On the banks of Bagmati River: Bihar’s forgotten fisherfolk

Arun Sahni has been fishing for over a decade in the Bagmati river near Sahjhauti village in Darbhanga district. At 4 AM, when most of the village is still asleep, Arun is already walking the familiar three-kilometre stretch to the river through the darkness, just as his father and grandfather once did. His patched-up fishing net slung over his shoulder, he meets his friend Ravi at the muddy banks where their two old boats wait.

“Humko aur kuch aata hi nahi hai—we don’t know how to do anything else,” says Arun. At 35, he’s spent 15 years casting his net in these waters. “This river is my office, my factory… my everything,” he says.

A Life Shaped by Rivers and Resilience

Bihar has always been about rivers. The Bagmati, Gandak, Koshi and several others flow down from Nepal, cutting through the plains before joining the Ganga. These rivers carry fertile silt that makes the land productive, but they also bring floods that can destroy everything in their path.

In Sahjhauti village of Darbhanga district in North Bihar, the Bagmati River, which originates in the distant mountains of Nepal, has been the lifeline for fishing communities for centuries. Here, along its muddy banks, live the Mallah, Machhuara, Nishad, and Kevat communities, people whose very identity is intertwined with water and the bounty it once provided. 

Arun and his family belong to the Mallah community, whose life and livelihood are inseparable from the river. "I really like fishing. Even when I migrated to Delhi in search of jobs, I couldn't stay there. I came back," Arun says, adjusting his patched-up net. "I literally don't know any other work except fishing."

Arun owns two old boats that have been repaired many times. Each morning, he and Ravi spend 2–3 hours casting their nets across the Bagmati using traditional methods. Then, with lunch boxes brought from home, they settle by the river for the day, waiting patiently.

The Invisible Majority: Challenges Facing Bihar’s Inland Fishers

Across Bihar, Arun is not alone. According to a 2023 Lok Sabha reply, the state of Bihar has over 6 million inland fishers—the largest such population in India. (To be precise, 6,027,375) Unlike many other coastal states, all of Bihar’s fishing happens inland in rivers, ponds, and canals. Interestingly, the workforce is nearly evenly split, with about 52% men and 48% women.

In villages like Sahjhauti, fishing is often the primary livelihood, though many households also farm, especially when floods disrupt one or the other. Women are deeply involved and play a vital role, especially in pond-based aquaculture and fish selling, often walking or cycling long distances to local markets.

Many fishers, like Arun, belong to socio-economically marginalised communities. They often don’t own land, don’t have formal licenses, and receive little to no government support. Despite their numbers and history, they remain largely invisible.

A Life Built on Water, One Catch at a Time

Fishing here isn’t just a job; it’s a skill passed down through generations. Take net weaving, for instance. It’s a delicate craft, done mostly by hand. Nets made from nylon are carefully repaired almost every day using a wooden needle called a sui, used to recreate the diamond weave. Women often take the lead in this quiet, skilled work, helping keep the tradition alive even as their role often goes unrecognised. A single net can cost anywhere between ₹2,000 and ₹5,000, which is a big investment for families surviving on just ₹150–200 a day.

The fish they catch include familiar freshwater varieties like rohu, catla, and mrigal (types of carp); catfish like magur; and local eels known as gaichi. These are staples in both village kitchens and local markets. But different nets and techniques are applied to catch each variety of those fish. These are skills that are learned slowly over many years and knowledge that has been passed down from one generation to the next.

“People think we earn a lot because we’re at the river all day,” Arun says, holding up his modest catch. “But look—this is just 3 kilos. I’ll get maybe ₹300 for it. And I’ll keep some for home,” he says. After setting aside fish for his family’s dinner, Arun usually manages to earn about ₹150 a day. That’s all he has to support his wife, two children, and mother—especially since his father passed away, making Arun the only breadwinner.

Before Dawn on the banks of Bagmati River

The community gets allocated specific stretches of river—about one kilometre each. They can't fish beyond that boundary. But even within their allocated area, fish populations keep declining. Unlike farmers who might have multiple crops or other income sources, fishing families depend entirely on the river. "We're also like farmers, but there are no policies to support us," says Ravi.

"Our entire family depends on fishing, and I am the only one earning. When the weather changes, it has an impact on us, and there's no government support,” says Arun, adding, “I can barely pay my children's school fees, which have increased to 400 rupees a month, while my daily earnings average only 200 rupees.”

State Investments Surge, but Traditional Fishers Struggle to Stay Afloat

In 2023-24, Bihar ranked fourth among India's inland fish-producing states, generating 8.73 lakh tonnes of fish. Bihar also exported an estimated 38.4 thousand tonnes of fish to other states—an 82% increase since 2014-15. The state even exported 38,400 tonnes to other regions.

But these statistics may not have captured the reality of people who actually catch the fish in these regions despite Bihar's impressive production figures. The irony becomes sharper against government investment. The Prime Minister's Special Package allocated Rs. 279.55 crore to Bihar's fisheries sector, with Rs. 56.35 crore released from the central share of Rs. 102.49 crore. Under the Pradhan Mantri Matsya Sampada Yojana, projects worth Rs. 522.41 crore have been sanctioned since 2020-21, with Rs. 79.84 crore released over four years.

The state’s support schemes are wide-ranging—covering everything from finfish hatcheries and brood banks to cold storage, feed mills, biofloc units, ornamental fish breeding, seed rearing, pond construction, aerator setups, wetland restoration, fisher housing, wholesale hubs, and mobile sales outlets.

