boats in front of the Gateway of India in the morning, a quiet journey across the sea.
Sharat Chandra Prasad
Every day, ferries carrying tourists leave Mumbai’s Gateway of India and cross the harbour towards Elephanta Island. Most visitors arrive for the ancient rock-cut caves, the stone sculptures, and the promise of history carved into basalt. Few stay long enough to notice the people who continue to live there after the last boat returns to the city.
For the Koli community of Elephanta Island, the island is not a heritage attraction but a home. The sea provides fish, food, income, memory, and identity, while also carrying uncertainty. Fishing incomes shift with the seasons, drinking water remains scarce despite being surrounded by water, and tourism has become both a source of opportunity and a growing pressure.
As Mumbai expands through ports, shipping traffic, and coastal infrastructure, life on the island is changing quietly. The story of Elephanta Island is no longer only about caves and tourism. It is equally about water, ecological survival, unseen labour, and a fishing community trying to preserve its relationship with the sea.
Boats in front of the Gateway of India in the morning, a quiet journey across the sea.
An Island the Tourists Do Not See
About an hour by ferry from the Gateway of India, Elephanta Island rests quietly in Mumbai Harbour. It is best known for caves carved more than 1,500 years ago, now recognised as a UNESCO World Heritage Site. On weekends, the pathways fill with tourists, monkeys weave between vendors, and guides retell stories of Shiva and the Trimurti.
When the final ferry departs each evening, another version of the island remains. According to the 2011 Census, around 1,200 people live on Elephanta Island. Almost all belong to the Koli community, one of the oldest fishing communities associated with the coast of what is now Mumbai. For them, the island is neither a tourist destination nor an archaeological landmark. The caves exist simply as part of the landscape around their homes.
A road on Elephanta Island, used daily by residents beyond the tourist paths.
The island is divided into three villages: Shentbandar, Morabandar, and Rajbandar. These settlements are small, surrounded by dense vegetation and narrow pathways where the sea is never far away. Here, homes stand close together, lanes remain quiet, and the sea is never far from any doorstep. On weekdays, the island moves at a slower rhythm, interrupted only when tourist ferries begin arriving again on Saturday and Sunday mornings. Life here depends on fragile balances between the sea, rainfall, tourism, and whatever the island itself can provide.
Vijay and Veena, a couple who’ve been fishing and sailing together for half a century.
The Sea That Raised Generations
Vijay Patil has spent almost his entire life on Elephanta Island. He wakes at five each morning, makes tea, and sits by the shore before heading out to fish. It is a routine that has remained largely unchanged for decades, and one he says he cannot imagine giving up for life elsewhere.
His wife Veena came here after their marriage in 1980. Originally from Alibag in the Raigad district, she recalls feeling uncertain when she first learned that her future husband lived on a small island in the harbour. It took her three months to settle in. After that, she says, the island became home. “I never regret my decision,” she says.
Vijay patil and veena tying their boat at the harbour, Elephanta Island, Mumbai, Maharashtra
For more than four decades, the couple have depended on fishing for their livelihood. Veena learned the work by watching her parents while growing up. Cleaning fish, sorting catches, understanding tides, cutting fish, reading weather patterns, and judging the water were skills gained through repetition rather than formal teaching.
Before Vijay leaves for the sea, they prepare the diesel boat together. Nets are checked, ropes arranged, fuel loaded, supplies organised, and the vessel steadied before departure. Veena does not go out to fish herself, yet much of the labour around fishing falls to her. While Vijay is at sea, she also manages the household alone. On good days, the catch can range from 10 to 30 kilograms. On bad days, there is little worth selling. Their earnings are never fixed, changing constantly with weather, fish movement, tides, and luck.
Vijay showing a miniature boat made by the couple, a small reflection of their life at sea.
Age has made the work more demanding for Vijay. Hauling nets and handling the boat now require strength that has gradually diminished. Several years ago, he fractured his leg badly after falling on the boat during a fishing trip. Recovery was slow, and for months Veena carried much of the responsibility herself. Since then, her role has grown further. She steadies the boat at the dock, ties ropes, and takes on tasks Vijay once managed alone.
Vijay is sailing in his diesel boat, heading out to sea for nearly five hours of work.
The accident also led them to look for another source of income. Together, they began making miniature wooden boats and toy fish from home. Orders come only a few times each month, but the craft provides support during seasons when the sea offers little in return. The couple does not have children. Their home is modest, and their routines remain simple. “Vijay cooks sometimes too,” Veena says quietly while showing the kitchen.
