The invisible labour of Dalit fisherwomen

Sitting outside her thatched house, 48-year-old Gomathi Veerayan prepares a quick meal for her family early in the morning. It’s a familiar scene in Anna Nagar, a Dalit settlement in Thandavankulam village, located six kilometers from Pazhayar in Sirkazhi taluk, Mayiladuthurai district. Like most women in the locality, Gomathi’s day starts well before dawn, at four o’clock. The morning routine involves fetching drinking water from a nearby tap, cleaning the cramped house, and cooking in the open over a firewood stove.

“Gas cylinders are available, but this is cheaper,” Gomathi explains, stirring the pot with practiced ease. By the time she’s finished preparing breakfast and lunch for her husband, mother-in-law, and son, there’s no time left for her to eat.

She hurries to Pazhayar, where she works as a fish dryer at the fishing harbour. Her work, dictated by the rhythms of the rivers and the moon cycle, shapes her day from start to finish.

One by one, the women finish their household chores and make their way to the riverbank in time for the low tide. If their work involves drying fish in Pazhayar, they head to the nearest bus stand by eight o’clock to catch the bus. Their timings depend on the tide.“Pazhaiyar is the lifeline for our people! It means everything to the villages around here," says Gomathi, a fish dryer at the Pazhaiyar fishing harbour.

Pazhaiyar is a fishing harbour that sits at the mouth of the Kollidam river where it meets the Bay of Bengal. Located in Mayiladuthurai district (carved out of Nagapattinam district in 2020), it is one of 12 fishing harbours in Tamil Nadu, and it supports thousands of workers coming in from nearby villages who rely on the catch for their livelihood.

Gomathi Veerayan, has been drying fish at the Pazhayar fishing harbour for several years. “The women’s lives are deeply intertwined with the harbour,” explains Gomathi. “We were born here, we marry here, and we live our lives here. Earlier, we worked in the fields, planting paddy, millet, and pulses. But now, there’s no place for that – either there’s too much rain, or none at all, and the crops wither.”

She continues, "I've been catching shrimp [Caridea] with my hands in the river since I was 15. My mother and mother-in-law did the same,” and adds, “I've even felt for and caught shrimp while pregnant. I have supported my children's education with this income. As long as I live, I will continue to catch shrimp."

More than 20 women from her area, six kilometres from the harbour, are also engaged in this work. "The women catch the 6 [a.m.] bus to work. We clean, salt, preserve, and dry shrimp, fish, and squid four or five times, each type processed and bundled separately" says Gomathi, a member of the Paraiyar community (listed as Scheduled Caste in the state).

According to the 2011 census, around 1,510 Dalits live in Thandavankulam, a village in Tamil Nadu’s Nagapatinam district.

"We form our groups based on the trust we have in Pazhaiyar ,” Gomathi says, referring to her female co-workers, and adds, “we marry, live, and build our lives around that trust. I was born here, and I got married here."

Like 48-year-old Gomathi, many fish dryers from Thandavankulam, Puliyanthurai, Tharkas and nearby areas belong to communities dependent on natural resources. They have been harvesting shrimps, crabs, and fish for generations from the brackish waters of the Uppanar, Buckingham, and Kollidam rivers.

Many women, like Gomathi, hail from traditional ecological communities that have depended on the Kollidam river and its backwaters for shrimp, crab, and fish for generations. These women have a deep understanding of the river’s rhythms, including how lunar phases influence tides and shrimp availability.

Tamil Nadu ranks third in the country for marine fish production – fishing carried out in the ocean or saltwater regions – 5.95 lakh tonnes a year, says the handbook on Fisheries Statistics 2022.

In Anna Nagar, where Gomathi lives, more than 15 women engage in hand fishing. But in the monsoons, particularly in the Tamil months of Karthikai and Margazhi, a period that the locals call ‘famine’, there aren’t too many jobs available.

"Shrimp usually migrate during the high tide of the new moon and full moon days. That’s the start of the season. Three days after the season starts, we go shrimp fishing,” explains Gomathi. The Kollidam river is slightly elevated so the water flows and drains quickly. If they start feeling for shrimp at seven in the morning, Gomathi says, they work until 10 a.m. and return when the tide rises again.

Shrimp catchers like Gomathi are well-versed in the lunar cycle, the patterns of high and low tides, the riverbed's elevation, and tidal zones. “By 6 [a.m]. on the new moon, the high tide comes. On the third day, it will be an hour later. From then on, we count the crescent days, and the moon wanes by the thirteenth day. After the 11th day, the water flow weakens, and the tides slow, draining slowly but rising quickly. So we typically fish during the seven days of low tide, avoiding the first and last three days of the lunar cycle when tides are higher," explains Gomathi.

