Fisherman-activist Ganesh Nakhawa talks to us about navigating tradition and technology, the shrinking coastlines of Mumbai, and what keeps him tied to the sea as a Koli fisherman.
It is a humid August afternoon when I meet Ganesh Nakhawa at Karanja Port, some 50 kilometres outside Mumbai. The port, and the creek it lies at, share the same name—Karanja—a bustling new harbour tucked beyond Uran in Raigad district.
Once wanting to pursue banking, Ganesh chose instead to return to the sea he grew up around, carrying forward a tradition that has defined Koli identity for centuries.
His connection to the ocean began early: in 2000, at the age of 12, he went on his first deep-sea fishing trip—a ten-day voyage that terrified his family but cemented his bond with the water. Those days spent watching dolphins, whales, and shimmering schools of mackerel stayed with him, even as he studied economics and finance in Scotland and later worked in banking in Europe.
In 2017, Ganesh launched BluCatch—a venture that began as a home-delivery seafood brand and has since grown into a pilot for a transparent, fisherman-first supply chain. Through BluCatch and his leadership as a former member at the Karanja Docks cooperative in Mumbai, Ganesh has fought to cut out middlemen, bring technology to the docks, and create better market access for fishers.
Our conversation moved between the rhythms of daily fishing life and the bigger storms—the climate crisis , land reclamation, vanishing fish stocks—that now threaten this way of life. Ganesh spoke candidly about the precarious balance between tradition and technology, the grit it takes to fish in waters that no longer follow familiar patterns, and his long friendship with fellow fisherman Rakesh Koli, the other protagonist of Against The Tide, who continues to fish using traditional Koli knowledge.
As we sat by the harbour, surrounded by boats, nets, and women haggling over the day’s catch, it was clear that for Ganesh, fishing is not just an occupation, but an inheritance—and an ongoing fight for survival.
Read excerpts from our interview here:
You call yourself the “Last Fisherman of Bombay” on Instagram. What does that mean to you as a seventh-generation Koli fisher? Why are younger Kolis unable or unwilling to sustain this life?
In 2005, I went to Scotland for higher studies, as my father wanted me to stay away from fishing. By 2011, my father began calling me with bleak news: our boats were aging, and catches were declining. One day, I packed my bags and came back with no plan other than to help him. I built a new boat in 2011.
Between 2011 and 2015, I was intensely involved with my own three boats. Every day began at 3 am with the routine of selling fish, followed by being at the wholesale market at 8 am. Even with 14–16 hour workdays, something felt missing. I began to realise there were many other stakeholders in this industry—scientists, conservationists, social entrepreneurs, and the wider supply chain. Who are we selling fish to? Where does it go? Who consumes it? That’s when I knew I couldn’t remain purely commercial.
Then in 2015, I contested elections at the Karanja Fisheries Cooperative Society and became the youngest director on a board of 17 members, handling 400 boats and 6,000 shareholders. I brought in new initiatives, inspired by what I had learned studying economics and finance in Scotland—introducing fairer weighing systems, pushing for better labour conditions, and trying to cut down on wastage.
Around then, I also connected with oceanographic scientists from the Indian National Centre for Ocean Information Services (INCOIS) in Hyderabad, who were working with satellite data on currents and tides. No one was using that data. I began sharing my catch results with them and, in return, they shared their findings. I passed those coordinates on to my captains, who passed them to other boats. The catches improved, and soon everyone was following it. That’s how my journey of linking fishing with technology began.
As for younger Kolis, those of us born in the 1980s and 90s grew up around traditional practices, not just in my own village but across others too. Being from a fishing family, there were always opportunities to see both big boats and smaller, traditional methods.
The real bottleneck is infrastructure. Fisheries are one of the oldest occupations, and the hardships our fathers and grandfathers endured make many hesitate [to take up fishing]. We need modern facilities—better harbours, improved boats, updated equipment. Where these exist, families remain in the industry. Where they don’t, communities slowly step away.
Koli identity has always been inseparable from traditional fishing practices, passed down through generations. As someone rooted in this heritage, how do you reconcile it with an approach that relies on science, technology, and data? Has introducing modern methods created friction within the community?
For me, if technology and fishing don’t go hand in hand, there is no future. When you are catching good fish, the economics work. But when you lose money or don’t catch fish, bad times follow.
Among Kolis, the belief has always been simple: if we continue fishing, we are Kolis. If we don’t fish, we are not. For me, using technology was the only way to keep going on, and sharing that information in the community was key, so others wouldn’t face the same challenges.
Among Kolis, the belief has always been simple: if we continue fishing, we are Kolis. If we don’t fish, we are not.
But convincing traditional fishers, who had been at sea for four or five decades, was difficult. They would say, “Who are you to teach me where and how to catch something? I know there will be fish on this tide, or on this day in the moon calendar.” I had to tell them: this scientific information is there, just match it with your ancestral knowledge, and if you catch fish, share it. People began using the satellite technology that had been available from the government for years.
