Thousands of little half-moons have descended on the Kasimedu fishing harbour. They lend the place an unearthly glow in the mid-morning sun. The vaala meen are here and the dried-fish makers of Kasimedu are as busy as ever. The silvery fish are everywhere — spread inch-to-inch on the ground beyond the wharf; piled into baskets by the hawkers in their shanties along the mud roads leading to the fishing harbour; drizzled on the steep embankment that looms over the row of women who cut and clean fish….Fishermen are bringing in vaala meen by the tonnes, this month. This signals more income for the 150-odd women who depend on dried-fish for a living.
The moment they arrive on land, vaala meen reach the able hands of women waiting at the wharf even as the catch is auctioned. They buy the fish by the koodai (basket), each koodai holding about 10 kg — a koodai costs Rs. 400, Rs. 300 or Rs.200. Another group, also consisting of women, waits to transform the fresh fish to dried fish. These women are among the busiest at Kasimedu.
It’s not easy to get her to talk when the sun is out — for she is greedy for every bit of sunlight. “ Veyil poidume (the sunshine will go away)” mutters Kalaiselvi as she grudgingly looks up at us from a carpet of vaala she is spreading out to dry.
The wife of a fisherman, Kalaiselvi has bought 50 baskets of the fish to preserve. “We first sprinkle crystal salt on the fish and let them soak in tubs for a day. The following day, we wash them with water from our common pump and put them out to dry for two days. The karuvaadu is then ready to be sold in our stalls,” she says. “My mother taught me the method of preparing it,” she adds.
The sun roasts our skin, but Kalaiselvi is unperturbed — this is the workspace that provides for her family. “It’s not easy work. Look at my hands,” she says. “Fish mullu (bone) often pricks me and the salt and water make the injuries difficult to heal.” Her mother Sundaravalli, a wizened, bent old woman, slowly limps her way to a small spread of vaala by Kalaiselvi’s carpet. “That’s her lot,” she points out. “It’s been 50 years since mother touched dried fish.”
Born and raised in Mamallapuram, Sundaravalli married into Kasimedu. “My mother Rajam taught me to make dried fish so I could stand on my own feet,” says the 75-year-old as she gently turns over the silver slices she toiled on, over the past two days. Despite her age, Sundaravalli is determined to continue making dried-fish. “I don’t want to ask my children for money,” she says, narrowing her warm eyes.
Dried-fish is the lifesaver for many women whose fishermen husbands squander their earnings on alcohol. The preparation, often taught by mother to daughter or daughter-in-law, involves backbreaking work. “Look at us toiling in the sun and salt,” says Anjalakshmi. She and two other women work under Rajeswari, who purchases the fish from the boats. “She pays us around Rs.200 to preserve the catch,” she says. Rajeswari surveys the work seated on a wooden plank. “I go to the wharf at 2 a.m. to participate in the auction,” she says.
The women come under the Karuvaadu Sangam (dried-fish union). Most of them, from 60-year-old Desam, who lost all her sons to the sea, to the partially blind Seetha, have taken to preparing dried-fish to educate their children or grand-children. “It’s been five months since he went,” says Desam of her son. “I’m left to feed and educate his three children,” she adds in a feeble voice. “My son is doing his engineering,” calls out Kalaiselvi. “His course finishes in a year. Then he’ll start earning for us,” she smiles, her eyes brighter than the silver slivers of vaala by her feet.
