‘I provide for my mother’
Amudha Peanut seller at Choolaimedu
Amudha has been selling peanuts outside the Nungambakkam railway station for the last one-and-a-half years. “I used to be a housemaid. After my daughter gave birth to a son, I quit my job to stay at home and take care of the baby,” she says.
A few years on, with her daughter needing less of her assistance to take care of the child, Amudha realised that she had to go back to earning a living for herself. “I decided to put up this shop. And since I live in the kuppam on the other side of the station, I can spend more time at home as well,” she says.
She earns around `300 a day if the sales are good. Having strategically set her shop amid the hustle and bustle of the railway station does her good. Though most of her earnings get spent on rent and daily expenses, with the little that she can save, Amudha provides for her mother and grandchildren.
“I am a lucky one,” says Amudha. “I understand the struggles of my children in their families. I do not expect anything from them. They still provide for me, every little that they can. I have heard of so many cases where children do not take care of their mothers in their old age. Take my own mother for example. We are nine of us — four sisters and five brothers. My mother lives with my brothers. They are good for nothing. None of the other eight care for my aging mother. She is almost 80. Only if I give her some money, can she survive,” she adds.
She complains about her brothers not providing even a proper roof for her mother. “There are holes in the roof of the house where she stays. I wish I could take her in, but I live in a very small place,” she says. Her mother’s plight pains her. Whenever it rains, her mother is forced to stay with her neighbours. “How many times can she keep imposing herself on non-blood relatives? I have been pestering my brothers to get the roof fixed, but who listens to me?” she asks.
‘Only I can provide for myself’
Kantmaga Tender coconut seller outside the University of Madras
Kanimaga can barely hold her aruval (knife) steady, yet she continues to work at her tender coconut stall outside the Chepauk campus of University of Madras. Her need for survival forces her to risk cutting her fingers off every day.
A couple of months ago, Kanimaga accidentally cut her finger while cutting a coconut open. Some students from the university, who happened to be around, immediately rushed her to the hospital. “The students were god sent help to me. My own children have abandoned me. I have four daughters and one son. They are too busy with their own families. They do not come to visit or provide for their aging mother. The children from the university are my kith and kin,” she says with teary eyes.
“The boys who helped me that day spent on the auto and took me to the hospital and even bought me Limca to drink. These days, can you find anyone being this kind to an old woman? My own blood relations won’t turn up if I die. Only I can provide for myself. I cannot afford to close my shop,” she adds.
Fruit stall vendors near Kanimaga’s shop try not to get on her bad side. “The old lady picks up a fight each time. We mean well when we ask her to rest. She shouldn’t be working with sharp aruvals at her age. Even we youngsters find it difficult to cut tender coconuts. It requires strength and stamina, which she does not have. When we advise her to close her shop, she yells at us saying she does not have anyone to depend on for food,” they said.
‘I cannot do anything other than selling fruit’
Kamala Fruit seller at Parry’s Corner
Ah! Where do I begin?’ exclaims Kamala, who has been selling fruit for the last 55 years at Parry’s Corner. “I still remember the days of the British like it was yesterday. Back then, we could not set up shops like this on the roadside. If they spotted us, they would chase us on their horses and we would get beaten on our heads. I remember gathering everything and running, on spotting white men then,” she recalls.
Hailing from Puducherry, Kamala came to Madras with her husband in search of a livelihood. Royapuram is now her home. “My husband worked at the harbour, and I sold fruit here,” she says with a hint of pride. “My husband was a hard worker. He worked on the big ships. He had an important job there.”
Kamala’s husband unfortunately passed away three months ago. “I have mounting bills. We have so many loans to repay. I have two sons and a daughter. They have their own families, their own problems. My sons are auto drivers, and also do other odd jobs to earn money,” she says. The profit Kamala earns is not enough. “Conducting funerals these days is not cheap. My husband’s funeral milked me dry. On top of that I have so many hospital bills. My sugar and heart medicines cost over `5,000. Every time I think of the money my family owes to others, my heart feels like it may burst,” she says. “I do not know any other work. I have done only this all my life. They promised a pension for my husband. I am due to get money from the government for his death. They expect me to stand in some queue all day. How can I leave my shop to stand in a long line? Just the other day, my daughter came crying to me. She has no money to buy the milk card. I am unable to provide for my children and they aren’t able to provide for me,” she says.
Despite her plight, Kamala says with pride, “My granddaughters are so beautiful. They are fair unlike me. Every time I visit, they make fun of my tanned skin.”
‘I cannot depend on my sons for a meal’
DHANAM Sells accessories on North Usman Road
Dhanam sells odd things such as safety pins and rubber bands on the North Usman Road for a living. Her condition is pitiable. Toothless, what she says is barely comprehensible. But Dhanam cries out her woes to anyone who stops long enough to listen. She sits in front of a Bata showroom, under the hot sun all day in the hope to earn a meal.
Hailing from a slum near Srinivasan theatre, she has run different shops since she was just 13. “I have sold snacks, fruit, flowers, greens, and coconuts. Now, after almost 70 years, I still have a shop. I sell accessories,” she says.
“One of my five sons passed away. I cannot depend on the other sons to take care of me. I have had only myself to depend on my whole life. Even in my old age, I can only count on myself,” she laments. “What else can I do? I have to fill my stomach, don’t I?” she adds.
Her daughter, who is now married and has children, does not visit her, even on special occasions. “She does not visit me and I do not have the energy or the stamina to visit her. She has conveniently forgotten about her own mother,” Dhanam says, wiping her tears.
She considers it a lucky day if she earns a profit of `50. It provides her enough to buy one square meal. “I get a rupee or so as profit for every article I sell. I do not have the energy to sell anything else. At least this allows me to sit down all day. Customers stop by, pick up whatever they want, hand me the money and go away. I do not have to spend my energy bargaining,” she says mournfully.
‘I sell bags that no one wants to buy’
Kalyanayagi Bag seller on Broadway
What does anyone gain from knowing my fate? No one can help me anyway,’ says Kalyanayagi remorsefully. She stands in a corner of the Godown Street at Broadway, hoping to sell at least one bag. Her peace is ruined by the constant fear of police who, she claims, scold her and give her a hard time.
“I have nowhere to go. I spend my day on the street hoping to earn a meal. I am lucky if I get `100 a day. I was born in the 1940s and married by 1956. I have a daughter. My husband passed away many years ago. I had to bring up my family without any support,” she laments. As the past comes flooding back to her, Kalyanayagi’s glassy eyes fill with tears. “My daughter drank acid,” she says and starts to cry. “She could not handle a personal tragedy and tried to kill herself. The hospital saved her but her actions have already caused the damage. She can’t move. She just sits in a corner. She only has me to send her money. Whatever I manage to earn, I send her. I have nothing for myself,” she adds.
She has given up on her life and is just waiting for her time to come. “Until then this is the only way for me to survive. Selling bags that no one wants to want to buy and worrying about a daughter who is in a sad state. I have other daughters too,” she adds, “but I do not want to talk about them.”