At the same time, I was meeting researchers and asking them what data points we could share, how boats could help identify species. Shark landings, for example, were once very high along the Maharashtra and Gujarat coast. Through institutes like Central Marine Fisheries Research Institute (CMFRI) and Central Institute of Fisheries Technology (CIFT), which often sent researchers to the harbours, we began connecting science and community.
Earlier, whenever sustainability or overfishing was mentioned, people would say, “Don’t teach us.” But the moment you stop getting a catch, that is when people realise something must change—whether by altering techniques or adopting slower, more careful practices. Gradually, adaptation has happened. New technologies—navigation, GPS, engines, hydraulics—cannot be ignored. You can’t expect methods of the 1960s or 70s, like pulling nets by hand or casting ropes, to work in 2025. With modern machinery, labour intensity reduces, nets last longer, and catches improve. Over time, they saw the dots connect: better data on species, improved conservation practices, changes in fishing methods.
Still, there is tension. One part of the community is modernising, using new methods and catching fish better. Others—like my friend Rakesh—remain close to the sea with old boats, traditional methods, and reliance on tides and currents. My friendship with Rakesh is still strong. He’s like a grandfather to me. He hasn’t given up on traditional fishing practices, and I keep telling him—times are changing, nature is changing, climate is changing—you have to change too. That’s why I’ve always opened up my work for the wider community. We don’t need another Ganesh or another Rakesh—we need new generations of fishers. I don’t want to be the “last fisherman of Mumbai”. Nobody should be the last fisherman.
But fishing takes so much passion and intensity that many do quit. I’ve thought about quitting too—every night sometimes. But by morning, the thought goes away. Too many lives depend on this. The bigger goals—changing an industry, transforming an entire way of life—those will take decades. They can’t be achieved overnight.
What does a typical day at the docks look like—in season and off-season? And what has changed with the shift from Sassoon Docks to Karanja, where you are building a new harbour?
Back at Sassoon Docks, the routine was hectic. I would wake up at 3 am, catch the 4 am ferry, and reach the harbour by 5 am for the first sale. Market sales continued for another three hours, then unloading at the export auction until early afternoon. After that came refuelling, icing, and calculations with the labour. My family had three boats—now we have two—and depending on the season, one boat or another would come in almost daily.
The peak season runs from 15 August to 15 December, when boats come in every day. In the off-season, trips are longer, so boats return only once or twice a week. During that time, I was also handling community responsibilities. Fisheries is already a challenging subject, and explaining our realities to new officers who changed posts so quickly became a painful exercise. Every day was either about selling fish or about talking policy at some office.
Sassoon Docks had 400 boats and an established supply chain; Karanja had none. On 15 August last year [2024], we began from scratch—arranging ice and transport, negotiating with markets in Goa and Kerala, reducing losses and wastage. For a year, I barely slept three or four hours a night. But we replicated Sassoon Docks’ 100-year-old operations in just one year, cutting out middlemen.
In the next two to three years, I believe we will see Karanja become a modern, smart fishing harbour—an example for India, because never before has such an old operation shifted to an entirely new harbour. It feels like a miracle.
What do you and your team eat at sea on long days? Is there a particular memory you associate with a dish or snack at sea?
It is very basic, and I think one of the most ancient practices. You don’t carry fish to sea—you catch it there. What we do carry is a lot of rice, and the usual spices. Everyone has their own masala. People talk about Koli masala or Agri masala, but I would say every masala is different. What we carry to the boats are these spices, rice, and some vegetables—many people fast even at sea—some don’t eat fish on Tuesdays or Thursdays.
A staple meal is dal and a light dish we call pez or kadhi, made with the starchy water left after boiling rice for 20 people working day and night. That water is drained, turmeric and spices are added to it, and it becomes a carbohydrate-rich breakfast or even a lunch. This, along with whatever fish is caught on the first day.
Any boat you board will have 15 or 20 packets of butter, plenty of bread, Parle-G biscuits, and supplies for poha. Personally, I was never much of a rice-eater. I sometimes carried my own bread, or ready-to-eat chapatis. In the past, I would take atta and make a few chapatis to eat with fish.
I have a few food memories I’ll never forget. The first time I ate squid at sea—it was so fresh, three big pieces to a kilogram, transparent and glistening. I asked the cook to make half into kheema and half into a curry. Another time was with Cobia: we caught a giant one, 33 kilos. The cook said, “Cut it, and we will all eat twice in a day.” I ate it with rice—it was one of the most delicious fish I have ever had.
Through BluCatch and the cooperative, you’ve been working to rebuild the fishing supply chain. What has worked well, and what still needs fixing? Are younger fisherfolk joining this effort?
Our strength has always been the fish we catch and the knowledge of where to find them. But over the years, that power was taken away—by middlemen and the supply chain. For generations, we focused only on catching fish, not selling them. I began asking: Why don’t we take it to the end?
That thought led to BluCatch. I saw it as a cooperative model, like Amul. If milk can be organised, why not fish? When the cooperatives didn’t back the idea, I invested my own money, took bank loans, and launched BluCatch in 2017–18. We started with home delivery—door-to-door, retail shops, and restaurants.
