Experience the of Fishing

The first thing I hear is the low hum of the backwaters just beyond my window. The sky is still a shade of ink-blue, not quite ready for sunrise. But I am. I’ve been up since four, excited, filled with anticipation, looking forward to my fishing expedition. The day seems perfect. The air smells of wet earth and salt, tinged with the faint sweetness of coconut smoke from someone’s early breakfast fire.

I pull on my cotton lungi (a loose garment worn like a long skirt around the waist), gifted to me by my host, grab the net I learned to fold last night, and step onto the wooden canoe moored outside my homestay. The water laps quietly against its sides. My host’s friend Raju, the fisherman, is already waiting, his silhouette barely visible in the pre-dawn fog. We push off in sync, paddles cutting through the water like quiet blades.

Fishing here isn’t done with rods. We cast a traditional circular net into the still water. You’ve got to get the arc just right, let it fall wide, and sink with those tiny lead weights. Then comes the wait. Not long, usually. The fish are smart, but hungry. When we pull it back in, there’s a satisfying slap and silver flickers—pearl spot, tilapia, and sometimes, if we’re lucky, medium-sized prawns, and crabs. 

By 7 a.m., we’ve got enough for lunch and a few for the market. The sun is crawling up now, setting the palm-lined banks aglow. Back at shore, we lay out the nets to dry and check them for tears. Raju sits on a stool, threading twine through the mesh with practiced fingers. I join him. It’s slow work, but necessary. One mistake can result in a loose knot and send the fish flying onto the shore, gasping for air. 

We talk, mostly in quiet tones, in broken English with titbits of Malayali thrown in. One year here, and I’ll become a polyglot! I hear about the water levels, the mood of the monsoon, and rumors of a bigger catch downstream. A toddy tapper walks by with two clay pots slung across his shoulders. We wave. Everyone knows everyone here.

By noon, it’s hot enough to fry fish on a rock. So that’s what we do—almost. Raju’s wife, Brinda, is already grinding spices with a stone mortar in our small open kitchen by the canal. The fish are cleaned, marinated in turmeric, chili, and crushed black pepper, then dropped into a pan of sizzling coconut oil. Meanwhile, Brinda stirs a curry made with tamarind, curry leaves, and raw mango—sharp, rich, and smoky.

I’m rewarded for my hard work and willingness to learn — a delectable spread of rice, fish curry, a tangy raw papaya thoran, and crispy fried pearl spot arranged beautifully in clay pots on the floor. Following local tradition, I sit cross-legged and use my fingers. The taste is fresh in the way only something caught hours ago can be. The spice bites, but the cool water from Raju’s deep well softens the heat.

In the afternoon, there’s little to do but rest. The sun rules the sky, and the backwaters shimmer like molten glass. I nap in the shade, listening to the lull of distant oars and the occasional chatter of boatmen ferrying tourists through the narrow canals.

By sunset, we’re back on the water. Not to fish, but just to glide. The air, much cooler now, feels fragrant with the sweet scent of jasmine flowers shyly opening their petals as the shadows embrace the waters. A few houseboats drift by, their lanterns glowing. A couple on one wave at me. I nod back, thinking—they came to see this place, but they haven’t yet experienced the joy of being a local fisherman here in the backwaters. 

Yes, I do feel happy and immensely grateful to Raju for teaching me the fine art of backwater fishing.