It may be the men who bring in the catch, but the fishing community cannot thrive without its rock-solid women. On Women’s Day, we meet one of them. Untamed locks of curly hair, a worn-out sari hurriedly draped, a tired face, and a gruff voice Kalyani’s most defining features though, are her oddly-shaped teeth that she flashes often. The fish-seller is the most sought-after at the Nochi Kuppam market customers throng her stall every evening and on Sundays, they wait for a long time in the sun to buy her prawns. Of course, she sells good quality seafood and is friendly. But there’s something else about her that draws people. Anbu, she declares, as we make our way through decaying crab shells and fish bones behind the row of shanties by the Lighthouse. Love, she says is what retains her customer-base. See, I never show them a long face. If they’re rude, I smile. If they’re kind, I smile. If I’m angry, I smile, she grins. She counts restaurant owners and senior Government officers among her regular clientèle. The mother of two daughters, Kalyani was born in Nochi Kuppam. My mother’s house is right across the road, she points out. Kalyani has sold fish with her grandmother since she was as young as 10. Her fisherman father owned nets and a boat. Life was comfortable, until she fell in love. His name is Kadher, she says. He’s tall and good-looking. But I fell for the way he treated his mother and sisters. With their wedding, started a journey in which Kalyani inevitably found herself in the driver-seat. Kadher is an auto-driver and with his meagre income and zero support from their families, the couple didn’t have a roof over their heads for two years. We slept on the beach, says Kalyani. The auto was our home. Barely 20 years old, Kalyani decided to do what she had done all along sell fish. A friend loaned me some money and I bought fish from a middleman to sell, she says. Today, though, she’s a voice to reckon with at the Kasimedu harbour. I travel to Kasimedu at 3 am to buy fish and get my shop ready by 7 am, she explains. She has the contacts for the best prawns, and is also known for vaaval and vanjaram varieties. Always on the run, Kalyani rarely manages to squeeze in time for herself the interview is a luxury during which she gets to stroll towards the water’s edge chatting about life. I do get some rest, she drags her feet. Rest’, to her means being at home, but then, she’s working there too. Isn’t she ever tired? Always. But I get up on my feet every single time, she says. Her fellow fisherwomen mutter about her husband’s lack of support for the family but Kalyani says otherwise. He’s a hard-worker, she explains. