https://csim.in/conversations/CSIM_Conversations_January%202010.pdf

Red, green and yellow kodams sit devoutly at the feet of the big black water tank by the roadside, awaiting their turn. A gaggle of young women in saris or gowns hangs around the kodams, chattering. A crow perked at the edge of one keeps peeking inside curiously. A few paces away, on the sand, are several small clumps of men playing cards. Dozens of boats, blue and orange and white, lie sprinkled at the edge, warming themselves in the mellow sun.

On this Saturday afternoon by the Thiruvanmiyur seashore, at the entrance to the fisherfolks’ shantytown, the air smells of fish — and langour. 

Till the kids arrive.

Fresh from their siesta, curious about the camera and the recorder, they run amok around their mothers – and us two strangers. They want to be in every frame. “I can do cartwheels,” says my friend of two minutes, three-year-old Pugazh. “Do you want to see?”, he offers gleefully. Before I can respond, he has done two rounds.

I tell the women I want to write about them. “And my friend wants to take some pictures.” I expect diffidence, even suspicion. There’s none. “Call Priya, she will speak well,” they say. A child skitters off to fetch Priya.

Priya emerges from the brown thatched maze and greets us with her dimpled smile. She is articulate and friendly – a fortuitous catch. She begins to show us around the place while Pugazh follows us everywhere, along with a whole battalion of boisterous friends.  Around a thousand families live in this little universe which starts – or perhaps ends – opposite the Vembu Amman Temple at the tail-end of Kuppam Beach Road. Hundreds of thatched huts snuggle over a kilometer’s stretch along the shore, within a few meters of the sea. This has been their universe for generations. One way or another, everyone here belongs to the fishing community. While most men go fishing, most women are fish vendors.

Priya, all of 23, lives with her husband Sarvanan and her two children – Rahul and Thilak (3 ½ years and 1 ½ years old), mother-in-law, sister-in-law and brother-in-law in a small green house. Hers is one of the few cemented structures that stand out among the jagged canopies. Priya got married when she was 18 and has completed her 10th.

Saravanan, quintessentially a fisherman, now doubles as a courier boy. “He is paid two rupees for each courier packet that he delivers. When there is no fishing, this income helps us,” she says. He studied up to 12th standard and can speak English, Priya adds proudly. “For the past two months I have been learning tailoring so that I can also earn some income for my family.” We sit on the mats Priya has laid out for us in the cemented common area of this neighbourhood.

We are distracted by a sudden cacophony behind us. We turn around to realize it is coming from a megaphone sitting atop a rusted, rickety Maruti 800. “Pain balm! Cure for all joint pain and back pain,” it blares. The ad is not recorded, it is delivered live by the driver who is holding a mike to his mouth. Women crowd around the car, one immediately trying the balm on her knees. 

Priya tells us that most of the houses do not have toilets and bathing rooms. If a house does have the facilities, it is reserved for the women. Men and children go out to the seashore. There is a common toilet in the neighborhood  . Each household spends up to Rs. 700 once in 2-3 years to clear their septic tank. Bath water flows through open drains. Waste is strewn all over the beach since there is no garbage collection system.

Drinking water tanks are provided to each row of houses. A family is allocated 10 pots of water and each family takes its turn to manage the water distribution process. “During summer, the water that is supplied is not enough. We therefore go to the neighborhood to access water. Most of the disputes that arise in our neighborhood are because of water. There are no cases of abuse or domestic violence here,” Priya tells us.  “I carry ten pots of water a day,” says Bharati, 10, in English. “I go to school, I study in 6th class,” she says while calmly posing for the shots. Once she has answered our questions, she saunters away, carrying her kodam the way a mother carries her infant. 

Pugazh kept hitting me while I talk to Priya. He is curious to know about the voice recorder which he thought was a mobile phone.

 “Tsunami has not affected our lifestyle in any way. We were away only for a while. We were not provided any relief compensation or houses although our homes were damaged. Our lives depend on the sea and so we continue to live here,” Priya says.

All the children attend school and a local NGO runs a tuition centre in the neighborhood. Priya teaches two children and charges a nominal fee of Rs. 75 each.

When we are about to leave the shantytown, we pause by an old man who has paper toy windmills stuck in front of his bicycle, and dozens of small plastic bags hanging from the rest. He tells us the bags contain chocolates and mixture, balloons and toys – a  mobile petty shop. “I come here once in two days and sell balloons, sweets and other eateries”, he says even as his sales start picking up. The handmade rainbow windmills are for five rupees a piece.

Priya gives me her mobile number and asks me if we would come tomorrow. I tell her we just might. I feel I have only just put my toe in the water.