https://csim.in/conversations/Conversations-Feb2012.pdf

It was a quiet, lazy Sunday morning when we set out to Thailamkuppam, a fishing hamlet near Ennore, 24 kilometers north of Chennai Port. The roads were free, and we cruised. No one looked hurried, worried. Men sipped tea by the roadside, women ambled about in their night gowns. At one place we stopped for directions, a woman stood chatting, a parrot perched on her shoulder. 

And then, almost suddenly, the scene changed. We had reached the fish market.

It was around 8:30 am. The fisherwomen were going past us with a great sense of purpose, the baskets on their heads spilling with fish, shrimp, and crabs. They looked straight ahead as they walked, and it was obvious that they all had very little time to cash their catch.

We stood there pondering over whom to start conversing with. It was then that Anjala caught our eye. She stood tall amidst a group of fisher women, and beside her were about 15 baskets of fish, prawns, and crabs spread out. We were told that she was the auctioneer, some kid of local boss woman. She was about to begin the auction, and we wormed our way through the crowd to get a closer look. 

While Anjala waited for more baskets to arrive, a few women grew restless. She raised her shrill voice and controlled all of them instantly. She exuded authority, it came to her naturally. She had presence. 

She asked us if we had also come to buy fish. When we explained the purpose of our visit, she gladly offered her support. She was happy to talk – all fisherwomen do, it is a professional skill – but Anjala was camera shy. Each time she saw the camera point at her, she would freeze. We let her be, deciding to catch her unawares later. 

She started the auction by pointing towards Kadal Azhagi’s basket that had mackerel in it. Her first bid for 100 rupees triggered higher bids from vendors. In less than two minutes the first basket was sold for 300 rupees. She reminded me of a shark. An uncharitable comparison perhaps, but she was certainly the big fish in this market.

Anjala handed over the sale money to Kadal Azhagi and got 10 rupees in return. She was a consummate negotiator, this unlettered woman with fire in her eyes.  

“Is that all?” I inquired. 

“Well, I have 14 more baskets to sell,” she replied politely.

She quickly went on to bid the second basket that had prawns. In the rapid fire auction that lasted less than half hour, Anjala had sold all the 15 baskets. 

Each of those who had offered their basket for the auction paid Anjala ten rupees and gifted her with four or five fishes. She now had her basket with an assortment of fishes which I presumed was for her consumption. 

I was wrong. 

She sold her fish for 30 rupees to a vendor and sat calmly with her empty basket under the shade. She smiled at me and signaled me to come closer to her. 

“Why did you give away the fish? What will you cook today?” I asked.

“I need money to buy rice. What could I do with fish alone?” she said truthfully. She added that her family did not like the ration rice provided by the government, and therefore she needed to purchase rice at 30 rupees per kg. 

Anjala, 58, lives at Thailamkuppam with her husband and two sons. She has been engaging in auction for over 30 years now. “To engage in this trade, I don’t need an investment. All I need is a loud assertive voice,” she said with a smile.

Like Anjala, there were four more women who were engaged in auctioning at the market place, but had not finished their task for the day as yet. 

The hustle and bustle in the market was intoxicating. There were women crushing ice, vendors selling tea and juice, and small shops selling snacks, puris and idlis. 

The fisherwomen were being themselves, least dissuaded by our presence. Desa Thiyagi approached us along with her friend Malliga and requested us to take their picture. Seating herself on her steel basket, she said: “My husband and my son leave for fishing early in the morning along with three other fishermen. I auction the catch in this market regularly. I could sell the prawns for only 500 rupees today. This money would not be enough to meet the fuel expense as well as to pay for the three other fishermen,” she lamented. 

“Our day starts as soon as the boats arrive from the sea. At times it is very early in the morning. On such occasions, I have my breakfast in one of the tiffin shops here,” added Thiyagi. 

The fisherwomen who had bought the fish at the auction put them in their baskets and immediately bought one or two measures of crushed ice to cover the fish with. They then settled for some tea before they set off to sell the catch. 

Latha, our contact and a NGO worker, gave us a brief background of the fishing community living here. 

“There are over 3000 families living across the Ennore coast, and in this market alone there are about 70 fish vendors. The present generation does not venture into fishing as most of them are educated and prefer to work as labour in the neighbouring industries that pay a wage of 200 rupees a day,” she quipped.

“Post tsunami, 350 women self-help groups, each consisting of 15 members, was provided financial assistance by the government as well as NGOs. The fisherwomen used their micro-credit loans to invest in fish vending or small enterprise. Due to depletion in the fish population, the fisherfolk could not repay their loans. This led them to borrow money from private moneylenders at an interest rate of 3 to 5 percent. With the recent Thane cyclone, the catch has further reduced. They continue to struggle to meet their daily needs,” she sighed. 

After taking a walk around the market place, we entered a building which had stalls for vendors. There were two rows, twelve stalls on either side. Each of the stalls had granite slabs and was neatly laid out. “We need to pay ten rupees to the stall owner every day, no matter whether we have sales or not. The shelf life of the fish is only four to five hours without ice. During summer the crushed ice costs more, and so I give away the unsold fish to a dry fish vendor,” said Packiam.

Most of the women in the market were well turned out in colourful saris. Samyuktha was seated outside the market with an aruvamanai (a traditional Indian cutter) cheerfully attending to her customers who were waiting to have their fish cleaned and cut. She wore torn gloves smeared with blood.  

“I do not have enough money to invest in fish. I earn ten rupees for every kilo of fish that I cut and clean. On an average I am able to make 50 to 70 rupees a day. Being single, this is more than enough for me,” she said.

A few fish vendors were seen transporting the fish that they had bought at the auction to the nearby market. “We can sell these at a higher price in the city market. Today being a Sunday, our regular customers would visit us,” said Kala. 

We expressed to Latha our desire to interact with the boatmen, and she led us to the seashore at Nethaji Nagar, a neighbouring hamlet. Steering our way through the boats and catamarans, we noticed Amar and Dharmaraj removing mackerel and sardine from the fishing net. “We just returned from the sea. These fishes would fetch us only 200 rupees. My wife will take them to the market for sale and would give me 50 rupees in the evening,” said a disappointed Amar. 

Narayanan, Ramesh, and Masilamani, who had also returned from the sea, joined us in the conversation and complained about their catch as well. 

Few children from the neighbourhood were swimming in the sea, and the men were watching over them. “Our community children learn to swim at a very early age and all of them attend school,” said Narayanan with pride.

Ten-year-old Kattabomman was found walking a crab at the shore. He had tied it to a thin string and played with it as if it was a toy. We were awe struck by his creativity.

Not wanting to interrupt his play, we quietly moved away from the shore.