Clank, clank, clink. The sound of conch shells rapidly clanking against each other and clinking on a
wooden surface sharply resonates in a small courtyard connecting homes in the Khar Koliwada. This
sound is competing with the sounds of loud chatter of women playing a game of Chillum (a game of
ludo played with conch shells) over copious amounts of khakhra, chai and endless friendly banter.
“Aye, play fast!,” says an impatient Kavita, a feisty looking young koli woman. The small play room
has an old, worn-out khatiya in one corner, a wooden cupboard with trimmings occupying the
centre of a wall surrounding mother in-laws and daughter in-laws, most of them flaunting some
form of the traditional Koli attire; the scene easily teleports you to the sets of old movies, the kind
they regularly show on Doordarshan. “The sea is too rough to ride in the off-season. We will resume
work after celebrating Naariyali Purnima, in the end of August,” says Kavita, justifying their
merrymaking.
An uncertain looking timid man is standing in the courtyard, looking longingly inside, wishing to be
a part of the game. “He is Bhalchandra Foman’s relative,” says the eldest mother in-law to the
others.
Each clank of the conch shells is an euphonious reminder of the the Koli community’s proximity to
the sea, both physically and emotionally. The staccato notes of the shells and the chatter, a palpable
metaphor of the bond, travels with the warm salty air, and invigorates the neighbouring houses,
including that of Bhalchandra Foman’s. At seventy-five years of age, Bhalchandra is a revered figure
in the Koli community. Dressed in an orange checked shirt and a short pair of shorts, he is seated on
a low table, with legs apart and is pouring over official looking documents with a nostalgic gleam in
his eyes. “These are official papers of my fishing boats and look at the photographs of the helpers. I
had a hundred of them at one point,” he talks proudly about his little fishing empire. This happened
Inspite of his aspirations to study and join the navy. But complying with his parents’ wishes, he
joined the ‘family business’ and became a full-time fisherman.
“My grandfather often accompanied his father on short fishing expeditions and returned home
with tonnes of fish,” he says, tracing his work back to his ancestors. During the monsoons, the men
would mend fishing nets and boats and if time permitted, painted traditional motifs on them. “This
is also when my grandmother and one or two bahus would go to the markets of Kalyan, Bhiwandi,
Vasai and Virar to get ration for the year. They would rent a bail-gaadi for 4-5 days for a lump-sum
amount of Rs 15-20., load it with fish like bombil and gardi and would return with rice, jowari,
masala and sticks. Away from home, they would erect a make-shift tent in someone’s farm and
would take some fish, oil and masala along to cook up their meals,” says Bhalchandra, drawing
attention to the progressive spirit inherent in the Koli community.
The small room in which Bhalchandra is seated is painted with shades of umber and dull yellow, as
if pigments from the sand have been splashed on the walls. Listen carefully and the faint sounds of
the sea waves ominously crashing against the pebbles and shell can be heard. It is a tough life at sea.
“Have you seen the movie Mother India? Our condition is worse than that of the farmers. If the
monsoons fail a year, crops for that year get ruined, but if anything happens to our boat, we will lose
everything. We faced this in the 1957 storm when at least 2-3 boats from every fishing village had
gone missing,” Bhalchandra says indignantly. “In this profession, try as hard as you may, but the
outcome is 75% luck and 25% hard work.”
Bhalchandra Foman belongs to the generation that has seen the fishing profession reach
unexpected peaks, but is also witnessing the lethargically expounding factors announcing the
profession’s slow but guaranteed demise. The impending coastal road proposed by the government
is surely going to deplete the stock of fish. “Now my kids are well-educated and they prefer white-
collar jobs over getting their feet dirty in the mud. Add to this the difficulty to get labour, the
increased production and storage cost, it is not gainful to continue with fishing.” In spite of this,
Bhalchandra possesses a unequivocal adoration for his occupation and his homeland. “This is our
only home. We do not have a native village outside of this, unlike most other people,” he says
earnestly.
The sound of Radha teasing her friend breaks Bhalchandra’s reverie about the future of his
profession. “She's getting married next month to a South Indian, living just two houses away. Here,
there are more love marriages than arranged, and it's all within the locality,” says Radha attesting
allegiance to the land on behalf of her Koli community. The Koliwada is akin to a ghetto. In
continuing with the progressive spirit, the settlement is like a fishing net, expanding in volume as
fish gets collected. The net is not selective about which fish it holds; it happily houses all that will
contribute.