Three Months Without the Sea
When the monsoon arrives, the sea that sustains the island grows quiet. June, July, and August are the most difficult months for fishing families on Elephanta Island. Rough weather makes fishing unsafe, and the annual seasonal ban stops activity along the coast to protect breeding cycles. The restriction is widely understood as necessary, but it means nearly three months without fishing income.
Veena was waiting for her husband at the harbour, watching the boats return.
During this period, families depend on savings set aside earlier in the year. For many, even basic maintenance becomes uncertain. Boat damage can be costly, and repairs are often delayed because there is no money. “Many times my boat got damaged. There is a time we don't have money to even repair it,” says Veena.
The island itself has limited infrastructure. There is no school and no hospital, so residents must travel to Mumbai for education and medical care. Electricity reached the island only after 2014. Before that, daily life continued without reliable power. Many younger residents now leave for the mainland in search of work or studies, while others remain to support family livelihoods tied to fishing or tourism.
Women return from the tourist routes, carrying back unsold goods and earnings, walking quietly towards their respective villages as the day winds down.
An Island Surrounded by Water but Thirsty for Drinking Water
Water scarcity shapes life on Elephanta Island in ways most visitors never notice. Although wells and tube wells exist, the groundwater is saline and unsuitable for drinking. It is used mainly for bathing, washing utensils, and household cleaning. Drinking water depends largely on rainwater collected and stored during the monsoon. When those reserves run low, families must buy water brought from Mumbai.
Managing that supply becomes part of everyday survival, especially for women who monitor storage carefully through the dry months, decide when to purchase extra water, and ration its use within the household.
A woman fetches water, meant only for cleaning and bathing, reflecting the limited access to basic resources on the island.
Yet the island’s struggle for freshwater is far older than its present residents. Recent excavations by the Archaeological Survey of India uncovered a large stepped reservoir believed to be around 1,500 years old beneath the island landscape. The structure, excavated under the supervision of archaeologist Abhijit Ambekar, suggests that earlier inhabitants also built systems to capture and preserve rainwater. Constructed with stone blocks transported from the mainland, the reservoir indicates that freshwater storage was central to life here centuries ago.
Researchers noted that although the island receives heavy monsoon rainfall, its rocky terrain allows little water to seep underground. Much of it drains quickly back into the sea. The challenge faced by residents today is therefore part of a much longer environmental history.
The excavations also revealed Mediterranean amphorae, West Asian torpedo jars, anchors, beads, and coins linked to sixth-century trade networks, indicating that Elephanta Island was once connected to the wider maritime world. Beneath those histories of trade lies a quieter continuity: generations separated by centuries have all confronted the same problem of holding freshwater on an island encircled by the sea.
At her small stall, Gita Patil serves tea, biscuits, and chips, meeting a steady flow of tourists arriving at Elephanta Caves.
Women Who Keep the Island Running
When the men leave for the sea, much of the island’s daily life rests in women’s hands. Take a walk through the lanes of Elephanta Island during the day, and it becomes clear that many of its small businesses are run by women. Tea stalls, flower shops, juice counters, jewellery stalls, restaurants, and modest cafés are managed by them while men fish or work along the shore. Alongside maintaining households, women quietly sustain much of the island’s daily economy.
Their day often begins before sunrise. Cooking for the family is followed by cleaning fish, sorting catches, carrying supplies, collecting water, and opening shops. Some women travel to Sassoon Dock to sell fish on the mainland before returning home to continue work.
A toy shop on the island displays bright plastic and handmade items, small reminders of how tourism shapes local trade.
Gita Patil, whose name has been changed, runs a small shop and flower stall near the tourist routes. Fishing was never her direct source of income, but tourism created new earning opportunities for many households. “People are earning double now,” she says. The remark is neither a celebration nor a complaint, only a practical observation on how livelihoods have shifted.
Women also carry the burden of water scarcity. Salty well water must be kept separate from drinking reserves, rainwater storage must be watched carefully, and decisions about when to buy water from Mumbai usually fall to them.
Flower shops line parts of the pathway, their offerings tied closely to both ritual use and tourist demand.
Fuel collection is another demanding task. Many homes and food stalls still rely on firewood because cooking gas is either expensive or difficult to access regularly. Women often spend hours gathering wood from forested areas before carrying it back for household use. Most visitors passing through on weekends never see this labour, though much of the island continues to function because of it.
A woman gathers and carries firewood on her head, a daily task that continues alongside the island’s growing visitor economy.
From Fishing Nets to Tourist Shops
Tourism has not replaced fishing on Elephanta Island. For many families, it has become a way to survive alongside it. Rajesh Patil, who lives on the island, once depended mainly on fishing. Today, he and his wife run a small juice and soda stall near the tourist area. “Fishing is hard work and not very profitable,” he says.
