Worli Koliwada Walk, Mumbai
On a Saturday afternoon in November, I reached Worli Koliwada with a sense of quiet curiosity. Ten of us walkers waited outside the restaurant Slink & Bardot for Heer, our facilitator from No Footprints, who would lead the walk. No Footprints is an organisation that offers tour experiences that spotlight community-based stories and cultural practices that are waning due to the constant urbanisation of our cities. Their work involves finding these narratives and making them part of mainstream conversations through walks like the one I’m about to take.
The minute we stepped inside the Koliwada, the noise of the city fell away, as if someone had lowered a curtain. The lanes narrowed, the houses leaned in, and it suddenly felt like entering an older version of Mumbai where everything was warmer.
Our first stop was the ancient Golfadevi Temple. The priest was away, and everyone laughed as if this was normal, as if the goddess herself had approved of slow Saturday afternoons. The story that stayed with me was about the small stone placed in front of the goddess. It is believed that people come to her with questions, fishermen in particular, with the priest posing specific questions to her. If the stone shifts toward the right, the answer is yes, if it shifts to the left, it’s a no.
“It is not very complicated. But it is better than what answers many others would give you. You have concrete answers.” It struck me as such a simple contract between faith and clarity. Fishermen still come to the temple to ask for permission before going to sea. There was even a story of a group that wanted to build a wall along the sea. They asked the goddess and she refused. They ignored her and approached engineers, who also dismissed the idea. If they built the wall, the tide would pool inward and flood the settlement. The more I walked, the more the logic of this place felt woven into its beliefs.
Walking deeper into the Koliwada, Heer explained how the word ‘Worli’ comes from the Marathi term ‘var ahe’, meaning ‘up’. The erstwhile island of Worli sloped upward then, and houses were built tight and labyrinth-like so invaders weren’t able to read the layout. Even today, the lanes dip just enough for water to flow back into the sea. I found myself thinking how the entire place felt designed more by instinct than architecture, but somehow the instinct was flawless.
We walked past artwork from The Heritage Project, bright colours softening the walls. Here, shrines and temples sit alongside a dargah. At the dargah of Sakina Bibi and Fatima Bibi, our guide told us about the fishermen saved by two mysterious women who appeared in the middle of a storm. It is believed that the men saw them later in a dream and built a shrine in their honour. During Hanuman Jayanti, devotees still visit the shrine because they believe these women did what Hanuman once did—rescuing the vulnerable from danger. Another story from the riots in the early 1990s reveals that when a mob demanded the Muslim families be handed over, the entire village stood together and refused to do so. I tried to imagine that moment—narrow lanes that barely fit two people side by side. The sheer strength of that unity felt alive even now.
Further in were Christian shrines belonging to the East Indian families. Albuquerque, D’Souza, Fernandes—Portuguese names that somehow belong completely to this village. Their bottle masalas, stored in old beer bottles, their wedding traditions, their festivals—it all felt like an amalgamation shaped by time instead of intention. Our guide joked about their wild wedding parties: “If you get invited, please call me. I will come.”
We walked further into the Koliwada, a cluster of homes with slanted roofs and shared plumbing. I could see why ‘Gaothans’ often feel like time capsules. You cannot separate one family from the next—-everyone’s noise, water, celebrations, and losses exist on a shared map.
The cremation ground surprised me. It sat inside the Koliwada, not hidden away. A small statue of Tukaram welcomed us. For the fishing community, who live with the unpredictability of the sea, death isn’t something to fear or avoid. Funerals here have bands. On days when there are no funeralS, people play cards nearby, or use the space to repair their nets. Standing there, I realised how much the city forces distance from death, and how much this village was gently holding it.
We kept walking until the stories shifted to the inhabitants’ present-day struggles—seaspiracy, shrinking fish sizes, fast-disappearing pomfrets, golden coconuts once offered in temples replaced with gold-coloured paper. A community that once lived in abundance now catches small fish at dawn, sells them quickly, and adapts to the pressures of industrial fishing and rapidly evolving infrastructure.
We climbed up to the Worli Fort just as the light began to thin. The view revealed itself slowly, Mumbai stretching out in all directions. The old stone walls behind us, the skyline ahead, and all of Koliwada glowing in between. Chintamani Sir sang his famous song Papletwaali along with two more songs, his voice rolling down the hill toward the boats below. It felt soft, raw, and unexpectedly emotional, true to the Koli culture.
Before the final descent to the dock, we stopped at the temple of Vetal Dev, who is considered the trickster guardian of the Koliwada. The sign on his shrine cautions women who are four months into their pregnancy from crossing the threshold. Only men enter the inner space. Vetal Dev is believed to possess people during certain festivals; he nudges them, tests them, protects them. The mythology felt wild and alive, as if he were still lurking at the edge of the path.
We ended at the dock. The sky was a fading blue, with the water reflecting the last light. Boats settling down, nets folded, engines cooling. The air smelled of salt and diesel and something older, something the city has forgotten to recognise.
Photos by Sarthak Chand.
Walking out of Worli Koliwada, I felt like I had stepped back into Mumbai but carried a small piece of an older world with me. A world where stones answer questions, communities stand unshaken, goddesses give warnings, and the sea decides everything else.
Rujuta Kumbhojkar is a design researcher who applies behavioural science and human-centred design to challenges in the public and private sectors. She is passionate about exploring how food shapes collective memory, identity, and livelihoods. Through the Mumbai Koli project, Rujuta is engaging with the Koli community’s evolving relationship with the sea, their food practices, and the socio-cultural ecologies that sustain them.
Sarthak Chand is a Mumbai-based documentary photographer and filmmaker. He is the founder of The Gonzo Studio, and has worked across industries as a writer, director, and researcher. He is currently a volunteer with the Mumbai Koli Project. Follow his work here, and here.
Learn more about the Mumbai Koli Project.
Learn more about No Footprints.
At The Locavore, we love planning and executing events that highlight India’s diverse local foods, celebrating community, sustainability, and cultural heritage. Our events feature engaging workshops, discussions, immersive experiences and other formats that connect you to India’s rich food culture. Interested in collaborating or having us organise an event? Reach out at connect@thelocavore.in.
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