there are just twenty-seven, ten of which are inhabited. Speckled across the Arabian Sea off the Malabar Coast of India, this archipelago of atolls, coral reefs, and islands was—before El Niņo—the largest living ecosystem on the planet. Many maps, even Indian ones, don't note it. Yet for a dedicated group of travelers who seek the world's most far-flung spots, this is as close as it gets to paradise

Paradise is an overused word in conjunction with islands. The mere thought of some remote islet causes us harried city-dwellers to relax and exhale. The mind conjures images from travel ads—clear skies, swaying hammocks, turquoise seas, soft white sand, and slim cocktails—all of which are for the most part true. Time ebbs and flows with the tide.

Island lore is all about self-sufficiency, living off the land and the water, which is an alluringly simple proposition given the complicated circuitry that connects our everyday lives. Cell phones, e-mail, fax machines—none of these matter or even work in Lakshadweep. Hell, even getting to the place is a pain.

First, you take a intercontinental flight that most likely lands late at night in one of India's crowded, chaotic metropolises. The next morning, you fly into Kochi (née Cochin), in the state of Kerala. Finally, you hop on a commuter flight to the islands.

By the time I arrive, I am jet-lagged, nauseous, and dehydrated. No place, I think, is worth a journey like this.

Like most visitors, I have come to Lakshadweep for a beach vacation. Unlike most visitors, I am also here to put my demons to rest. According to the Ayurveda, the five-thousand-year-old Indian system of medicine, everything in the universe—including the human body—is made up of five elements: earth, fire, water, wind, and ether (space). Pancha-bhootas, they are called—literally "five demons." Each of us is influenced by these five demons to a greater or lesser degree. Some people are fiery, others are "earth mothers" or "water babies," still others are "spaced out."

These five elements are also the source of our fears, which is where I come in. I am mildly hydrophobic. I can rappel into a crevasse, bungee-jump off a cliff, walk through fire, and catch the wind with a parachute, but ask me to get into the water and something overcomes me. I start blinking rapidly, swallowing nervously, and feeling short of breath. It's not that I can't get in; it's just that I don't enjoy it. I'm hoping Lakshadweep will change all that—so long as its reputation for some of the gentlest diving (and dive instructors) in the world holds true.

From the air, Agatti is a sliver of an island, long and thin, like a knife cutting through the sea. The Agatti Island Resort, a short walk from the airport, is its only accommodation: twenty utilitarian bungalows with comfortable beds and clean bathrooms, some with air-conditioning. By the time I drop my bags and have a shower, my appetite—dormant for the last twenty-four hours—has returned.

One of the pleasures of traveling to remote places is the oddball people you meet there. In the resort's airy dining room, over a lunch of seafood, Indian curries, and fresh pineapple juice, I chat desultorily with the other guests. There are a few honeymooning Indian couples—young techies who switch between native Hindi and fluent American English honed in their call-center workplaces. "I am Sam," says one with a laugh, clearly relishing the Hollywood movie reference. His real name is Sahasranamam, and he is a Tamil Brahmin working in Bombay. There is a retired American couple who have been to places I've never heard of: Biskra, Samarinda. The man is funneling all his dollars into Australia. When I ask why, he says, "Trust me," and winks. I am convinced that he is CIA. A few Europeans—English, Italian, Swiss—walk around in a heat-induced stupor, chortling at the idea of spending Christmas in the tropics. After lunch, bees buzz, trees sway, waves lap. The entire island naps.