PHOTO ESSAY

“I learned to clean fish from my mother. You have to be careful—the blade must not cut into the fish”

Despite its importance, cleaning fish remains one of the least visible forms of labour in the fisheries economy. Revathi Sunil and Rashmi Sridar document what a day’s work looks like for the women at the Rameshwaram Fish Market in Tamil Nadu.
Rashmi Sridar and Revathi Sunil
21 September 2026

Lakshmi, a fish cleaner, descaling fish at the Rameshwaram Municipality Market.

Between June and July 2026, we spent over a month and a half in Rameshwaram. We visited the Rameshwaram Fish Market often, and the conversations we enjoyed with the women working there, fish vendors and cleaners, meant that we slowly became friends with them. Although the building itself is only seven years old, many of the 55 women who work here have spent decades cleaning fish, developing specialised skills through years of experience.

Many of them hail from settlements along the lone route from the market to Dhanushkodi, travelling around four to seven kilometres by bus or shared autos for work everyday. Dhanushkodi is an 18-kilometre-long stretch at the southeastern end of the Rameshwaram Island, with Palk Bay on one side and the Gulf of Mannar on the other, both meeting at the island’s tip. The Rameshwaram Fish Market is the only market that directly receives fish landed along this stretch, due to its proximity to Dhanushkodi. The catch, mostly from small-scale fishers, is brought to shore within a few hours, making it prized for its freshness and taste. 

In this essay, we delve into the everyday lives and labour of the fish cleaners working at the market. We learn about the different stages of the fish-cleaning process—descaling, gutting, chopping, peeling—each requiring knowledge of particular fish species, the skill of deft and careful use of knives, and the physical labour of sitting in the same position for over six hours each day. While Wednesdays and weekends usually bring in the most customers, the women’s work is shaped by factors beyond the market. Climate change-induced coral bleaching and sedimentation near the island is damaging nearby reef environments, while overfishing for exports and fishmeal production, alongside unpredictable winds and rising ocean temperatures, is changing what is caught and, consequently, what the women clean and eat. 

Between the purchase and consumption of seafood is the thorough yet arduous task of cleaning—transforming fresh catch into ingredients for a meal. Here, silver biddy fish, called ‘oodagam’ in Tamil, is being cleaned.

The calm exterior of the Market before the day's sales begin.

The Rameshwaram Fish Market opens everyday at 6 am. By 7 am, the first catch arrives from vallams (motorised fishing boats) through tempo vans. Men unload baskets of fresh fish onto the vending stalls, where customers move between the stalls, making their purchases before carrying them to the women fish cleaners. Around 10 am, another wave of fish lands from karavalais (shore seines, locally known as thonis), and the cycle repeats. Shore seines are 50-metre-long U-shaped nets that are dropped into the sea nearshore using boats. Each end of the net is then connected to over 200 metres of nets along with ropes on either side. It is then pulled back to the shore by 25-50 men and women of all ages—a process that takes over three hours everyday, from around 7 am to 10 am. 

(Left) Velmathi, a fish vendor, waiting for the catch from vallams to arrive. (Right) During the 61-day ban on trawler fishing, from 15 April to 14 June this year, the Rameshwaram Fish Market received its catch from small-scale fisheries across the island. Vendors who sell in other markets also come here to buy fish. While some supply nearby markets, others carry fish in baskets on their heads, walking across the island and even beyond to sell their catch.

An empty cleaning stall with vendors (in the background) arriving with the first set of thoni (shore seine) fish.

The market has three sections—while the first two are occupied by fish vendors, the third is where the fish cleaners sit. Each section has two lines of eight stalls each, with two to three women occupying a stall. Women—both vendors and cleaners—begin arriving at the market from 6.30 am onwards and sit for over six hours. A few vendors even stay back until 5 pm to make sure that all their fish is sold.  

Rani, one of the fish cleaners, at her stall.

Women like Rani skillfully use the aruvalmanai—a traditional knife with a sharp blade mounted on a wooden board. In Tamil, ‘aruval’ means ‘sickle’, while ‘manai’, meaning ‘bench’, refers to the mounting board. The aruvalmanai is used for all stages of cutting, right from removing the fins to descaling and chopping the fish. This tool is found across rural households in Tamil Nadu, and has different types of blades, including serrated ones that are used to grate coconuts. “Before we descale the fish, we remove the fins. We also remove the head, based on whether the customer wants it [or not],” Rani says.

Women sit on the floor, holding the base of the aruvalmanai steadily with their feet as both their hands move swiftly over the blade. Cutting fish using the aruvalmanai requires skill and diligence, especially as the pieces of fish keep getting smaller with cutting. Here, Chitravalli is cutting the last piece of emperor fish, her hands dangerously close to the edge of the blade.

For quick and safe cutting, the blade of the aruvalmanai must be sharpened frequently. Here, Kasthuri pours sand on the stone to make it rough, and the aruvalmanai is sharpened by repeated honing. Sand is also used to remove any flesh sticking to the blade and sharpen its edges by rubbing it against a stone surface, or the wall, for 5-10 minutes. This is usually done at the beginning or the end of the day, but sometimes even in between work if they feel the blades have become dull.

