No more seashells on the seashore

Even before the sun rises above the shores of Kattupalli, the beach is alive with movement. Members of the Irular community are standing knee-deep in the waves, waiting for the tide in the Bay of Bengal to recede. Using specially made nets, they quickly collect kilinjal (seashells) washed ashore during high tide.

“During high tide, we can’t collect shells, so we wait until the low tide begins. In the meantime, we either go home to eat or stay here along the seashore,” adds Ramesh (he uses only this name). For Irular community members like him, shell collection is not just an occupation, it is a traditional livelihood closely tied to the rhythm of the sea in Tamil Nadu’s Tiruvallur district.

The collected shells are dried, transported on bullock carts to where they are crushed into limestone. Workers are paid around Rs. 500 for a cartload, and on average, a person can manage upto seven trips a week. The shells are processed into limestone and sunnambu – crushed seashells used in construction.

When I first saw the heaps of kilinjal shells piled on the shore, I had no idea they were connected to a livelihood. The kilinjal collectors were working in plain sight, yet their labour remained largely invisible.

Gathering these seashells has sustained generations of Irular families who live along the Pulicat (Pazhaverkadu) and Kattupalli coast. A worker earns Rs. 25 for collecting a tub of shells.

The coastline once had numerous wetlands, mangroves, sand dunes, and fishing grounds. They are slowly being replaced by industrial corridors – Ennore-Kattupalli region has seen expansion of ports – the Adani-operated Kattupalli port – as well as thermal power plants, petrochemical industries, and large infrastructure projects. At the same time, there is an increase in cyclones, tidal flooding and extreme weather events in Chennai, says this report.

These changes have led to erosion along beaches and a fall in shell deposits. The entire year used to be good for kilinjal collection, but it is now limited to a few months in the year – during the rainy season, from November to mid-January, when shells are carried ashore by strong tides.

“Sometimes, if we are unable to get enough shells, we return home empty-handed,” Ramesh tells PARI. Older workers recall how a decade ago they could earn Rs. 300 a day. Today they struggle to earn even Rs. 1,000 a week.

“The sea is not the same as it was when I was young,” says elderly worker Dhanam (name changed). “Back then, the water was almost one kilometre away from the seashore.”

With few options for daily wage work, kilinjal collection remains the mainstay of many, especially older people.

“For many years, collecting shells was very common in our area. We used to collect them [from Irular families] and sell them almost every month,” says Suresh, a resident from Kattupalli. “My son is studying to become a doctor in Chennai. I made that possible only through this work.” But his decades of buying and selling shells can no longer sustain him, so he takes up other jobs.

Not just seashells, but fishermen of north Chennai, mostly Dalit, say the fish catch has also shrunk as industrial effluents flood the waters. Read: Working the waters of Pazhaverkadu

Ramesh lives in the Irular settlement in Kattupalli alongwith 10 to 15 families who have moved into a government-allotted settlement despite the absence of basic infrastructure like electricity, drinking water, roads and healthcare. Most homes are built using tarpaulin sheets with mud flooring.

“We sleep on the sand. At night, snakes and insects can bite us. We live here without any support,” Ramesh tells PARI. A natural spring serves as the community's primary source of water for drinking, cooking, and bathing. The same water source is also accessed by animals and becomes contaminated during the rainy season when runoff mixes with the spring water.

Nearly 500 metres from the main road, the setltement is accessible only through sandy pathways where even motorcycles struggle to pass.

Their relocation is not unusual – most fishing and other communities here who depend on the sea for their livelihood have been moved inland, away from the coast. Public transport remains inaccessible in many of these areas, forcing workers to walk long distances every day. In some cases, people walk nearly three miles every morning just to reach the seashore for work.

Ramesh showed me a deep, open wound on his knee which he got while working. Standing in salt water for hours with an open wound is excruciating: “the pain becomes unbearable, but there are no adequate medical facilities here to treat this wound,” he says and so he must rely on the sporadic doctor visits which eat into his labour hours.

In her sixties, Rajammal (name changed) comes to the sea to earn what she can. “My husband is unwell now, and he is over 60 years old. I cannot afford his medicines or manage our family expenses. So, I decided to come and collect shells whenever I can. I get around 25 rupees,” she adds, her hands trembling with age and ill health.

For the Irular community in Kattupalli, survival depends on an increasingly fragile coastline. The sea that once sustained them is changing irrevocably. Yet, even amid erosion, uncertainty, and invisibility, families continue to enter the waves before sunrise, holding onto a livelihood like generations before them.

This story is published under the PARI Fellowship 2025.