Working the waters of Pazhaverkadu

It is 9 p.m. on a new moon night in November. The mouth of the estuary in Pazhaverkadu (also known as Pulicat), off the coast of Tamil Nadu, is quiet. A blue boat is on the water, rolling with the current towards the open sea. Standing astride the vessel are Sarath Kumar, Arun Kumar and Sevith Kumar. Seven wooden poles lie at their feet, along with coiled nylon nets. The men are from Thonirevu village, which lies on the coast, and they have been fishing since their childhood.

Although I grew up not too far from a beach, and often dreamt about going into the sea, my mother, a single parent, was very anxious for the safety of my sister and I. Going into the water was forbidden.

My first visit to Pazhaverkadu was when I was 16. I attended a photography workshop organized by the Chennai Climate Action Group and was mentored by photojournalist Palani Kumar. I was curious about the lives of those who call the coast home.

It would take me a few more years to venture into the water myself.

This long-held wish is finally realised when I board the blue boat on a fishing trip to learn about the changing landscape of Pazhaverkadu and the fisherfolks’ evolving relationship with the waters.

I listen carefully as 30-year-old Sarath explains to me: “The river pushes hard toward the beach, and during low tide, fish, prawns and other creatures move with the current.”

An hour later, at 10 p.m., he pushes the first pole into the water in order to spread the nets. “Planting a pole means holding our breath and bracing against the current,” adds Sarath. Arun and Sevith, both in their forties, plant the remaining poles and ensure the nets are spread out for the night. Each net measures about 32 metres. A boat plants three or four nets and leaves them in the water for nearly six hours.

Pazhaverkadu lies about 60 kilometres north of Chennai, in Thiruvallur district, along the southern edge of Pulicat Lake – one of India's largest brackish water lagoons – with its ecosystem stretching across nearly 720 square kilometres.

There are nearly 40 fishing settlements in this area that depend on these waters for their livelihood. Many families like this one from Thonirevu, trace their history to long before ports and industrial corridors came up along northern Chennai. Most families belong to Dalit communities.

Tonight, there are 10 other fishermen from the village; four boats have set out hoping for a good catch.

Fishing at the estuary mouth once led to disputes between villages. The jamath – the community congregation – follows the paadu system, a traditional rotation of fishing rights across specific grounds, dividing the nights among three villages: Thonirevu, Light House and Senbapalli. Each village has a team of about 40 fisherman.

“We keep the nets in the water for almost six hours,” says Sarath. “Some days we return with just a kilo of prawns. Other days, we return with a whole ton. Until we come back, none of us knows what the catch will be.”

The next morning, the night’s catch of prawn is pooled, brought to shore and taken to the idaiparagar – an intermediary who sits between the fishermen and the women vendors who sell the catch in the area.

Fish and crabs are caught along with prawns. But prawns now make up most of the catch. On a good night, a fisherman might take home Rs. 1,000. Rainy days prove more lucrative, but they are also more dangerous. “We put our lives at risk when we enter the estuary during heavy rain. Sometimes we lose our nets in strong currents or cyclones,” says Sevith.

If a net is pulled into the sea, they lose between 7,000 to 8,000 rupees for each net.

Sevith recounts the loss of a friend who unexpectedly fell into the rough waters during a storm. “We lost our comrade Velmurugan. The government has not provided any financial support or compensation. We risk our lives at work since we never know what will happen next," he tells PARI.

Their work runs in a cycle – one night of fishing at the estuary, two days of cast net fishing in the Kosasthalaiyar river. On those days, the fisherman go out alone in a catamaran. They drop a cast net (small, circular, weighted nets different from the large ones they use on the boats) into the water, wait a few minutes, then pull it back in with the catch, which would include prawns, fish and crabs. Most people in the village work this way.

Sarath also works as a driver at the L&T shipyard, earning around Rs. 20,000 per month. "Most of us in the hamlet fish at night and work with cast nets," he says. "A few are employed at Ashok Leyland and L&T."

After nearly 10 hours on the water, the boat finally returns. As we step out, our feet sink into the cool, gentle water along the shore. Along the shore, members of the Irular tribal community can be seen fishing with bait – a method passed down through generations.

"Bait fishing was our oldest and most traditional method," recalls Sevith. “But today we cannot survive with bait fishing anymore.”

Bhuvanesh, a fellow fisherman from Thonirevu, remembers when the catch was richer. "Fish and river water were in a healthy condition three decades ago," he says, referring to the pollutants in the Kosasthalaiyar river, contaminated by industrial effluents.

"We used to catch a variety of fish. We used to insert a kelithee fish [cat fish] soaked in salt into the bait hook – the crab would grab it and become entangled. That is how we caught crabs at the river mouth."

Things have changed, and fisher folk say they mostly catch prawns now. Northern Chennai already has major port infrastructure along its coast and fishermen say access to coastal waters has narrowed over the years. The lagoon's depth has fallen from roughly 3.8 metres to around 2 metres in several stretches due to siltation. The expansion of the Adani Kattupalli Port project has deepened that uncertainty.

"We can't fish if the [port] expansion project is completed. Why does the northern part of Chennai have three ports? Who requires this? Since this is the work of our generation, we cannot survive without it,” says Sarath.

This story is published under the PARI Fellowship 2025.