A day in the life of Mumbai’s Koli women: From dock to market

Dawn barely touched the sky, but Sassoon Dock, Mumbai's historic fish market, was already buzzing. A chai seller rattled his cart, the clinking cups echoing against the sea's soft murmur. This vital hub, a testament to the city's maritime past, was a flurry of activity even before the sun fully rose. In Machimar Nagar, a fishing village in Mumbai commonly known as a Koliwada, Leela Tandel, a small figure in the dim light, was already up and awake.

The Koli women, known for their social and financial independence, manage the entire economic system of fishing within their settlements, the Koliwadas. Her small home, decorated with bright paintings of Koli women, was quiet except for her sleeping family. But Leela’s day, like the tide, wouldn't wait. 3:00 AM. Too early for most, but for Koli women like Leela, it was time to work. She moved quickly and quietly, used to rising before the city woke. Before leaving, she quietly made tea, the fragrant steam filling the small kitchen. A splash of water, a silent prayer to the sea, and she slipped into her colourful nine-yard saree. The carefully arranged pleats were her badge, a uniform passed down through generations of Koli fisherwomen. A touch of gold earrings, a quick look at her sleeping children, and she was out the door, the cool, salty air a welcome change.

Machimarnagar's pre-dawn quiet was very different from the noise that would soon fill Sassoon Dock. The narrow lanes, usually busy with daily life, were still and hushed. Only the distant rumble of a fishing boat hinted at the coming activity. Leela walked purposefully, her sandals tapping lightly on the ground, her mind already on the fish. Would there be plenty of pomfret? Would she find the special Bombay Duck?

The sea, as always, kept its secrets. In a country where women are often unseen, hundreds of Koli women traded freely, managing their money in a large public space. This is unusual. They work and also shape how they work, using generations of skill. The fish-selling license and knowledge are proudly passed down from older Koli women to younger ones, like a treasured family item.

Unlike many Indian women in this patriarchal society, Koli fisherwomen make decisions at home and at work. But outside their community, they still don't have all their basic rights. By 4:00 AM, Sassoon Dock had changed. This historic dock, built in 1875, is Mumbai’s first big dock and a reminder of the city's past. It was a scene of organised chaos, a dance of boats and baskets, shouts, and smells. Fishing boats, full of the night's catch, jostled for space, their crews unloading their shiny treasures.

The air, thick with the smell of salt and fish, was full of energy. Leela, small in the crowd, moved through the chaos easily, like someone who had done this her whole life. Her sharp eyes looked over piles of fish—gleaming pomfret, silver kingfish, plump prawns. This wasn't just business; it was an art, a skill passed down for generations. Nearby, other women were already busy, quickly cleaning prawns, their hands moving with practiced ease.

She bargained with the fishermen, her voice strong but respectful, her years of experience clear in every look and gesture. Money changed hands, and soon, Leela had her fish for the day. But the real work was just starting. Sorting, cleaning, getting the fish ready for market—it was hard work, made harder by the lack of basic things. No special cleaning areas, no running water, no bathrooms. “We sit here for six hours straight with no toilets or anything,” Leela said, her voice tired as she rinsed her hands in a bucket of dirty water. “It's exhausting, but this is how we make a living.” The fish markets where women like Leela and her neighbour Sunita sell their fish are poorly maintained. “I earn just ₹500-600 for 8-9 hours of work. There’s no washroom, no proper space to stand,” Sunita said sadly.

These women are important to Mumbai’s seafood business, yet they work in terrible conditions. Online grocery stores have also hurt sales. “People hardly come in the mornings anymore,” Leela said. She questions, “And Sassoon Dock has no basic things—no bathrooms, no drinking water. How are we supposed to work like this?” Kailash Tandel, a community scholar with a PhD from IIT Bombay, explains, “Women from our community are engaged in cleaning and selling fish in the market. But the market is destroyed, and no alternative place has been given to them yet. There's no place to clean their fish, no facilities at all."

By 5:00 AM, her simple stall was ready. The market was a mix of colours and sounds—the bright sarees of the Koli women, the cries of sellers, and the flapping of fish. Leela joined the noise, her voice calling out as she advertised her fish. But the usual rhythm of the market was changing. The rise of online shopping made the crowds smaller and profits less. “Not many people come here now. They order online,” Leela said, worried. The digital age, with its promise of ease, was a new challenge for these traditional sellers.

Leela, like many of her fellow fisherwomen, couldn't use online payments, depending on family to help with online money. The morning passed, the sun rising higher, beating down on the busy market. After having worked for 4-5 hours, the Koli women shared a cup of tea, exchanging words with one another. “All of us, we have grown up together, spent all our lives around each other—and we have kind of been hidden from the rest of the world,” Sunita said with a smile. “I have been selling fish for eight years, and I know everyone. We cooperate with each other, help each other. Chai pe charcha (gossip and tea) is the only way of recreation at Sassoon Dock, Mumbai.”

She knew she had to hurry; her children would be waiting at the school gates. She also knew one thing for sure, "We've always nurtured this sea," she reflected. "I can't imagine living away from it.” She packed up her unsold fish, the weight of the day on her shoulders. But her day was far from over. Home was waiting, with its own set of jobs. Lunch to make, children to meet at school, a house to run. Leela’s life was a careful balancing act, always juggling roles—fisherwoman, wife, mother.

Her husband, Ganesh, was at sea, his life ruled by the tides like hers was by the market. “It's normal for us,” Leela explained. “We share the work—he gets the fish, I sell them. I take care of four other people besides our kids.” Theirs was a partnership made by need and tradition, a delicate dance of depending on each other. As evening came, Leela stood at the edge of Machimarnagar, watching the lights of returning fishing boats appear on the horizon. Ganesh’s boat was still days away, but the cycle would begin again tomorrow.

Their average income has declined by as much as 30% since 2010, yet the Indian state does not sufficiently acknowledge their economic vulnerability, according to research by Dr Samir Jale at Shivaji University. More than two-thirds of Mumbai’s Koli population of 200,000 is female, but their voices are seldom included in the city’s political processes. Despite these challenges, Koli women continue to be fiercely independent, financially, and domestically – a feat that is rare in a male-dominated country. In February 2025, the Mumbai Municipal Corporation (BMC) allocated Rs 25 crore in its budget for infrastructure development in Koliwadas and gaothans of Mumbai. However, Koli fishers were not satisfied with this allocation—it amounts to only Rs 25 lakh per village.

"The sea gives and takes," she said, her voice full of the wisdom of generations. "But we Kolis, we endure." The tall buildings of Mumbai are symbols of a quickly changing city. The Koli women, like her, stood strong, their bright sarees a defiant splash of tradition in a sea of modern life. They were more than just fish sellers; they were guardians of a heritage, their strength as deep and lasting as the sea itself. And as the city lights twinkled, Leela knew she'd be back at Sassoon Dock tomorrow, ready to face whatever the tide brought.