It was 2 a.m. It was pitch dark. And we were aboard what goes by the proud name of ‘mechanised boat,’ off the coast of Ramanathapuram district (often colloquially referred to as Ramnad) in Tamil Nadu.
The ‘mechanised boat’ was essentially a dilapidated, somewhat ancient vessel fitted with a Leyland bus engine (condemned in 1964, but refurbished and adapted for this craft – and still working in 1993 when I made this trip). Unlike the fishermen, who were all locals, I was clueless about where exactly we were. Somewhere-in-the Bay-of-Bengal is the best I can describe it.
We’d already been out at sea some 16 hours, through some rough patches. But nothing seemed to dim the smiles of the five-member crew, all of them bearing the surname ‘Fernando’ – very common among the fisherfolk community here.
The ‘mechanised boat’ had no source of light beyond a burning kerosene-soaked rag at the end of a stick held up by one of the Fernandos. Which worried me. How was I going to take photographs in this darkness?
The fish solved the problem.
They came up in the nets gleaming with phosphorescence (and I am not quite sure what else) and lit up the part of the boat they were in. Bouncing the flash off them did the rest. I was even able to take a couple of photos without using the flash (which accessory I have always disliked).
An hour so later, I was treated to the freshest fish I’d ever eaten, cooked on the perforated bottom of a big old tin turned upside down. Under and inside the tin they had somehow lit a fire. We were out at sea for two days, one of three such trips I made off Ramnad’s coast in 1993. All the time the fishermen worked cheerfully and with great efficiency in tough conditions with primitive equipment.
