Trapped by climate change in the Brahmaputra

It was hunger that drove Jalal Ali to learn how to make bamboo fishing traps. 

He was a young man trying to survive on daily wage work that would dry up in the monsoons: “The rainy season meant no work except for a few days planting paddy saplings,” he says.

But the monsoons also brought fish crowding the channels and swamps of Mousita-Balabari in Darrang district where he lives, and bamboo fishing traps were in high demand. “I learnt how to make the bamboo fishing traps as that way I could feed my family. When you are hungry, you think of the easiest way to put food in the stomach,” says the 60-year-old laughing at the memory.

Today Jalal is a master craftsman of seppa, bosna and bair – indigenous bamboo traps that can catch a variety of fish in these water bodies. He makes them at his home at Pub-Padokhat village along the Mousita-Balabari wetlands in Assam.

“Just two decades ago,” Jalal says, “almost every household in my village as well as nearby villages used the [bamboo] trap to catch fish. Back then it was either the bamboo traps or the handmade shiv jaal.” He is referring to nets also known locally as tongi jaal or jhetka jaal – a square-shaped net with four corners attached to bamboo rods or strings.

Local bamboo fishing traps are named according to their shape: “seppa is like a drum with oblong shape. Bair is also oblong-shaped but it is taller and wider. Darki is like a rectangular box,” explains Jalal. The duyer, diyaar and boishno traps are set in flowing water, mostly in water-logged paddy and jute fields, small canals, water conversing into swamps, wetlands or river confluence.

The Brahmaputra valley in Assam – from Sadiya in the east to Dhubri in the west – is dotted with rivers, channels, creeks connecting wetlands with rivers, floodplain lakes and innumerable natural ponds. These water bodies sustain fishing livelihoods of local communities. The fishing industry in Assam engages more 3.5 million, says the Handbook on Fisheries Statistics 2022. 

Scientists say commercial fishing gear such as mosuri jaal (small mesh net) and mechanised drag nets are expensive and dangerous for aquatic lives as they extract even the smallest fish and add plastic waste into the water. But indigenous fishing traps made with locally available bamboo, cane and jute are sustainable and tailored to local ecosystems – they only hold fish of a specific size, so there is no wastage.

Overfishing happens with commercial nets and destroys the spawning ecosystem, added an expert at ICAR-Central Inland Fisheries Research Institute who did not wish to be named.

He said siltation during floods is also reducing the size of natural swamps and wetlands – they have less water now and there is less catch of inland fish. A fact that fisherman Muksed Ali is painfully aware of: “earlier, you could see water flowing into the Brahmaputra which is around four kilometres from my home. Then I would set the fishing traps by creating narrow streams by putting soil on the submerged alleys in the fields.” The sexagenarian says he depended on bairs as he could not afford to buy modern nets.

“We had a plenty of catch six or seven years ago. But now I hardly get half kilogram of fish from my four bairs,” says Muksed Ali who lives with his wife in No. 4 Arimari village of Darrang district.

Assam receives abundant rain – 166 cm in the Brahmaputra valley and 183 cm in Barak Valley. The southwest monsoon starts at the end of April and lasts till October. Jalal times his work to this rhythm. “I used to start making the fishing traps in joshti maash [mid-May] and people would start buying bairs from ashar maash [mid-June]. But for the last three years, people do not buy during the usual time due to less rain.”

A World Bank report published in 2023 says Assam will experience rising temperatures, a decrease in annual rainfall and extreme flooding events. Climate change will also increase the sedimentation in water bodies – reducing their water levels and hence the fish they can hold.

From 1990 to 2019, the annual average maximum and minimum temperatures increased by 0.049 and 0.013 degrees Celsius respectively, says this government release tabled in the state assembly. The daily average temperature range rose by 0.037 degrees Celsius and there was over 10 mm less rainfall each year during this period.

“Earlier we knew when it would rain. But now the pattern has completely changed. Sometimes it rains way too much in a short time and sometimes it does not rain at all,” points out Jalal. Three years ago, he says, a craftsman like him could expect to earn between Rs. 20,000 to 30,000 during the monsoon season.

Last year, he managed to sell around 15 bairs but this year he has only made five bairs from mid-June to mid-July which is the regular time for people to buy the indigenous bamboo fishing traps, says the master craftsman.

He’s not the only craftsman whose incomes have fallen. Jobla Daimary is a 79-year-old seppa maker in Udalguri district. He says, “there are fewer jackfruits on the trees, the heat is excessive and till now there has been no rain. This year will be unpredictable, so I will not put the effort unless I receive orders.” Daimary is speaking to PARI as he gives the final touches to a seppa. He adds that vendors have almost stopped visiting his home and so he had only made five fishing traps when we met him on a warm day in May 2024.

At Balugaon weekly market, one of the biggest in Assam, Surhab Ali has been dealing with bamboo items for decades. “It is first week of July and I have not even sold one bair this year,” he points out

Jalal is witnessing the slow vanishing of his craft: “Nobody comes to me to learn the process. Without fish, what would be the use of learning this art?” he asks as he gets back to finishing his darki in the backyard of his house which is actually a mud-road along the Mousita-Balabari unlisted beel (large swamp).

“You have to forget boredom and at the same time you will have to maintain unwavering focus if you want to make these traps,” says Jalal, making a point about the complete concentration his work requires. “At best you can listen to conversations, but if you want to participate then you will have to stop tying the knots on the bair.” Working continuously, he can complete a trap in two days. “If I stop from time to time, it can take four to five days,” he adds.

The process of the making of these traps begins with selecting the bamboo. To make the fishing traps, the crafts people use locally sourced bamboo with longer internodes. Both bair and seppa are three feet or three-and-half feet long. Tolla baash or jati baah (Bambusa tulda) are preferred for their malleability.

“A fully-grown bamboo, usually three or four-year-old, is crucial or else the trap will not last long. The internodes should ideally be at least 18 to 27 inches. My eyes must correctly measure them while procuring the bamboo,” he says. “I cut them into pieces from the end of one node to the other node,” adds Jalal who measures the thin square bamboo rods using his hand.

Once the bamboo is cut into pieces, Jalal makes the fine square slips to weave them for the side walls of the fishing trap. “Earlier I used jute strings to weave the kaathi [thin bamboo slips] but now I use plastic threads as jute is no longer cultivated in our area.”

Jalal has to make 480 square-shaped bamboo slips which are either 18 inches or 27 inches in height. “This is a very tedious work,” he says. “The kaathis have to be equal in size and shape and very smooth, or the woven side walls will not be uniform.” It takes him half a day to do this.

The most critical part is making the valves through which fish enter and are caught. “I can make four bairs from one bamboo which costs around 80 rupees, and the plastic string costs around 30 rupees,” says Jalal, an aluminium wire held between his teeth to keep knotting the top ends of the darki he is crafting.

The braiding and knotting of the bamboo slips takes up to four days of intense labour. “You cannot take your eyes off the string and the bamboo slips. If you miss braiding a rod, then two bamboo slips may enter into one knot, and you will have to untie till the point and redo the braiding process,” he explains. “It is not about strength but very delicate braiding and knotting at specific points. The immersive attention makes sweat flow from head to toe.”

With less rain and fewer fish, Jalal is worried about the future of his craft. “Who would want to observe and learn this skill that requires so much patience and perseverance?” he asks.

This story is supported by a fellowship from Mrinalini Mukherjee Foundation (MMF).