Retired fisher S. Palayam collects data that helps fisherfolk in Chennai navigate the weather and sustain ways of traditional fishing.
On a Sunday in June, I woke up to a text in Tamil that read, “Kodai marandhudaatha ma, unga safetyku naan porupu.” S. Palayam was asking me to carry an umbrella, he felt responsible for my safety. S. Palayam, or Palayam anna (elder brother), as he is fondly called, is a 58-year-old fisher elder from Uroor Olcott Kuppam in Chennai. This wasn’t the only text I received from him—there were four others, along with voice notes and photographs at hourly intervals, through the rainy night.
When I meet Palayam anna at 5am along the Besant Nagar coast, it’s still raining. I ask him if he got any sleep. “I slept for three hours,” he says nonchalantly. “I need to see if there’s a storm coming.” When it pours torrentially, Palayam is usually awake through the night, keeping an eye out for storms.
On mornings the sky is clear, he walks up to the beach—a few metres from his house. He then spends time observing his Amma and Paattan (paternal figure) to understand their temperament for the day. Like every other fisherman, he considers the sea to be his mother and the winds, his father, both of which provide for their life and livelihood. Palayam believes that for fishers to survive and fare well, they must understand the direction of the wind and the water currents.
As a fourth-generation fisher, many of these beliefs and observations were woven into his daily rituals. After all, he had been fishing since the age of 12. But in 2017, Palayam retired from fishing (hook-and-line) due to his declining heart health.
For the past six years, he has been recording the wind, wave, and sea conditions along the Besant Nagar and Adyar coasts by the Bay of Bengal in Chennai, come rain or storm. The data he collects enables him to monitor and better understand the nature and rapidity of change in marine conditions and fish populations. “Just like agricultural data that has been recorded for decades, I want to collect marine data that helps fishers at present and the future,” he says. Seaspeaker (2024), a Tamil-language documentary film by Parvathi Nayar, captures the essence of his methodology to understand the seas and its meteorology.
Just like agricultural data that has been recorded for decades, I want to collect marine data that helps fishers at present and the future.
The data is handwritten, with around 35 observational indicators. There are eight major factors Palayam observes:
1. Kadal matrum neer ottam (the sea and sea currents)
2. Vaanam matrum manal veppam (the sky and heat of the sand)
3. Olini (Direction of easterly sea current from deep sea to shore)
4. Meimeri (Direction of westernly sea current from shore to sea)
5. Minna irukka? (Is there lightning?)
6. Nila pirai (Is the moon waxing or waning?)
7. Alai sorapp-ah illa vayil-ah? (Are the waves rough or calm?)
8. Alai kanakku enna? (How many continuous waves hit the shore?)
“If there are 17 or more waves continuously hitting the shore, a storm is highly likely,” he says. When Palayam foresees strong sea currents and storms, he swiftly informs the fisher communities in all the 14 coastal districts in Tamil Nadu through WhatsApp groups and other community channels. While his data is hyper local and might not be relevant for other fisher villages and towns, his data inspires fishers to better understand the changes in marine conditions and seasons.
While we might usually presume that a storm is bad news, I learned from Palayam that it can indeed be good for fishers. A storm holds a dichotomous impact on fisherfolk. During the time of the storm, fishers can’t go into the sea, and their wares are at risk of damage and destruction. However, the aftermath of a storm brings a variety of fishes to the surface of the water and near the shore, making it a profitable period for them. This is also why they have assertively lived close to the sea, to ensure they can act in time and protect their assets on the shore. Fishing communities across Tamil Nadu have consistently resisted government attempts to relocate them to subsidised accommodation away from the shore.
I first met Palayam anna when I was writing about the Kasimedu fish market, one of the largest fishing harbours in India. I had gotten in touch with him to find out why the catch was depleting along the coast of north Chennai.
We met at an NGO in Urur Olcott Kuppam, one that works to record and protect coastal populations, and the land resources available to them. The NGO—tucked in between homes in Urur Olcott Kuppam—had green walls, and was adorned with maps and posters of marine resources and local fish populations. Palayam anna answered my questions patiently, explaining in detail how trawl fishing is destructive, and why nylon nets are indiscriminate during breeding seasons, affecting the fish population and diversity in marine life.
