Sunday Fishing -- A Photo Essay

Walking along the estuary, I saw many fishermen yesterday evening. Some were in pairs sorting out dirt from their nets, readying for another round of fishing in the river Chapora, in their dinghies. One man was standing at the river’s edge casting a line with bait and many others were throwing circular nets. 

I approached one of them— a Sunday fisherman—it was his passion he said. His daughter and nephew gathered around him, helping to sort the net. Making sure that each of the weights were separate—no tangles. It was quite an elaborate task. Again and again he checked it, ensuring the net was clear to throw. 

 And then this burly man approached the water and enacted manoeuvres akin to a dance. Lifting the gathered net, he turned his back to the sea. Then, slowly twisting half a round, short pause, then a rapid twist, leap and throw — left foot raised up in the air as he drew a strong arm circle and threw the net into the sea.  The yellow rope of the net firmly held in his hands. 

The thrown net formed a large round—a circumference of lace that quickly dissolved—disappearing from sight. Just the points where the weights hit the water—a series of splashes—water rising up and falling back down—an infinitesimal second. A moment so ethereal—otherworldly.

Soon after throwing the net, the Sunday-fisherman gathered his the submerged net and dragged it back, hoping to have caught something—he did. 

There was one small fish thrashing around in the folds of a white net. It was a soft whitish—pistachio green with hints of grey. It looked beautiful but bewildered. With swathes of netting around it—a bride veiled in layers and layers of white tulle. 

The fisherman and his family were delighted. His daughter said it was her favourite and would be cooked in the fish curry—a medley of their evenings catch, for dinner. They added this to the bucket and returned to fishing.

I walked around watched other fishermen casting that circular net repeatedly, never tiring of catching that sublime moment as it slashed and dissolved into the sea. Taking multiple videos of each. 

Strolling around the beach for a bit. Kicking around the low tide.

Helping two young women collect some shells before it struck me: the fisherman's joy had cost that little fish its's life.