They are adrift in a sea of poverty

Olisetty Poleramma and Pilla Muthyamma are fish vendors, who live in Peda Jalaripetta, a large fishing settlement that lies on one flank of Visakhapatnam, coastal Andhra’s largest city.

Olisetty says her mornings go by in a rush, “The earlier one arrives at the market, the better the quality of the fish one gets. Time is very important in this work. Since fish is perishable, we need to buy fast and sell fast.”

The fish is sold in lots in a kind of auction. It is always a gamble, these transactions. When the catch is thin, prices tend to be high and the women are often not able to recover the money they put into buying the fish. Usually, if they invest a thousand rupees or so in their daily stock, they stand to make a profit  of Rs 100-200 a day – roughly the minimum wage.

Both Pilla and Olisetty drink a glass of tea in the morning, and that sustains them through all those arduous hours. “It is only after I have sold the fish, walked back home, and had a bath that I sit down to a meal. We don’t feel like eating anything in-between because our hands and clothes smell of fish,” says Olisetty.

Middlemen

Although their village is on the coast and active fishing goes on very close to where they live, the women never buy their fish from the catch the fishermen of Peda Jalaripetta bring in. There are several reasons for this. For one, the fresh catch usually arrives only by the evening, by which time these vendors are usually done with their selling and there is no way they can store large amounts of fish for the next day. Second, the fishermen are already part of large trade cartels.

That is why they are forced to get their produce from early morning auctions conducted in the local fish market. Thus both the fishermen and the women fish vendors are dependent on the middlemen. It’s a pattern of trade that ensures that neither the fishermen nor the women vendors can really control a trade that feeds on their work.

Once they procure the fish, the long process involved in the selling of it begins. Their interaction with customers is like an elaborate shadow play marked by teasing and banter on both sides. In this way, a mutually agreed price is arrived at.

Their working life has worn both women down in body and spirit. “I carry about 10-14 kilos of fish every day on my head roaming the streets with it, calling out to potential buyers. Over the years I have got used to these heavy loads and the uncertainty of the market. Sometimes my back aches, but I have to go on until each fish is sold,” says Pilla.

Primary breadwinners

Olisetty lost her husband, a fisherman, seven years ago to a stroke. “He was a good man and did not drink like the others. But long years at sea must have worn him down,” she says. Since her husband never took their son out to sea, the younger man did not develop a taste for the occupation. He learnt to ply an autorickshaw instead and today supports his family and widowed mother, whose earnings as a fish vendor are undoubtedly very important for those crucial extras.

Pilla’s situation is more fraught. She is the mother of four children, all of whom are married except one son, who is physically disabled, “I look after him since my husband cannot earn anymore,” she says. Her husband, a long-time fisherman who would bring in a good catch, day after day, suddenly developed heart problems and can no longer go to sea leaving. Pilla is the only breadwinner in the family.

Losing ground

“Today, people with money want a piece of our shore. Big folk are making away with the fish, using large boats. Traders are getting wealthy, while we struggle to eat two good meals. I don’t think my granddaughters will want to do what I am doing. Fish vending in our family is sure to die with me,” says Olisetty.

Pilla echoes her words, “Those who fish for a living have been left out by society. Nobody even thinks about them.” Once Telangana comes into being, the “big folk” are bound to put even more pressure to corner Visakhapatnam’s coastal land and resources.