But despite these efforts, Suman Singh—who has spent 14 years working with fishing communities through her NGO, Sakhi Bihar, in districts like Madhubani, Samastipur, and Darbhanga—shares a sobering reality of the fishing landscape in Bihar. Fishing, once a shared livelihood where men caught fish and women sold them in local markets (or the other way around), is now in decline. Many women have stopped going to the markets altogether.

“Rivers like the Bagmati, Gandak, and Kosi have changed drastically,” explains Suman. “There’s more silt, the currents are stronger, and traditional fishing has become nearly impossible,” she says. According to her, illegal sand mining and poorly planned hatcheries have added to the distress. “In places like Samastipur and Bhagalpur, fish seeds are often released in August when the current is too strong. Most don’t survive. They’re swept away before they can mature,” adds Suman.

Fishing bans during the August-September breeding period are essential, but they don’t help much when the fish population itself is shrinking. Floods have become more destructive, destroying not just boats but also nets. Displaced by rising waters, many fisherfolk are forced to migrate to cities, taking up low-paying labour jobs.

It’s not that schemes don’t exist. The Bihar Fisheries Directorate offers full subsidies for training and exposure visits and 50% support for inputs like seed, feed, medicines, and equipment. Integrated methods like fish-cum-poultry and biofloc are also subsidised. To help fishers sell their catch, the state gives up to a 90% subsidy on light vehicles like auto-rickshaws.

In May 2025, emergency aid was announced for those hit by floods—₹6,000 for partly damaged boats, ₹15,000 for fully lost ones, and ₹3,000–₹4,000 for nets. Small farmers can claim ₹10,000 per hectare for feed and ₹18,000 for pond repairs.

But these benefits rarely reach those who need them most. In many villages, people don’t even know such support exists. “There’s no outreach. No one visits. We hear about it too late—or not at all,” says Suman.

Environmental Crisis and the Fisherman’s Resolve

The fish populations are declining due to multiple factors. Industrial pollution flows downstream from cities, plastic waste chokes the water, chemical runoff from farms alters the river's chemistry, and sand mining disturbs the ecosystem. "Many times, we find more plastic than fish," the fishermen say sadly.

Government attempts to stock rivers with young fish often fail. "Government introduced small fish, but mostly they died because of the pollution in the river," Arun notes. Without addressing water quality, these efforts remain largely ineffective.

A 2025 state survey paints a grim picture. The Ganga, sacred to many and lifeblood to millions, was declared unfit even for bathing due to high coliform levels—mainly from untreated sewage flowing directly from urban drains. While industrial pollution in Bihar is relatively lower than in metro cities, the unchecked use of pesticides and the dumping of domestic waste continue to degrade water quality. Experts warn that key native species like rohu and catla, once abundant, have now “vanished” from large stretches of the Ganga, victims of habitat degradation.

Still, for fishermen like Arun, there is no exit route. “Even if fish vanish from the river, I don’t have an alternative. I will do it in the pond, but I will do fishing,” he says, his voice steady with quiet determination. “I literally don’t know any other work other than fishing. My mother, wife, and two children depend on it. My father passed away. My family runs on fishing.”

Surviving the Floods

But the real problem comes during the monsoon. When Darbhanga floods, which it does regularly, Arun and Ravi often cannot fish at all. The water flow becomes too strong, too dangerous.

"Paani itna tez bahta hai ki naav bhi nahi nikal sakte—the currents are so strong that they can't even take the boat out,” Arun explains. For 4-5 months every year, fishing families have no income. Zero. They wait for the water to recede, for normal life to return.

The numbers tell their own story of devastation. Approximately 73% of Bihar's geographical area—68,800 square kilometres out of 94,163 square kilometers - lies vulnerable to floods. In North Bihar, where Arun and Ravi struggle to make their living, 76% of the population faces this recurring nightmare year after year.

The floods don't just stop fishing—they destroy everything. Nets get washed away. Boats get damaged. The few belongings these families have often get submerged. When the water finally goes down, they have to start over again with whatever they can salvage or afford to replace.

It's not just bad luck or nature's whim. North Bihar sits at the mercy of rivers like the Koshi, Bagmati, and Gandak—all flowing down from Nepal, carrying with them the fury of monsoon rains from across the border. These rivers don't recognise boundaries. They flood when they want to flood, and families like Arun's simply endure.

Every year, the same cycle repeats. The water comes, the work stops, and the equipment gets destroyed. Then the slow, painful process of rebuilding begins—only to face the same devastation when the next monsoon arrives.

Market Realities

The fish are sorted by type and size before being taken to the local market. Rohu, being the most valued, gets the highest price at ₹120-150 per kilogram, while smaller fish sell for ₹80-100 per kilogram.

The marketing process itself has many problems. Without cold storage facilities, fishermen must sell their catch the same day, often at prices decided by middlemen. The lack of proper marketing systems means that fishermen often get only 40-50% of the final retail price.

Many fishermen like Arun save some of their catch for home, ensuring their families have fresh protein. The remaining fish are sold either directly to people at the village market or to traders who take them to bigger city markets in places like Patna and Muzaffarpur.

The Final Current

The traditional knowledge of reading water, understanding fish behaviour, and knowing seasonal patterns is becoming useless as the ecosystem collapses. Centuries of wisdom, passed down through generations, then become irrelevant.

The situation in Bihar's fishing communities reflects broader challenges facing traditional livelihoods in the face of environmental degradation, climate change, and inadequate policy implementation. Without significant improvements in river management, flood control, and more effective government support programmes, the traditional fishing communities of Bihar will likely continue to face pressure to abandon their ancestral occupations.

As Bihar's rivers continue to degrade and fishing becomes increasingly unviable, the question remains: will the state act decisively to address the root causes of environmental destruction, or will these communities become another casualty of development policies that prioritize short-term economic gains over long-term sustainability?