Between the roaring waves, and a sinking sun, Parimala tells me that her bajji kadai on the Marina beach is doing well. “I had this shop here even before the tsunami,” she says, putting slit green chillies into the batter, and then dropping it into a vessel filled with oil. “The tsunami came in the morning… if it had happened on a crowded Sunday evening, can you imagine the scale of the tragedy?” she asks, handing two plates of beautifully crisp and orange bajjis to the college students at the shop. Two bites later, they order two more plates; and a smiling Parimala puts sliced onion into the batter.
Parimala opens her shop every evening at 4 p.m. “When the beach is crowded, I stay here till 8.30 p.m.; if not, I wind up and leave at 7 p.m.” Winding up involves more than just bundling up her pump stove, kadai and plates; it also includes cleaning up the area around her shop. “My house is just across the road,” she says, pouring more oil into the vessel. Both she and her husband — a fisherman — don’t have a long way to return from work. “That’s his boat, that red one,” she points, and I turn to look at the sea, the boat, and a group of fishermen mending their nets.
But fishing no longer nets the kind of money it once did, Parimala tells me. “My son does not even know swimming. We don’t allow him near the sea. The bajji business is more profitable. You saw these customers? They only ordered two plates, but after eating it, they wanted two more.” The quality, she says, makes all the difference. “I make it a point to change the oil every day,” she says, adding that many of her customers ask her for her recipe. “I use a ratio of 1 kilo of channa dal and quarter kilo of white rice. After cleaning the dal, I dry it in the sun, and grind it with the rice in the mill. This I mix into a batter, with salt, baking soda and kesari powder, for colour.” But the taste, she agrees, is enhanced by her ‘kai pakkuvam’ (experienced and skilled hands). And as if to agree, the second set of customers order a second round of bajjis. Besides running her bajji kadai, and raising two children — her married daughter is a Computer Science graduate, and her son is studying to be an air-conditioner mechanic — Parimala also plays an important role in their local self-help group. “I’m the thalaivi (leader) of our self-help group. We are twelve women; we receive loans (from the bank) and disburse them; and we meet every week, to counsel one another to save money and spend wisely.” Several members of her group do business on the beach; they sell porcelain plates and hairclips and run juice shops. Being part of the group has personally impacted her, says Parimala. “Earlier, we used to spend a large part of our income. But now, I’m careful. If not, how will we manage when we’re old?” Even though she spends every evening at the Marina, Parimala says she does not have the luxury of wandering away and wetting her feet in the sea. “There are no holidays. If it rains, we put up a tarpaulin and sit.” But she’s not complaining when she talks of the hard work. “Women work hard, both at home and outside. We also do well in business. We’re courteous, isn’t it?” she asks, rightly. Rising prices, she says, are the only dampener. “Onions sell for Rs. 60 per kg today; dal prices are going up. You know, when we started out, we sold five bajjis for ten rupees!” But on that cool Tuesday evening, Parimala’s customers seem more than happy and willing to pay Rs. 25 for a plate of five sizzling bajjis…
(A weekly column on men and women who make Chennai what it is)
