A body that knows no rest

“I want to be the mother who wakes her children up for school in the morning, cooks good food for them, spends more time with them. But I must leave home four hours before they even wake up, and I return late at night when they are very sleepy. All I think about throughout the week is when Sunday will come and I will get 8 hours of sleep, 3 meals in a day and some time at home with my children,” says Amulu. But today is still a weekday, and she and I are walking through a narrow street in north Chennai’s Thiruvotriyur neighbourhood as we talk. She is pushing her cart loaded with vegetables. I am on my way home from college.

I had spotted her in the morning on my way out and now in the afternoon as I return, Amulu is still there on the streets, wrapped in a soft Punam saree pushing her cart, weighing about 100 kilograms, with all her might. It is the summer of 2024. Tiruvallur district has seen temperatures raging above 40 degrees Celsius and the hottest day of this season has been recorded at 44.3 C. None of this has brought any change in the routine for the 41-year-old vegetable vendor. Amulu is one among the 40 per cent of India’s 10 million women street vendors battling the heat. And like 68 per cent of street vendors, she too works without a break even during heatwaves, and almost always without lunch.

Each day Amulu covers more than a hundred streets — pushing the heavy cart under the blazing sun, rhythmically shouting the names of vegetables on her cart to draw her customers’ attention. “My ears get clogged after shouting all day. But if many people buy from me in spite of the heat, I feel energised to sell the remaining ones. Very often, even after walking so much I only manage to sell 20 to 30 rupees worth of veggies [on this leg of her long journey]. Sometimes, I plonk myself in the middle of the street on a footpath and weep. And then after a few minutes, I wipe my tears and start selling again with hope,” she says.

Hope is what actually made Amulu buy a wooden pushcart of her own some eight years ago. She had worked as a construction labourer before, starting from the age of five, earning hardly Rs. 200 for a day’s work. Her children were still young and studying and Amulu wanted to make more money. She had hoped that selling vegetables would do that for her.

“In the beginning, it was extremely difficult,” Amulu says. “I had fever off and on and had even dozed off a few times while standing on the streets, out of sheer exhaustion. Although I’ve adapted over time, working without rest is telling on my health.” She is on her feet from 2:30 a.m. every day. She travels almost 60 kilometres from her village Kilarkandigai (also known as K. G. Kandigai), in Thiruvallur district to sell vegetables and fruits in Thiruvotriyur, north Chennai, without caring about the weather she roams the street with her cart through the day.

“The doctor says I have low blood levels [anaemia], and I need to eat well and sleep. But unfortunately, my life doesn’t offer such privileges. I am the only earning member in my family,” she says. Amulu’s husband, Dhevraaj, 45, is a daily wage labourer. He doesn’t get work regularly and whatever he earns, he spends on alcohol, pushing his wife into performing dual roles as caregiver and financial provider for the family.

Amulu has learnt not to spend anything on herself. “I mostly survive on just water [when I am out]. Occasionally, in the morning after I have sold some vegetables, I may rarely spend 30-40 rupees and eat a dosa. But lunch costs another 100 rupees. For me, earning that kind of money is hours of work, so I don’t spend that on myself. I wait until I return home, cook for the family. That is often the only meal I have in an entire day,” she says.

Amulu’s son Deepak, 18, dropped out of school when he was in Class 10. He has recently started working in a nearby factory to support his mother. Her daughter Harini,17, studies in Class 12. But it is Amulu who spends and saves for the family. She is currently building a toilet for their home, which previously had none. Her savings take care of the renovation, and she pays her husband for doing the construction work.

Life for her has been gruelling for years, just like my own mother’s, who has been cooking in many houses all day long to educate us. I know Amulu because of my mother only. She has been buying vegetables from her for nearly three years now. Often, I have seen the two of them chat while my mother sorts the vegetables she wants.

So, when I see Amulu that afternoon still pounding the streets, I ask her about her day and we get talking. In the last few months since then, I have done this journey with her many times, often carrying my camera along.

Walking with her makes me realise what is the toughest part about being a woman street vendor – especially in a city designed without any concern for women's safety or needs. “I walk the whole day, and water is my only energy. When I need to urinate, there is no public toilet anywhere. So, I find secluded places and urinate in broad daylight. And I am scared. During my periods, it becomes much worse. I’ve got so many allergies and scars during those times; I couldn’t even walk” she says.

After a long day through the streets of Chennai, in evening, all the vegetables are still not sold, and so we walk towards Wimco Nagar in north Chennai, where Amulu leaves her cart parked on the road, with a chain lock around the wheels. Amulu carries the plastic cartons with remaining vegetables and boards a train to Kavaraipettai from there, a 45 minutes-ride.

On the train, Amulu gets onto the ladies compartment. “On days when business has been poor, I try to sell the remaining vegetables on the train,” she says. Once off the train, she walks another kilometre for an auto that would take her to a bus station in Puduvoyal village. The bus timings are erratic, and it means waiting for anything from 10 to 60 minutes. Once on the bus, it is 20 minutes to Anjathammangudi bus stop, from where Amulu’s house in Kilarkandigai village is another 2 km. If her son is home, he comes to pick his mother up on his two-wheeler. But most of the days Amulu just walks. Add 25 minutes.

By the time she finishes her long journey home it is almost 9 in the night. At the end of the day she has little money, some left over vegetables in hand, and a lot of housework staring her in the face. By the time she cooks, feeds, cleans and prepares to sleep it is 11 p.m.

Mornings come too soon - within four hours – and are equally demanding. “Every day I wake up, I feel as if I haven’t slept at all. It seems like I just closed my eyes for a moment, and the next day has already begun,” Amulu says. Every morning, she needs to reach the wholesale market in Chinnambedu village, about 4 to 5 kilometres away from her home, by 2:30 a.m. and she takes a shared truck with other women vegetable vendors for Rs. 50.

“I rush to the market with my eyes all red and my face completely wilted. However, the moment I see the bright lights, the chaos and the crowds scrambling to buy, I come alive – buying fresh vegetables from the farmers, bargaining for overpriced produce, hoping to earn a small profit when I resell…I make sure I get the freshest stuff before it is sold out.” she says

She runs towards one end of the market to buy the green vegetables and towards another to buy mangoes. After two hours of running around she leaves the place with 60 to 80 kilos of vegetables, loads them onto a different truck she shares with 6-7 other women vendors. Her budget at the start of the day is often 1,500 rupees. What she can get from this varies from season to season. During summer, she can buy more vegetables and fruits. However, when it rains the supply is scarce and prices are high, forcing her to buy less. When it comes to selling, she follows the market rates. Her profit at the end of the day averages ₹500 to ₹800 after accounting for the cost of buying and transportation. But there are also days when she makes nothing at all.

"I work tirelessly to get these vegetables and then travel over 45 kilometres to spend the entire day walking through countless streets, asking door to door. But in society, the labour of women like me rarely gets noticed or respected. Customers haggle aggressively, insist on paying the lowest possible price. The same ones who accept whatever fixed prices the supermarkets dictate, grumble and argue over every rupee when they come to us." She speaks to me as she settles down after loading. Her breath is still heavy from all the running around.

It will be another hour and a half in the truck before she reaches Wimco Nagar, spending 500 rupees for the ride. “I continue to push myself to ensure a better life for Deepak, and to give my daughter a good education. That is the sole reason I go to work every day, despite the fatigue that weighs on my body.” She falls asleep in the middle of our conversation, just a momentary escape before yet another long, laborious day.