The fishermen's song

The strong eight-cylinder Hino engine softly growled as the 100-feet wooden fishing trawler slowly approached the fish landing port. The engine changed its pitch and went into a slow-run. The soft, rasping dig-dig-dig noise bounced off the Keora trees along the channel. In the light of the port, the trawler's bow covered in stainless steel sheet glinted. The masthead light glowed red, like a dragon's eye.

I wondered why these wooden trawlers have such high bows, some of them rising 10 feet into the air, as did this approaching boat. My impression was that these were for vanity purposes, to show off, to make the boats look nice and impressive.

My mind changed when I checked it out with a fisherman, who described their main purpose in a poetic way.

"We go right into the sea, round the year, on calm days and in high winds," he said. "The sea sometimes seethes with anger because we violate their body with our trawlers. The sea then lashes us with all its rage and fury, with winds and waves. Some of the waves come 20-feet high. It is these bows that save us. We have to head straight into the waves to avoid capsizing. As the waves crash onto us they hit the bows and spread sideways. Otherwise we would have taken a direct hit and sank."

Baskets full of fish, packed with ice, started coming up. Photo: Inam Ahmed

I looked out into the sea. Right then, it looked black and demure. Like the eye of a crow. Reminded me of my pet crow Boynerd who would gaze at me with its halcyon eyes, trying to communicate.

But the sea was not quite so calm in the afternoon. As we made a curving cross, the wind lifted and the sea became choppy. I am sure no fisherman on this landing station would ever notice this kind of change in the sea. But for our small trawler-turned-tourist boat fitted with a wooden cabin, the waves were proving too much. Unable to approach the land because of a wide circle of illegal fishing nets spread out for about five kilometres, we thought the boat was about to sink as it bobbed uncontrollably.

On a rough sea, one has to steer his ship right into the waves. Hit the waves with the bow. It may seem like the ship is going down, but it will come up. If by any chance the ship turns sideways and the waves hit the port or starboard, there is every chance that it will sink.

Now our boat was also going straight into the waves but we also had to make a U-turn. That was a difficult manoeuvre, because of the risk of the waves hitting on the side. So we had to make a quick subtle manoeuvring in between two waves.  

We finally found an opening in the net and entered a channel created by nets on two sides. And like magic, the waves vanished.

But now looking at the dark hull of the approaching trawler, I knew these fishermen had no magic protection but their own skills, the sturdiness of their fishing vessels and the mercy of the sea to keep them alive day in and day out.

Monsoon always proves harsh on the seamen. The sea remains turbulent almost every day. These trawlers go out to sea for at least 15 days. And continuous tossing and turning takes a huge toll on the fishermen.

"We often cannot eat for days," one fisherman described his experience. "Our empty stomachs churn and swell. Still we have to work."

And life is harsh in the sea. Nobody can slack in their work for a moment. Sitting idle may mean the difference between life and death, empty net and big catch.    

The patrons of the restaurant were all wind-and salt-water hardened fishermen. Photo: Inam Ahmed

"After two days of going without food, I decided I must eat something," says another fisherman, speaking of his monsoon experience. "As I drew the plate close to me for a morsel of rice, the ship rolled violently and the plate flew from my grip to the other side of the boat."

The huge trawler was now snaking through hundreds of other trawlers moored at the port. People gathered at the jetty, and above the din came a dull thud as the hull of the boat made contact with the jetty. The engine revved for a few seconds and then died.

New activities took over as workers jumped onto the trawler. Fish holds were opened where the catch is preserved under packs of ice. Some workers disappeared into the holds and the rigs were placed over the open holds. Fishermen wheeled the red winches to lower the lines.  A little later, baskets full of fish – tuna and mackerel and other kinds - packed with ice, started coming up. The baskets were carted out of the jetty.

The interest of the onlookers died. They were now waiting for another fishing trawler that earlier in the day came under pirate attack. As we were approaching Patharghata, we got a call from somebody who said a fishing trawler had been raided and nine fishermen were missing. Others were severely injured.

The Sundarbans region was once infested with pirates. Each trawler had to make regular payments to the pirates for its safe passage. Those who refused to pay would sooner or later come under pirate attack.  

Waiting on the jetty, this fisherman was describing to me his experience of pirate attack.

"We were dead asleep after the day's hard work," he said. "The day's work was so hard that many of us even did not have dinner, but just hit the bed in deep slumber."