Now in her late 70s, Lakshmi has been earning her livelihood by cutting fish for more than 30 years. “I learned to clean fish from my mother. You have to be careful—the blade must not cut into the fish.”

Chopping of ooli (barracuda).

Chopping of serraiya (mullet).

The fish is then chopped into pieces, depending on its size. Sand is used to ensure the fish does not slip. “Earlier, we would get a lot of serraiya, baskets would be full of it. These days, it does not come as much,” says Lakshmi.

Lakshmi, packing cleaned fish for a customer.

Nambuthai (left) and Leela (right) enjoying a quick tea break.

Leela, 35, hails from Ramakrishnapuram, a village two bus stops away from the market. “I clean everything—fish, shrimp, squid. The time taken depends on the fish. For larger ones like groupers, a single fish takes almost 5-10 minutes, so we charge rupees Rs. 40-50per kg. For prawns and smaller fish like goatfish, it takes less time, so we charge rupees Rs. 30 per kg.” 

Leela peeling and de-veining shrimp.

“For shrimp, we first remove the head (antenna) and then peel the outer skin. We then press it in the middle to remove the vein. Everyone here likes it.” The demand for shrimp was high during the trawler ban, going up to rupees 600 a kilogram due to its low availability. However, the cleaners receive only a standard rate of rupees 30 per kilogram for cleaning. 

Leela’s husband pulls a shore seine with almost 20 other people. Over the years, this catch has reduced as newer types of nets like gillnets, purse seines, and trawlers are being used. The climate crisis is also making this work more dangerous. “They did not pull the nets yesterday because it was too windy. The income from this has become unpredictable,” Leela says. As a result of the rapidly intensifying El Niño effect (a phenomenon that periodically warms sea surface temperatures in the central and eastern Pacific Ocean, altering global weather patterns), heavy and unpredictable winds could worsen even further. During the period of our fieldwork, boats were denied licenses to go out to sea for almost 14 days, between 15 June to 25 July. 

When a ray arrives, Leela refuses to cut it. “I have to leave early today, cutting a ray takes time. Give it to the next stall.” The cleaner in the next stall quotes Rs.40 for cutting one kilogram of ray. “This is big, it is harder to cut.” She first cuts it into halves, and then chops it into smaller pieces. “Earlier we would get huge rays, almost 20-30 kilograms each”, she pauses, spreading her arms to indicate the expanse. Unregulated fishing of rays for international demand, damage to the ecosystem due to trawlers, and rising sea temperatures have led to a steep decline of rays in the region. Species that were caught almost every day are now rare to find in markets. 

(Left) Kasthuri having her breakfast and (right) cleaning her baskets. The women eat their breakfast and have tea around 9 am, once the first round of sales is completed. However, they are always seated at their stalls, waiting for the next customer. There is no fixed break, especially on busy days like Sundays.

Rani (left) and Kasthuri (right) at the Rameshwaram Fish Market.

Being seated continuously for hours often causes back and neck pain. “We keep pressing the aruvalmanai between our legs. I find it hard to sleep at night, it hurts a lot”, Leela says.

Chopped fish, like this chinna sillepi (tilapia), reaches restaurants and homes, reducing time and effort for those who cook. It is the labour of the women who clean fish at the market that makes domestic work easier and less time-consuming for other women in their households.

Some of the waste from the insides of the fish, especially the liver, is taken away by customers or the women working in the market to feed their pets.

Despite paying rupees 10 as fees everyday to the municipality, the women have to clean their stalls themselves. The common areas are not cleaned frequently. The women stay back to clean their vessels and tubs before heading home.

Once they get back home, the women clean again, this time for their households. Here, Puyalrani is rinsing chopped nagara (goat fish) with salt to get rid of vedakku (smell).

Rashmi Sridar is the Woman Farmer Project Writer-Researcher fellow from Tamil Nadu, trained in Geographical Information Systems (GIS) and environmental law. She is interested in working with fishing communities using participatory approaches with a focus on women’s labour, seafood markets, and collective action.

Revathi Sunil is the Woman Farmer Project Audio-Visual fellow from Tamil Nadu. She is a Bengaluru-based filmmaker, writer, and editor interested in intimate, non-intrusive storytelling that centres the dignity, complexity, and perspectives of those furthest from the frame.

Mukta Patil

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Additional Inputs

Deepshika Pasupunuri

Additional Inputs

This story was produced in partnership with Dakshin Foundation. Read more about their work here.

This story is part of the Woman Farmer Project, a multimedia storytelling initiative led by The Locavore in partnership with the Doc Society Climate Story Kitchen. It aims to build a roadmap for successful collaborations between institutions and innovative grassroots networks who are committed to amplifying climate stories.

The Doc Society supports climate action across the globe by championing independent filmmakers, audio producers, journalists, and artists working alongside impact producers and movement builders to bring more communities into climate conversations to advance climate just and biodiverse futures.