The unsung men and their catamarans

Meet the people who ply catamarans at the Kasimedu fishing harbour to ferry the catch brought in by the larger boats

October 19, 2014 05:28 pm | Updated May 23, 2016 07:40 pm IST

Marathukaaranga at Kasimedu. Photo: Wong Pei Ting

Marathukaaranga at Kasimedu. Photo: Wong Pei Ting

The boats docked at the Kasimedu fishing harbour heave as the rain lashes at them. Their mammoth bodies lunge from side to side — it is all too sudden, they aren’t prepared for the downpour. They cannot go to sea now, not when the sky casts a dark shadow on yesterday’s sun-kissed waters. A grey mood prevails across the fishing harbour; a handful of women who have spent hours trying to sell the remnants of the day’s catch without success, pack their belongings hurriedly to go home. Everyone is headed homewards. Except for a few men who briskly row their catamarans towards the boats. They holler instructions to each other over the sound of the rain — they are the ‘ marathukaaranga ’ or ‘people of the catamaran’ as they are known.

These men are the link between the fishermen’s catch and land. When the boats arrive with fish and half-a-dozen exhausted fishermen after several days at sea, the marathukaaranga take over. In groups of six on a catamaran, they ply the shallow waters between the docked boats and the wharf to ferry the catch to land. “Of the six men, two climb into the boat’s storage area. They lift the catch in boxes and hand them over to two men who wait above. Of the remaining two, one rows the catamaran and, the other, helps around,” says Gopi who rents out catamarans.

The 32-year-old owns 30 catamarans he procured from places such as Kovalam, Cuddalore, and Kanyakumari. “I rent out one for Rs.200 a day,” he says. Kasimedu has seven men who rent out around 150 catamarans. Kamaraj, who leads a team of marathukaaranga , says that their earnings depend on the day’s catch.

“We get 4 per cent of the boat owner’s income,” explains Gopi. A man from their team also watches over the boat at night. “The watchman gets one per cent,” he adds. “Fishermen hand over their boats to us and return in time to sell the catch. By then, we clean the boat, stock up on diesel, food and water for their next trip…we do everything that a domestic helper does.”

It’s backbreaking work, one that sometimes involves being bossed over by the boat owner. “That’s why we have formed a union to fight for our cause,” says Shanmugam. The 56-year-old has been operating catamarans for 15 years now. “When I was younger, I went to sea alone on my catamaran. I sold the little that I caught and took the remaining home,” he says.

But catamarans were pushed to the brink as fibre boats arrived. “You see this slice of water?” Shamugam points to the wharf — “it would be filled with hundreds of catamarans some 45 years ago.” Today, they are employed only by the marathukaaranga .

At the fishing harbour, some men yank at the cables on a docked boat; two men dive underneath it to secure the anchor; three catamarans bob on the water amid all the action. Gopi nods at them — “the owner has left the boat in their hands. They have to take care of it.”

As dusk nears, the rain gets heavier and the sea grows wilder. Kamaraj rubs his palms together and trots towards the inky waters by the wharf, when a youngster on a catamaran signals to him. “He’s old and tired and it’s raining. But he can’t afford to stay back from work,” says Gopi. “ Mazhaiyo, veyilo (rain or shine), we have to go on.” Kamaraj jumps onto the maram (catamaran) and merges with his fellow marathukaaranga as rain beats down on him. A brief discussion ensues and the men manoeuvre the catamaran with their hands towards a boat. Their day has just begun.

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