Typically, they avoid shrimp catching for a total of six days—before and after both the full moon and new moon—due to the strong waves. This period is also referred to as the 'season,' as it is when sea life migrates towards the river.

Villambu, Gomathi’s co-worker, says that shrimp have become scarce now. “Earlier, people used to catch shrimp worth 500-1,000 rupees.” Now, after the water recedes, there are hardly any shrimp to be found, and the women often return empty-handed. “Yesterday, those who went upstream caught silappi [African tilapia], which we sold for 50 rupees, sometimes a 100," she adds.

In India’s coastal waters, 86 per cent of catch potential lies in the first 100 meters, increasing to 92 per cent in the first 200 meters. Both these zones are well within reach of the small scale fishing community. “However, these zones have been drastically affected by resource-intensive coastal development,” says a report on the blue economy of India.

Villambu Chinnakannu has been a shrimp trader for over 35 years and is now a fish dryer at Pazhaiyar port. In her late fifties, she has been in this line of work since her marriage. “People would catch shrimp, and we would buy them when they reached the shore, selling them at Pazhaiyar . After selling, we would pay them their earnings—1,000 or 2,000 rupees. But that income was never enough. We borrowed money from several places, often borrowing more to repay previous loans, just to get by. On Pongal and Deepavali, we would give money to the workers and buy them clothes. Life was good back then,” recalls Villambu.

After losing her husband and daughter to illness, Villambu began drying fish as a labourer in Pazhaiyar to support her only surviving daughter and her 90-year-old mother-in-law. “I bought shrimp for 10 years after my husband's death. If you bought shrimp for 2,000 rupees, you’d still lose 100 to 200 rupees. My elder daughter told me to stop the business, warning that debt collectors would come to our home. So, I quit. If you couldn’t pay, you’d be scolded. I stopped going to that job and started working in Pazhaiyar ,” says Villambu. Transitioning from independent traditional work to wage labour added to her stress.

When she is not catching shrimp or drying fish, Villambu primarily relies on MNREGA – the 100-day employment programme. During its off-season, she spends her days gathering neem (Azadirachta indica) seeds, much like the others in her community.

"We do all kinds of work — scaling, lifting, washing, and drying fish. We do it all," says Villambu. Her days start early when she boards a bus at eight in the morning, setting off along with other women from her village. They get on at Sirkazhi and reach the Singaravelar fishing harbour after a 15-minute journey.

The work day is usually 12 hours long and they are paid Rs. 400. “They [the employers] buy us two teas and provide one meal—half a meal for the women and a full meal for the men. Sometimes, if there's an abundance of fish, we have to clean it and may not return home until 9 or 10 o'clock. If we stay longer, they pay an additional 100 rupees," says Villambu.

The rain doubles Villambu's burden. She fears the harsh words from her 70-year-old employer, Anjamma, if she fails to protect the fish from the downpour. Villambu says there has been untimely rain in the summer, making her bring in the fish laid out for drying.

“It's very difficult to dry fish. Even if we sit and wait for the fish to dry in the sun, Anjamma will ask so many questions. It's tough under the sun, but even harder when it rains. We have to collect everything quickly. We have to cover it as the water pours in, apply ice, and add salt... It's so challenging! But we have no choice," says Villambu. Her family depends on her earnings.

"I have to look after my three grandchildren; my daughter's family is with me. Everyone at home can only eat if I earn,” she points out. Her grandchildren need to go to school and she has borrowed 5,000 rupees for their admission, but it was spent on uniforms and bags. "If I can work for four or five days, I will be able to save up for their admission fee,” she says hopefully.

Ocean acidification caused by climate change alters the migration patterns of fish due to rising surface temperatures. As a result, fishing days are reduced, putting Villambu and others like her who depend on fishing in jeopardy. Also, they suffer without any assistance from April 15 to June 14, during the fishing ban period (breeding season), for a total of 61 days for fish production.

“They [the government] give relief for a month [during the ban], but after that, they won’t provide anything. It would be great if we could get work,” says Gomathi.

Workers in the unorganized sector, who have relied on fishing for generations, do not receive any support from the central or state government. During cyclones and depressions, when the sea is turbulent, most women find themselves unemployed and struggling without assistance. “We need to earn to eat. They need to provide us with jobs,” she adds.

This story was originally reported in Tamil.