It was April 15. The day’s headline read ‘Annual 61-day fishing ban commences in Tamil Nadu’.
Every year, around this time, newspapers often carry similar headlines. The annual fishing ban in the city begins. What happens to the several fishermen and their families then? What do they do to sustain themselves during this period? On this quest, I head to Kasimedu.
I arrive at around 5 am. The usual scene of trawlers and fishing boats returning from a fresh catch; the salty, and ocean-like smell of fish trying to make small leaps in hopes of reaching home; tubs of water to clean fish; the bargaining chatter — loud and layered — between vendors and buyers — everything is missing.
Instead, there is silence. Rhythmic waves make a loud presence in my ear, jolting me from time to time. The sun rays hit home, and unlike the other days, life on the shore is slow. Nets lie untouched, curled like sleeping snakes on the sand. Scattered along the stretch, men make their way to the boats stationed at the bay. The gentle breeze from the sea spreads a cooling temperature and moisture on the land.
When the shore sleeps
All these changes in view, but the question remains — what do the fishermen do during this period? And answering this question was an old man. “They (the government) say that this is the period when fish breed, so we are banned from going into the sea. However, fibre boats and country boats go for a catch, but only five to 10 kilometres away,” he says.
A fishing ban is implemented under the Tamil Nadu Marine Fishing Regulations Act, 1983. What started as a 45-47-day ban in 2001 was extended to 61 days in 2017. The idea is to conserve marine resources and facilitate the breeding of fish during this period. The ban is primarily enforced on mechanised boats and trawlers.
During this term, the fisherwomen take jobs like housemaids, construction workers, or corporation workers to help the family. Even the fishermen take odd jobs like waitering, painting, electrician, and others, to earn some money. Some of them indulge in repair work — from mending nets, restoring diesel engines, and polishing the anchor, to welding the deck, door, walls, and other carpentry works, and painting the boat green, as per government’s order. “The two months go by in preparing the boat for the next cycle of fishing. These works are carried out by other engineers and local carpenters, but we (fishermen) come here to help them,” shares C Tamilanand, a fisherman.
For a day of labour, the boat’s owners give them three meals and `200 in hand. “Only if we save before the ban or if our kids support us, we sleep in peace during April, May, and June. If not, it is very difficult to live every day,” he adds.
Survival is scarce
To help them survive, the Fisheries Department provides financial assistance. This year, it is `8,000. While the distribution began on Wednesday, Tamilanand rues that this aid does not end up in every fisherman’s pocket. He points out, “The money is processed only in June or May-end. Only selective individuals get them. I am not benefitting from this scheme because my son is a police officer. Our names are on the same ration card. Since he is an officer of the government, he gets the gains, and I do not profit even from the subsidies.”
Previously, a fisherman association was formed by the boat owners and fishermen. The group guided the community during the ban season. The elderly man, on condition of anonymity, says, “The sangam (association) was dissolved approximately five years ago. Everybody had their personal agenda in the committee. It did not work out because instead of helping the labourers, they sought a gain of their own.”
Waiting for the waves
For these fishermen, their boats are their homes and livelihoods. “We go to the Andhra border when we go for a catch,” he says. Tamilanand adds, “We make a house-like setup in our boats. Food, television, mobile phones, beds and pillows — everything is arranged by the owner. We eat, sleep, defecate, vomit, and sometimes even die in the vessel.”
These are the men who spend more living hours in the water than on land. They are waiting for the ban to be lifted so that they can get united with the sea again — their favourite companion. “Aaram masam 15 aam naal eppo varum nu iruku (We are waiting for June 15),” says the old man.
When fishing is banned, how are Chennaiites consuming this nutrient-rich food? The answer lies in the Pattinapakkam fish market. Women here are in deep conversation about pricing, and men mend nets with needles, create knots that are harder for a human to reverse. “The ban has an impact on the market. We are not able to source a variety of fish, and even if we could, the price is very high. Without making money, how do we carry out the mending work?” asks Senthamarai Selvaraj K, a vendor at the market.
Held back by the ban
Sourcing sankara, vanjaram, sheela, vaval (pomfret) from Chintadripet and from fibre boat owners, the market is open and closed every day. Sankara was sold earlier at `250 but is now priced at `350; Vanjaram was sold at `500 earlier and is now priced at `1,300; Sheela increased to `600 from `300; Vaval in a bigger size was `600, but is now sold at `1,000. “We (vendors) are not able to source materials at these rates. Even the customers do not understand why there is a surge in price. They question us ‘Last month it was `200, then how come it is `400 now?’,” rues Magi P. As a result, the customers leave without purchasing. The fish are then stored in ice boxes and put on sale the next day.
These high prices sometimes make customers take drastic steps, too. Narrating an incident at the market, Latha Velan shares, “A customer came to my stall and asked for the prices. They showed interest. So I bent down to take out fresh fish from the box. By the time I placed them on the table, this person had taken four fish from the stall and was nowhere to be seen. Inflation creates thieves, according to me.”
This theft meant that the vendor lost out on a portion of her daily income. Hence, for these vendors, desperation has become a daily visitor. The need to provide is higher than the fear of the consequences of their actions.
While the seasonal fishing ban may protect the ecosystem, for the fishing community, it is a pause on purpose — a delay, a compromise, a longing for their daily bread.