Located on what was once the only high-ground amidst an expanse of water, salt pans and mangrove-fringed canals, Kuruvimedu (tamil for sparrow hillock) is no longer the vantage point it used to be. A century-old Perumal temple marks the vintage of the village that stretches with houses on either side of a clean, narrow street.
To the east and south of the road, a towering mound of toxic coal ash hems in the village. To the north, the twin chimneys of the Vallur coal power plant bear down.
The Buckingham Canal, which is celebrated every year during the Madras Week, was born out of demand created by the economic activity centred around Kuruvimedu. This canal may have well been the lifeline of Chennai’s economy. But it was the fish and salt made possible by the canals ( kaalvais) of Kuruvimedu, Vallur and Puzhuthivakkam that fed this economic life.
At least 23 kaalvais criss-crossed the Ennore Creek at one time. The names roll easily off the tongues of the local fisherfolk, triggering a flashback to days when life flowed as easily and lazily as the river. Jamarangal, Karukumaram, Vellamaram, Manjal Machine, Sori Kallu, Maan, Vazhukutharai, Thodappakuchi, Aruvai Munai and so on.
Of 23, only three – Kattur, Eachanchedi and Karunkali kaalvai — survive in states even vaguely resembling the original.
The others exist only in the minds of their historians — namely, the fisher elders and former salt workers.
“Seven kaalvais drained Kuruvimedu. Periakalvai or Kuruvimettu kaalvai , Sethu kaalvai , Manal kaalvai . We don't even remember all the names now,” says 41-year old N. Venkatesh.
All seven, including Vichoor kaalvai which drained Vichoor village have been submerged by Vallur power plant's 300-acre flyash dump.
Of these, the Kuruvimettu kaalvai was the biggest. “Boats 15 metres long and 4 metres wide sailed up the kaalvai and docked at Kuruvimedu to load up with salt cargo for Madras,” says Venkatesh, whose father was a boatman.
“This was a beautiful place,” recalls 62-year old K. Munusamy. “Healthy air, the resplendent white of the salt pans and the dark green of the mangroves along the edges of the blue-water canals. The Creek’s water was so clear that you could spot a coin thrown to the bottom,” he says nostalgically.
“Fishing and salt were made for each other. We would trade salt for fish. Because the waters were bountiful, the fisherfolk always had surplus that they made into karuvaadu (dried salt fish),” Munusamy says. “We used the canals to bring in salt water for our pans. The fisherfolk used it to fish.” Now, there is no salt, no fish, no salt fish.
The canals connected the Creek’s main channel to numerous backwaters called p araval. Both the p araval and the kaalvai was important to the fisherman.
The Vellamaram Paraval was a shallow perennial water body rich with crab, fish and prawn. Access to this Paraval used to be through the Thodappakuchi (broomstick plant) and Puzhuthivakkam kaalvais . The latter is now a road leading to the construction site of the Ennore SEZ power plant. Kamarajar Port’s coal yard sits atop the Thodapakuchi canal. The paraval is enclosed by a private shrimp aquaculture farm.
The Jamarangal kaalvai, an important fishing ground and entry canal to the Kuruvimettu kaalvai, is now Hindustan Petroleum’s oil terminal.
Bharat Petroleum is building another terminal atop the gracefully curving Maan (deer) kalvaai.
The subaltern heritage of the region and the histories of its people may have been violently replaced by coal yards, ash dumps, roads and oil terminals.
But Chennai refuses to realise that by wiping out these histories, it is condemning itself to a future made dangerous by floods, water scarcity and a drought of great stories.
( Nityanand Jayaraman is a Chennai-based writer and social activist. Pooja Kumar is a campaigner with the Coastal Resource Centre)
