Lockdown diary - fishing at Nagda

 

There is a sudden heavy tug on the line. The tip of my fishing rod is yanked sideways. But within seconds the line goes slack. Judging from the viciousness of the strike this must have been a large fish. How did it get off?

 I retrieve the line and examine the lure. It is a minnow-shaped hard-bait armed with two treble hooks. The trailing hook has been wrenched sideways from the body of the lure. It is swinging free but for the internal wire trace linking the two treble hooks. For all practical purposes the lure has been destroyed.

 Immediately I try and run the strike through my mind. Did I make any mistake: was the drag set too tight? Or could I have set the hook by pulling back harder on the rod? No, it had happened too quickly. There had been no time to react. It had got away, whatever it was. Damn!

 We have been fishing for two full days on the river Kalisindh. We are at Nagda, a small village, a few miles downstream from Palaitha. My maternal relatives are from Palaitha, and we have spent many childhood holidays in these areas.

The river is a seasonal one, as are most rivers flowing through Rajasthan. Yet, the Kalisindh (which flows into the Chambal) maintains a perennial flow of water in these parts even outside the monsoon months. The now exposed riverbed is what is known locally as a pathaar - a mile-wide expanse of flat rocky terrain. A small dam has created an expansive backwater which completely encircles an island on which we are camped. When the river is in spate the campsite would be partly submerged. The camp is idyllic. Our tents open onto a strip of turf which slopes down to flat rocks abutting the edge of the river. During the hottest part of the day we have rested in the shade while simple, hearty dishes have been cooked over wood-fired stoves.

 Earlier in the day a solitary cheetal and a herd of nilgai have emerged cautiously from the surrounding forest to drink from the river. They are skittish near the water’s edge. They are wary, no doubt having observed one of the resident mugger crocodiles basking nearby on a sun-drenched sandbank over the past few days.

 Now it is our last evening on the river. Our catch has been limited to several small fish: a few silund, the largest weighing about 4 lbs each, a laanchi and a sanwal. All three of these species are types of catfish. The laanchi (Wallagonia attu) and the snakehead or sanwal (Ophicephalus striatus) are indeed quite catfish-like in appearance, with barbels and long tapered bodies. But the silund (Silonia silondia) looks quite different: the silvery, scale-less body is streamlined, the upturned mouth is small, and the large, powerful tail has a reddish tinge.

 There is a strict ‘catch-and-release’ policy at the fishing camp. Hence each of the fish which were caught were handled carefully, and have been released unharmed back into the river.

 We have not hooked any mahseer on this trip, despite trying out all the different types of lures in the tackle box: spinners, metal spoons and balsa-wood hard-baits. Over the years we have caught many humpback mahseer (Tor mussullah) on both the rivers - the Kalisindh and the Chambal. However, in recent years the mahseer caught here sport uncharacteristically bright silvery scales. It would be interesting to have a closer look at one of them in the flesh.

 The sun is already low on the horizon, lengthening our shadows over the pathaar. We are now fishing at a spot where the river rushes through a series of rapids which taper off into a deep pool. River terns patrol the length of the river in buoyant, effortless flight. A pied kingfisher hovers motionless in the air, before diving with folded wings arrow-straight into the water. A small fish glitters in its bill as it emerges, with droplets showering from its feathers in the golden light.

 It appears that we will have to call it a day and start heading back to camp in a short while. I signal Abhiviraj over, and ask him to gather our gear. Jokingly I comment that the best fish is often caught at the very end of day’s play - as often happens in fishing documentaries. And that is exactly what unfolds!

 After casting I have just about reset the bail arm on the spinning reel when there is a strike. There is a deep sustained pull on the line, strong enough to jerk me forward to the edge of the water. I am using light tackle: a 15 lbs. monofilament line spooled on an old Abu Garcia reel, paired with an even older 7 ft. rod. The first run of the fish is irresistible. Several yards of line are stripped off the reel in a matter of seconds. However, there is something unusual this time round- the fish has dived down deep instead of using the flow of the rapids to move away from the bank. Immediately I know from this telltale behaviour that it can only be one of two species: either a goonch (Bagarius bagarius) or a silund.

 The river here is several meters deep and both banks are lined with vertical rocky walls. If a goonch were to wedge itself into a crack in the rocks underwater I would not be able to budge it. Luckily the fish is still active on the line, still running deep, but now making for the middle of the river where the flow is stronger. I need to get it out of the current and into the calmer water further downstream. Of course, there is really no way of knowing the size of the fish as yet - it has not shown itself so far. So I have to be careful to keep the drag as light as possible as I scramble over the boulders along the riverbank. But the fish is not quite following the script. It makes a series of runs down into the depths and then swims back upstream. I have to be patient. This is not a small fish and it will not be bullied, especially not with the light tackle I am using.

  Several minutes have passed and the light is now fading quickly. The reflection of a  gibbous moon ripples on the surface of the water, and lights can now be seen twinkling at the camp. An Indian nightjar calls in the distance, the notes fading into an accelerating diminuendo.

 And then a deeply forked tail cleaves the surface of the water and we have our first glimpse of the fish. It is a good one! The muffled roar of the river fades to the background. I have ears only for the sounds of that tail and that streamlined body as it twists and turns in the still water it finds itself in now. It sounds not unlike the splash and gurgle of a heavy oar. The runs are shallower and shorter now, obviously the fish is tiring. Where are we going to land it? Over here the bank is steeply shelved and there are large boulders submerged at the water’s edge. There is every danger of snagging the line and the fish getting away. Then in the gloaming I can see a tiny spit of sand where the river begins to curve towards the camp. That will have to do. And then, as much by accident as by design, the fish is drawn up onto that 10 ft. wide sandy beach. Just the head is out of the water, the exhausted body now motionless in the shallows.

  Now comes the most crucial part of this business! I have seen so many fish lost at this very juncture in the past.

 ‘Abhiviraj, can you get the fish-gripper out of my pocket?’ As he does so, I quickly hand over the rod to him, saying ‘just hold on, don’t yank the line’. It is quite dark now as I bend over the beached fish. It should be a simple matter to insert the plastic fish-gripper into the mouth and secure it. The mouth, I know, is lined with small sharp teeth. It is indeed a silund and one has also to be careful to stay clear of the stiff needle-like spine on its dorsal fin. I get a good grip with the fishing tool and gently start to pull the fish out of the water. Suddenly the gripper slips and at that very same moment the line snaps! The fish has bitten through the monofilament. It is only now I realize that I hadn't attached a wire leader to the lure - which could have prevented this from happening. A big mistake! The lure, I can see, is still dangling from the lower lip - and that too has been chewed through almost completely. The fish is free!

 At this moment pure instinct takes over. Without any hesitation, placing my legs in the water astride the fish, I grab the body in both arms. There is a brief flurry of action - of churning water and flying sand. But the grip holds true and I manage to half-drag, half-carry the fish on to a large flat-topped boulder well away from the water’s edge. We finally have our fish.

 Now we move quickly to measure the silund - it weighs in at 21 lbs. I fetch a capful of river water to rinse sand off the fish so we can take a few photographs. Carefully we support the fish in the shallows preparatory to releasing it. Within a short while the tail movements become stronger, and then with a powerful swish it is gone.

Soon we are back in camp. There is some curiosity over how we were able to land the fish in near darkness. As we recount the sequence of events someone says that a few months earlier a mugger had snatched a hooked fish at that very same spot... where I'd been standing in knee-deep water just moments earlier!

Sahdev Singh

Jaipur, March 2021