My first memory of coming face to face with a koli goes back to one of my most favourite childhood routines: the weekly visit to the neighbourhood fish market with my mum. The koli fisherwoman's name was Rekha, and like the actress' look in most of her 80s movies, she, too, would wear a shiny red lip colour, and big bindi. Her vibrant saree prints and thick sets of bangles ensured everybody took note of her during their rounds of the market. Of course, it did help that she had the best catch on most days.

Loudmouthed, warm and ready for a laugh (only of the thunderous variety), she was naturally one of the most sought after koli fisherwomen at Mulund's fish market near the eastern exit of its railway station. Her friendly banter made her the centre of all the action, as she would engage in lighthearted duels with her loyal customers over the "best price". From her I learnt all about how to pick a good rawas, paaplet and surmai, and when to skip the 'jhinga'. The funniest moments would be her rather amusing trysts with the English language as she would do her best to impress my mum, the English school teacher — "only for you, madam, I give fifty rupees less," she'd say, with immense pride. And, on days when Rekha said the fish wasn't worth buying, we took her word for it. If Rekha ruled the silver screen at the time, her namesake in Mulund did the same at the fish market. Those early encounters with a member of the community were a much better education about them than the single page mention in our school textbooks.