Trawlers post watchmen at night to raise alarm if pirates come. But these watchmen were exhausted and fell asleep.

Suddenly the whole crew were jolted awake when their boat shuddered as something terrible hit it hard. Before they could realise what caused the jolt, they saw a horde of pirates scaling over the gunwale onto the deck.

A few of them carried firearms. But most carried sharp machetes and thick sticks.

The boatman entered one of the numerous canals that crisscross the Sundarbans. Photo: Inam Ahmed

"Without a word they started hitting us. Some of us were hit with machetes. Others were ruthlessly caned. Each strike was so powerful that many of us had our bones broken. All we could do is cry for mercy, which never came," said the fisherman.

The mayhem went on for ten minutes and now the fishermen were writhing in pain. The pirates opened the holds and emptied the booty. The trawler was in the sea for 11 days and was to return to the shore in about another three to four days. So their entire trip was lost to the pirates who vanished into the darkness as clamorously as they had come.

Earlier in the day we tried a shortcut to avoid crossing the sea again, which showed breakers in the distance. So the sea was still rough and we did not want another topsy-turvy trip. The boatman entered one of the numerous canals that crisscross the Sundarbans.

Our boat cruises at dead slow through the leafy-shaded canal. We watch the activities in the villages by its banks. It was past noon and the scattered tin-shed houses looked abandoned with no sign of human presence. Flocks of domesticated ducks flapping around the mud banks are the only reminder that these are not ghost villages.

We came across shipyards where big trawlers were being dry-docked. From the back they looked like galleons that the Europeans used in the 16th century to conquer the world in search of riches. Our fishermen are using the same kind of ships now to scour the seas in search of its riches.

The sea was at its ebb and the water in the canal almost dried up. Our boat got stuck for the next six hours. So we had nothing to do except to read books under the green canopy of the Keora and Chhaila trees and sleep, waiting for the tide to come.

As the dusk fell softly in the canal, a nightjar started calling. The loud chuk-chuk call sounded unreal in this lonely canal. Lights were coming out one by one in the houses. Children were reading out loud from their school books. But this particular tin-shed just across us remained dark and silent. Nobody lives there, it is truly abandoned. It spelled a strange kind of gloom in the dark.

The previous evening we were at Padma Sluice Gate (a strange name I could not make any head or tail of it) by the sea. 

It is a fisherman's village from where fishing trawlers are launched. Hundreds of small and medium trawlers crammed a small creek for the night. They made an interesting silhouette against the sky as dim LED lamps burn inside each boat.

A herringbone brick road runs from the bank of the canal and suddenly trails off after about 400 metres into the vastness of the Charland. Only dimly-lit small huts frilled by coconut trees can be barely made out in the darkness.

Small shops line up on both sides of the brick road, selling all kinds of stuff, from rubber sandals to colourful dress materials, to Dalpuri. But the majority of the shops sell fishing gears and engine parts for the fishing trawlers.

As the trawlers moored at the port, new activities took over. Photo: Inam Ahmed

The whole place had the distinctive feature of a fishing town.

Fishermen who had returned from trips were buying biscuits and dresses for their children. Fishermen who were to sail out the next morning were doing their last minute shopping. Some were repairing their damaged propellers or buying lube oil.

As I stepped inside a restaurant, I thought I was transported to the scene of that movie 'The Perfect Storm'. The characters inside were George Clooney and his friends. What was missing was the beer dispensers and dance floors.

The walls of the restaurant were draped in fluorescent green cloth printed with deep brown designs. The patrons were all wind-and salt-water hardened fishermen. Some were sipping tea, maybe their last before sailing out the next morning.

In a corner, fishermen clustered around a table, hunched over their mobiles, playing Ludo.

The conversation around was mostly about the sea and the possibility of a good catch.

"The illegal Gher Jal is killing our catch," one man said. He was referring to the kind of operation we had encountered earlier in which a huge swath of the sea is cordoned off with fine nets and all types of fish fries are destroyed.

"It is as illegal as daylight. You have seen it. The authorities have seen it. Yet no action is taken. It's all about bribes. But these illegal nets are reducing fish in the sea."

As the night draws on, they start heading home one by one.

These are a strange breed of brave men who leave their families behind and risk their life to feed us with protein. Their compromised life makes our dinner table plentiful. And yet we hardly help make life easier for them.