MISCELLANEOUS NOTES. 691 



No. XXVII.— ESTUARY FISHING IN INDIA. 



To few people in England do the names bamin and nair convey any meaning, 

 and it is extraordinary also how little is known of these excellent and most 

 sporting fish by dwellers in this land of exile. Ask any Anglo-Indian about 

 fishing in India, and whether he himself be a disciple of Izaak Walton or no, his 

 first remark will be " mahseer." A few non-fishermen will get no further, 

 though others will, perhaps, hazard murral and chilwa, and — with recollections 

 of occasional glimpses at menus — seer. But once effect an introduction bet- 

 ween the angler and the bamin or nair, and he will be so charmed that it will 

 never be his fault if the acquaintance is allowed to drop. The bamin, 

 pronounced bar-meen (Polynieuus tetradactylus), is, perhaps, more like a salmon 

 than any other Indian fish, while the nair QLates calcarifer) is a heavy, deep 

 fish, which runs to as much as 60 lb. Both are sea fish, though they frequent 

 the estuaries, running up with the tide m pursuit of the small mullet on which 

 it is their delight to prey. For many fish are advocates to be found who claim 

 each that his favourite is the most sporting fish in the world. But that must 

 necessarily be a matter of opinion ; the simplest way would be to divide fish into 

 four or five classes, according to the sport they gave ; then assuredly would 

 both the nair and the bamin rub shoulders with the salmon, the mahseer, and 

 the tarpon in the first class. 



And to fish for them. Undoubtedly the part of India that offers the most 

 attractions to the angler is the west coast. Here in Malabar are innumerable 

 backwaters cutting their way through a fringe of golden sand and intersecting 

 miles of loW-lying land and bright green paddy fields. To the lover of nature 

 the beauty of the scene leaves little to be desired. In the early morning, as 

 one stands on one of the quaint old wooden bridges that carry the main road 

 through Calicut to Cannanore, beneath one's feet glows the blue-green of the 

 backwater merging a few hundreds of yards away into the glorious azure of 

 the sea. Around, the palm trees and the deep green of the mango are in vivid 

 contrast with the bright red soil of Malabar, while on the still air lies heavy 

 the scent of innumerable frangipani trees, nestling here and there among the 

 huts that dot the banks of the estuary. And seaward the white sails of the 

 fishing boats, lit by the rising sun, look like driven snow, while landward, in 

 strange contrast tower the forest-clad mountains of Coorg and the Wynaad. 



One's soul, however, though soaring in day-dreams inspired by the beauties 

 of nature, is soon brought back to Mother Earth. A heavy splash in 

 mid-stream and a prolonged "Ah — h !" from the attendants assure one that the 

 big fish are coming on the feed. For these fish at some seasons of the year 

 have their meal hours most rigorously marked out for them. At certain times 

 in the tides the bamin and the nair begin to run up or drop down the estuary, 

 feeding the while on the shoals of mullet which scatter like chaff before their 

 voracious foes. And if the angler be ready at that appointed hour he may 

 rest assured that sport of some kind will be his. First and foremost comes the 

 question of bait, and that should be a matter of no difficulty. The above- 



