Raju’s eyes shift from the sea to the unused catamarans by his side. They narrow to slits when he says: “I can’t recall the words.” He sighs: “It’s been many years since I sang that song.” “Try harder,” urges fisherman Mani. The 76-year-old gazes at the sea once again and closes his eyes; suddenly, the words tumble out of his toothless mouth. The waves and the wind join in as he sings a song he sang when he went fishing with his mates on a catamaran in the 1950s.
“Munnazhagum pinnazhagum
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Kattazhaga seeni vayyum
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Raju blushes and says, “One of us would start off and the others in the catamaran would join.” The song calls on a fellow sailor to down the anchor; the last line translates to ‘come, mate, let’s get the anchor moving’. He continues:
“Kayyilayum kaasu illa
Kadan kuduppar yaarum illa
Mugathilayum bavusu illai
Mugam thudaippar yaarum illai ...”
The lines can be loosely translated as: ‘There’s no money in my hands/there’s no one to lend me any/my face has lost its charm/there’s no one to help me restore it’.
Amba songs, songs fishermen sang as they steered their boats using the oars, have long been forgotten by the community. Youngsters these days have only heard that their grandfathers sang at sea; very few sing or know such songs. “We sang for energy; to push ourselves to keep going,” explains Raju. “But after the motor boats arrived, our men didn’t have a reason to sing.”
Words such as ‘yelo’ and ‘yelelo’ were repeated rhythmically in chorus by the men as they rowed. “We cried ‘yelo’ to push and ‘yelelo’ to pull,” says 57-year-old Jala Indiran from Nochi Kuppam. The sound of the waves added to the heady rhythm. The songs lasted as long as the men had to exert themselves. They focussed the crew’s attention and energy on the task at hand and took the stress out of strenuous activities such as rigging the sails.
Writer R.N. Joe D’Cruz has documented Amba songs in his novel Korkai . “These songs reflect the community’s history, culture, and economy,” he says. Some fishermen also use ‘Mariye, Mathave’ or ‘Harahara Muruga, Ayya Muruga’ in place of yelo and yelelo. “When they chant ‘Mariye’, they position themselves to carry out a physically-draining task; they pull or push with gusto a moment later by saying ‘Mathave’ in unison,” he explains. There’s a late-afternoon lull at Urur-Olcottt Kuppam off Elliot’s Beach. Fishermen sit in groups under makeshift shanties mending nets, playing cards or drinking. Now is a perfect time to belt out a song or two. These men sing gaana, Chennai’s very own genre of music. Mahendran and Narayanan have not heard of Amba songs, but they sing gaana when they lounge by the shore after work. Extempore songs with catchy tunes, fishermen’s gaana has a different flavour — the lyrics, for instance, mention the names of fish. Narayanan sings a gaana that narrates the story of a kaana keluthi fish and a group of fishermen who start a fight at sea. He sings that a school of Shankara fish comes to ease things out. Today, only a handful of senior fishermen remember Amba songs. Durai was known for his singing when he was a young man. Seated on a metal cot at his home in Nochi Kuppam, the 65-year-old rubs his chin as he desperately tries to recall them. “My memory fails me,” he sighs. He closes his eyes, mutters to himself and shakes his head. His wife chides him from the kitchen. “Nee paduvella — you sang, didn’t you know?”
Just then, his eyes light up. “I remember a few lines. They go like this: Mangai kaluthila thongudhu thanga thaali/thangam thavara vachu mathadhellam vithozhichen — the woman wears a gold thaali around her neck; I’ve sold off everything else at home, but that.”