The challenge was immediate: Customers want pomfret and prawns year-round, while the sea gives fish seasonally. You can’t tell the ocean, “Today I want pomfret.” Logistics were another hurdle—India has hundreds of harbours and thousands of boats, and reports indicate substantial losses ranging from 10–30% of the total catch annually.
At Karanja, I pushed fishers to use the new harbour. Slowly, 20–40 boats shifted, and we built a system without any middlemen—just the fisherman and me. Young people started replicating the model.
BluCatch was never only about selling fish. We looked at boat health, net quality, and collected data on landings and species. That data is key to predicting demand and improving prices. The vision now is to connect harbours digitally, share real-time prices, and give advisories on species in demand.
Between the climate crisis, shifting fish patterns, and the threat of land acquisition along Mumbai’s coast, what feels most urgent to you? In the face of these harsh realities, what does resilience look like for Koli communities today?
Where I come from—and in any fishing village—you always find two groups: those with small boats and those with big boats. Small boats have their problems; big boats have bigger ones. We are all fighting, but in different ways. That is what Against the Tide was about—my friend Rakesh Koli struggling on the coast, and me facing challenges in the deep sea.
The economics have changed drastically. A small operation today can cost ₹5,000–20,000 per day, a medium boat ₹1 lakh per trip, and a larger boat ₹2–4 lakh for a single voyage of 7–18 days. Smaller fishermen like Rakesh may take 100 litres of fuel, larger ones 2,000 litres. So, when a cyclone hits or there is a sudden shift in wind, it doesn’t just affect one trip—it has repeated, severe impacts. That uncertainty is haunting people, and many are giving up the industry.
"I have a few food memories I’ll never forget. The first time I ate squid at sea—it was so fresh, three big pieces to a kilogram, transparent and glistening."
Resilience means fishing smart—knowing which days to go, getting a strong catch, and stretching it over the year. Adaptation means changing nets, boat design, even the species you target. Across southern India—Kanyakumari, Tamil Nadu, Kerala—I have seen communities move beyond prawns and mackerel to squid and cuttlefish because global demand is strong. That is what we need here. Too often in Maharashtra, people still chase bombil, prawns, pomfret—because that’s what our grandfathers caught. Governments and cooperatives must help people diversify through pilot projects and training.
Reclamation and coastal development are equally dangerous. My father and grandfather spoke of it too. First came oil and gas rigs—sea grabs, not land grabs. Later, ports like the Jawaharlal Nehru Port Trust (JNPT) took over our traditional fishing grounds. With every new project—refineries, airports, bridges—fishing spaces kept shrinking.
Resistance exists, but it is fragmented. The solution is not only resistance, but strengthening ourselves through fishing. If you give up fishing to only protest, you cannot sustain your families. Stay strong in the occupation first—catch better fish, find better markets, demand smaller pieces of infrastructure like cold storage and jetties. Then you can organise resistance in the off-season.
If nothing changes, the future of Koli fishing is bleak. But if communities come together, demand the right facilities, adapt practices, and share knowledge, resilience is possible. This is what I keep telling my friend Rakesh too: don’t give up the sea, because once the community is weak on the water, it becomes powerless on land.
Your daughter Matsya was born on 21 November, which is World Fisheries Day, and her name signifies the fish avatar of Vishnu. What do you think the future holds for her as a woman of Koli descent?
Before she was born, I was almost ready to give up—I thought I’d leave fishing altogether, maybe go back to banking, go back abroad. I had worked for over a decade in this industry, faced failures, and was worn down by loss. But when Matsya came into our lives, it felt like a sign. We had always joked that if it was a girl, we would name her Matsya, but when it actually happened, everything changed. She gave me the biggest inspiration to stay back.
In the Koli community, fishing has always been seen as men’s work, but women are the real backbone. For centuries, they’ve handled the marketing, finances, and household stability. Gold in our homes belongs to women—it is their financial reserve. Women decide on the crucial calls, whether for the household, or for the boats. They are deeply woven into the business aspect of fishing.
Look at Karanja harbour today. When we finally opened the market space, I expected maybe 40–50 women to show up. Instead, 400 fisherwomen turned up, and today they are there every single day—auctioning, cutting, selling fish, loading boats. To see that happen in my own village is a major achievement for me. It shows what happens when women are given infrastructure and opportunity: they transform the industry.
So, what do I hope for Matsya? That she grows strong and confident, rooted in this heritage but free to choose her path. She already calls herself ‘Bombil’ when someone asks her her name. She loves fish, she loves the sea. We’ve taught her Koli, because language is also a bridge to her grandparents, her community, her people.
Rhea is the Projects Copywriter at The Locavore, where she crafts stories that celebrate food, people, and the cultures they nourish. With a background in media and research, she’s drawn to work that centres care, community, gender, and social justice, with equity at its core.
Know more about Ganesh Nakhawa’s work through his Instragram.
The Mumbai Koli Project is the official impact campaign of the Against the Tide documentary, led by The Locavore in close collaboration with Sarvnik Kaur, Ganesh Nakhawa, and Sonia Parekh. It is supported by the Doc Society’s Climate Story Fund which enables independent media storytelling and impact strategies from around the world.
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