"Watching a large fish being caught for the first time as a kid, it stayed with me"

The first thing you’d notice about Achchu are his eyes—strikingly green, like marbles glinting in sunlight. Achchu (his preferred name) grew up in Lakshadweep—a remote Indian archipelago in the Arabian Sea. For the islanders, fishing isn’t just a livelihood; it determines the islands’ cultural norms and their kinship with the environment.

I met Achchu in 2023 on a diving trip to Bangaram, one of the 36 islands of Lakshadweep. He was in the crew that took our scuba team out to sea. Achchu moved around the boat with ease, preparing bait and casting lines with practised precision, his movements fluid and sure even in choppy waters. He seemed to be in constant conversation with the sea, a bond forged from a life spent listening to its rhythms. “I was always drawn to the sea. Watching a large fish being caught for the first time as a kid, it stayed with me.”

In these islands, skipjack tuna is the most commonly caught fish, often dried to make maasmeen, a local commodity. Once a stable source of income for Achchu and his community, it used to be regularly shipped to Mangalore and Sri Lanka.

But the tides are changing. With diesel prices soaring, what they earn by selling the fish barely covers fishing costs. “The fish used to fetch 450 rupees a kilo five years ago,” Achchu repents. “This past season, it was down to 120 rupees.” Rising competition from other regions, overfishing, and poor infrastructure, all contribute to this economic squeeze.

Achchu dreams of exploring a world beyond his island and does carry some regrets—not pursuing further education despite his family’s encouragement, and having to give up his love for football after a knee injury.

On the last night in Bangaram, I slipped away to join Achchu and his fellow crew members for a meal on the boat upon their invitation. The meal was simple, delicious: tuna curry spiced just right, crispy fried tuna, and parboiled rice to soak up the flavours. In their conversations in Jasari, a dialect of Malayalam, I realised it wasn’t just fishing that connected them, but shared moments like these—the quiet comfort of a meal and the unspoken bonds of the sea.