Goa's rain-kissed tale of freshwater fishing

SURAJ MALIK

The rains in Goa's hinterlands have soaked the red earth and the rivers are swelling. The seas have grown wild and stormy, and the annual fishing ban, a seasonal pause to allow marine life to breed, is in force. But inland, a quieter and older rhythm has awakened: the hunt for Goa’s freshwater fish.

For many Goans, especially those from the farming communities, the arrival of the monsoon isn't just about rainfall, it's about the flavours it brings. The shift from sea to stream is more than a matter of geography; it’s a return to roots, to stories passed down through songs and seasonal rituals.

Frying fresh fish the Goa way in Agonda's backwaters

FROM DRY TO BOUNTIFUL

And the dry village streams, known locally as suko vhal, have begun to flow once more, shimmering with promise. These streams, often forgotten in the dry months, become the lifeline for a unique bounty—freshwater fish.

Fish from larger rivers start pushing upstream, swimming into these village streams. Locals call them chadhniche mashe, the climbing fish, because of their uncanny ability to travel against the current, even leaping over tiny waterfalls.

THE CLIMBERS: Called 'chadhniche mashe' in Konkani, these fish climb upstream against rushing currents—sometimes leaping over tiny waterfalls.

SEASON OF EXCITEMENT

In every village, this is the season of excitement. Children and elders alike wade knee-deep into flowing waters, often in pouring rain, bamboo fishing rods in hand. The tools are simple—sticks strung with thread, baited with fat earthworms dug from under damp logs or rich black soil.

The size of the worm determines the catch. Tiny pieces lure smaller fish; whole worms tempt the bigger ones. Some children prefer a small ball of kneaded wheat as bait, a trick passed down through generations.

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MORE THAN HOOKS

But fishing isn’t just about hooks and lines. The shenul, a hand-held net, is another weapon of choice. The technique involves placing the net in shallow water, usually where fish hide beneath stones. Then comes a gentle splash from the opposite side, coaxing the fish into the trap. Timing, here, is everything.

TEDIOUS BUT TIME-TESTED: With a 'shenul' in hand, fishing becomes a slow art. One wrong move, and the catch slips away.

Traditionalists come equipped with bamboo fish traps, beautifully crafted cylinders tied with thread from the kevan shrub (Helicteres isora).

Ingeniously designed with an opening that lets the fish in but not out, these traps are set in place with heavy stones and revisited hours later always with the thrill of discovery. Sometimes, they’re found teeming not just with fish, but also with river crabs.

Goa's timeless tradition of drying fish in summer

WATERFALLS AND WOODEN CRADLES

Another clever method involves placing a wooden cradle just beneath a small waterfall. As fish swim downstream after laying eggs, they tumble in. Nature provides the motion; the cradle simply receives.

The catch is often diverse—Chiklo, Khaddo Chiklo, Thigur, Valay, Shengat, Kaday, Hayer, Kharchane, Karan Katto, and the infamous Pittol, known more for its jump than its taste.

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SONGS OF THE STREAM

Goan folk songs from the Shigmo festival have long referenced these fish and the habitats they favour. For instance, Valay and Thigur are said to dwell beneath the dense screw pine bushes that fringe the streams, a lyrical nod to the ecological intimacy villagers have with their land.

NO PLASTIC HERE

Transporting the day’s catch is a tradition in itself. Plastic bags are rarely seen. Instead, villagers thread the fish through wild creepers known as chikiyale gundiyale or vashel, creating long, natural garlands of silver and gold that swing from shoulders as the fishermen walk home.

NATURE'S SLING: Each catch is laced onto a 'vashel', a flexible forest creeper and carried home.

HAZARDS OF THE HUNT

But this bounty is not without its hazards. Shengat, the fish with its delicate antennae-like threads, can cause painful cuts when threatened. Hayer is too slippery to hold by hand, often requiring a quick flick of a sickle. And fishing, especially in the rain-swollen monsoon streams, demands the endurance to stand submerged and soaked for hours on end.

CAUTION: Shengat’s delicate-looking threads pack a painful surprise if provoked.

THE NIGHTTIME ADVENTURE

For the truly adventurous, night-time fishing offers a different thrill. Called Dipakavani, this age-old practice involves carrying a kerosene lamp to the water's edge. As the light hits the surface, stunned fish freeze, their senses overwhelmed, creating the perfect opportunity to scoop them up. The same technique is used for catching crabs, especially on stormy nights when thunder and lightning draw them out from their burrows.

Freshwater fishing in Goa is not just sustenance, it’s about identity and quiet celebration. It is said that in the village of Sacorda in Dharbandora, women once danced the fugdi to honour Karan Katto, a fish now rare, its taste a fading echo of the past.

CULTURAL ICON: In Goa's Sacorda in Dharbandora taluka, women once danced the 'fugdi' for 'Karan Katto', a fish so prized, it inspired celebration. Today, it’s nearly vanished.

MEAL TO REMEMBER

And what’s fishing without a feast? Back in the village homes, the day’s catch transforms into rich curries served with steaming ukdem xitt (parboiled rice) or soft nachne bhakri (ragi flatbread). The flavours are earthy, seasonal, and soul-satisfying, culinary stories soaked in rain and rooted in soil.

WHEN IN GOA, GO INLAND  

So, if you find yourself in Goa during the rains, head inland. Walk to a quiet stream. Watch the locals fish with laughter, grit, and knowledge honed by generations. Taste the monsoon the way Goans always have. Fresh from the stream, cooked with love, and served with stories.