Selling fish in Mumbai requires time, transport, and coordination. A shop offers steadier returns, particularly on weekends and holidays when ferries bring visitors from the mainland. Rajesh still fishes occasionally, but the sea no longer offers the certainty it once did. His children now live in Mumbai, and his son is pursuing a master’s degree. Like many island families, the next generation are gradually moving towards different futures on the mainland.
Rajesh pauses at his small shop, serving lemon soda to passing visitors, a brief exchange between island routine and tourist curiosity.
Rajesh pauses at his small shop, serving lemon soda to passing visitors, a brief exchange between island routine and tourist curiosity.
At the same time, tourism creates pressures of its own. After busy weekends, plastic bottles, wrappers, and garbage often remain scattered across pathways and public areas. Residents frequently clean the surroundings themselves because municipal efforts are limited. The environmental burden of tourism falls largely on those who live there year-round. “I can see change,” Rajesh says. “Lots of ports got constructed. That may not be good for us.”
Rajesh stands at his diesel boat, which he sails occasionally, balancing between fishing, transport, and the slow rhythm of the harbour.
The Sea Is Changing
The Koli community is not stepping away from fishing by choice alone. The waters around them are changing. Dr. Kailash Tandel, who holds a PhD from IIT Bombay, explains that traditional fishing systems once depended on restraint and ecological balance. Smaller nets were used, juvenile fish were often returned to the water, and methods were less damaging to marine life.
Industrial practices have altered that balance. Petroleum exploration in the Arabian Sea, underwater blasting, illegal mechanised vessels, expanding ports, and rising shipping activity have all affected coastal ecosystems around Mumbai Harbour.
The Mumbai Harbour glows at night, distant and luminous, a contrast to the island’s slower pace.
Fish habitats are disturbed, catches decline, and some traditional fishing grounds have become inaccessible. Older systems of fish trading and boat building that once supported Koli livelihoods have also weakened. “People are choosing softer options,” Dr Tandel says. The movement from fishing boats to tourist stalls is not simply preference or convenience. It reflects how difficult it has become to survive from the sea alone.
Families like Vijay and Veena continue fishing because it is the life they know, even as the sea becomes less predictable. Some households have stopped entirely. Others remain because they see no clear alternative.
A damaged boat rests at a small dock near the harbour, hinting at wear, weather, and the uncertainties of livelihood.
Tourism, Waste, and the Fragile Island Ecology
The ecological life of Elephanta Island exists in uneasy balance with tourism. The island still supports dense vegetation, mangroves, birds, monkeys, grazing cattle, and forested stretches that sustain biodiversity. Residents also recall stories that elephants were once kept here to transport goods, possibly contributing to the island’s present name.
Yet environmental pressure is growing. Tourism generates increasing amounts of plastic waste. Feeding monkeys despite restrictions changes animal behaviour. Coastal construction and nearby ports continue reshaping the marine ecosystems connected to the island.
Mangrove plants stretch along the edges, while in the background, signs of construction quietly alter the coastal landscape.
For residents, environmental decline is not an abstract concern. It appears directly in fishing catches, water quality, shoreline changes, and the condition of the surrounding sea. The caves may draw global recognition, but the island survives through far more delicate systems: seasonal rainfall, functioning coastal ecology, and the labour of people continually adapting to both.
After the Last Ferry
More than 1,500 years ago, people on Elephanta Island built reservoirs to hold rainwater long enough to survive another season. The logic remains unchanged. Families still wait for the monsoon to refill storage tanks. Fishers still depend on tides and breeding cycles. Women still hold households together through uncertain months.
A seagull hovers close to tourists, often fed despite restrictions, becoming an unintended part of the island experience.
But the pressures around the island have intensified. Fish stocks are shrinking, coastal development is expanding, tourism continues to grow, and freshwater remains uncertain. For the Koli community, these are not distant environmental debates. They are practical questions asked every day: whether enough drinking water remains in storage, whether a damaged boat can be repaired, whether the next fishing season will justify the wait, and whether younger generations will stay at all. “We are Koli,” Veena says. “We cannot live far from the sea.”
Most visitors leave Elephanta carrying photographs of stone sculptures and cave temples. The Koli community remains behind with a different inheritance: storing rainwater before summer arrives, repairing boats after storms, watching fish stocks decline, and adapting to a coastline changing faster than their traditions can. On an island celebrated for preserving the past, survival increasingly depends on negotiating an uncertain environmental future.