P Paapamma swears she is 105 years old. She has brought her bent, wizened self to Kasimedu fishing harbour at 6 am, with two 100, a 50, and five 10 rupee-notes, folded within her damp palm. “I’m going to buy fish to sell under a tree at Salt Cotaurs,” she says, pulling our arm.
“My children have deserted me; I have to fend for myself.” A passer-by cuts in just then, “Look who’s here — MGR paati. ” Paapamma smiles at him, wipes her tears and declares, “I love MGR.” She’s suddenly more cheerful, her woes behind her — much like Kasimedu after the end of the 61-day fishing ban on mechanised boats.
The fishing harbour throbs with life that Sunday morning, as trawler and gillnet boats arrive, swollen with catch.
Everyone is on their feet — from the cats that steal bits of dried fish, to the women auctioneers who cry themselves hoarse holding swift, angry auctions; the loadmen lugging baskets of fish on their heads and tricycles for customers; and the fishermen who dart past the chaos to rest before their next outing.
Women of Kasimedu
Most of the action happens at the auctions. Held by gruff-voiced women, the auctions take place on the wharf. V Devi, better known as ‘Ennore’ Devi, has the reputation of being the best auctioneer in Kasimedu. With a robust frame, fiery eyes, and hair rolled into a tight bun, she intimidates. She wags a finger at a lady who tries to haggle. “Not a rupee less than ₹1,500,” she barks.
“Ahem,” we gulp, before initiating a conversation with her. “You’re scared of her?” laughs M Valli from Pulicat, who has trusted fish from her village with Devi to be auctioned. “She’s the sweetest person ever. It’s only here that she’s tough.” Devi overhears our conversation and laughs, “People will walk all over me otherwise,” she says. “I have to be this way to survive here.”
Gigantic fish, the size of a wrestler’s thigh, gleam as they change hands — from the fishermen, to the marathu kaaranga (men who ferry catch from the boats to the wharf), auctioneer, and finally, the buyer.
“We’ve been here since 12 last night,” says 27-year-old M Perumal, who is among the marathu kaaranga, which literally translates to ‘men of the catamaran’. “So far, some 100 boats have arrived today and more are on their way,” he says.
Apart from ferrying the catch, Perumal and his colleagues prepare the boat for its next voyage. “We oil the engine, wash the boat, stock-up on ice...” he says. And while they are at it, they sometimes cook fish on board. “The boats are fitted with stoves and everything you will find in a kitchen,” he adds.
Their daily bread
The ban’s closure means more work and income for everyone on the seaside.
R Kumar, a loadman, leans on a tricycle, having been at the harbour since 2 am. He’s from Villupuram and is a farmer by ancestry. “But our lands lie fallow; it’s the sea that feeds us,” he says.
As the sun climbs higher, the port fills up with more people. The fish market gathers pace, with the people who just participated in auctions, setting shop.
This is the old market; we trudge our way though sea-food shoppers, pass women who clean fish seated on the side of the path with aruvamanai (a cutting instrument), and arrive at the madness that is the new market.
People shove us as we brush past mountains of prawns that spill from baskets; we swim through hillocks of eri vaaval and sankara being sold by the kilo every minute.
“Which eri (lake) is the vaaval from?” we ask the seller. “Why do you care? Just buy some or leave,” she snaps. There’s no time for niceties in his high-energy place. As we turn, we bump into mammoth sting ray that travel on a tricycle, their long tails trailing to the ground. “Side, side,” calls out someone behind us, when we give way to a cart that overflows with squid.
Two toddlers doze peacefully amid all of this, next to their mother who is cutting fish. They lie on a crumpled sheet, their feet on the sand. The familiar frenzy lulls them to sleep.