While fisherfolk live along the edge of the city’s coast, their vocabulary is significantly different from the city-dwelling population; kadal vayal-ah irukku (the sea is calm) and kadal sorappah irukku (the sea is volatile) are phrases I’ve learnt to understand only after talking to Palayam for over six months, even though I speak Tamil colloquially. While I quickly scribble on my notepad, trying to capture everything he says, I am left feeling a bit anxious and inadequate. Interviewing and translating a man with such infinite wisdom is no easy task.
Traditional fishing is primarily of two kinds: hook-and-line fishing which involves the use of kattumaram or fibre boats, and net fishing. It is moored in the understanding of breeding seasons, and conducted without disrupting marine biodiversity. This is in stark contrast to trawl fishing and other mass-fishing methods that deplete marine life rapidly. For instance, trawl fishing often drags out much of the sea bed when fishing for prawns.
Palayam anna reiterates how a fisher practising traditional fishing requires a deep understanding of both sea and wind currents, their direction and intensity. A crucial part of Palayam’s work is to keep record of how the seas are changing, their seasons and the lives breeding within them.
While most traditional fishers are knowledge-keepers—they are aware of how to make sense of the seas—the change in seasons and marine conditions can leave them in consternation and, sometimes, with inaccurate predictions of sea conditions. Knowledge-makers like Palayam anna can adjust for volatile sea conditions for future generations of fishers through recording marine data daily.
It was at the age of 12 that Palayam first ventured into the sea, along the Urur Olcott Kuppam coast. While his father was a fisherman, it was his uncle, Murungakka mama, who taught him nearly everything there was to know about being out at sea. Palayam’s earliest memory—apart from being profusely nauseous—is learning how to drop the alavukal (plumbline) to gauge the depth and nature of the sea bed. For instance, is it muddy or rocky? Where it is muddy, prawns breed in abundance—the golden catch for fisherfolk.
Palayam’s earliest memory—apart from being profusely nauseous—is learning how to drop the alavukal (plumbline) to gauge the depth and nature of the sea bed.
Palayam also learnt about landmarks under the sea, through rock beds. There are a total of 17 such landmarks, usually named after the rock bed or reef (par) underneath, such as Thalappu kal, Papathi amma kal, Kennathukal, and Pasuva kal. These help predict the types of fish they can find within their radius. (Palayam’s early escapades into the sea by himself, and with his uncle, are narrated in the Science of the Seas column by Nityanand Jayaraman in The Wire.)
Conversing with Palayam makes me realise and understand the vastness and complexity of the art and science of traditional fishing. Fishers learn all through their lives; with a bit of luck and knowledge of the sea, they can make a marginally profitable business.
In recent times, many of them have moved out of the trade with hopes for a better life, or taken up trawl fishing in larger markets for profitability. So it comes as no surprise that traditional fishing methods are slowly fading away. Palayam’s data collection—made available to all fishers—is also an attempt at keeping these fishing traditions alive. The fisherfolk’s vocabulary, too, is a part of preserving their expert knowledge.
Today, we still have a steady supply of fresh seafood, thanks to these fishing communities. A loss of traditional methods will put many varieties of fish at risk. “Sardines have been missing for over six months now. So are leather fishes (trevallies). I don’t ever remember this happening before (along the Chennai coast),” rues Palayam. The reasons for these are not entirely clear, but it could very well be the effects of unsustainable fishing practices that do not allow a period of respite for fishes in breeding.
While we toss around the word “sustainability” often, we don’t always associate it with traditional fishing, an integral part of our culinary history. What stayed with me long after I met Palayam was the realisation that it doesn’t only play a vital role in sustaining our seafood habits, but also offers meaningful livelihood to thousands of fisherfolk.
According to Palayam anna, “Most seafood available to us in large ‘fresh’ markets and supermarkets are frozen or farm-bred fishes that may contain harmful chemicals.” Additionally, most consumers choose to eat limited varieties of seafood. As consumers, it is important that we are conscious of the origin and composition of the seafood we eat. Supporting traditional fishers is one way to be responsible in our choices. But it is equally important that we acknowledge those who go to sea, and make it possible for us to have these choices.
When I ask Palayam anna about his preferred choice of seafood, he says, “Sudhumbu (false trevally) is my favourite! I take it home to eat with my family, I never sell it.” He suggests that I buy it for my parents next time. If not for his advice, I doubt I would’ve ever veered off from our usual consumption of seer fish or sardines.
Throvnica Chandrasekar is a writer and editor based in Chennai, exploring stories around indigeneity and environmental inequality. She was previously a storytelling intern at The Locavore.
Thanks to Nityanand Jayaraman for helping us with information for this article.
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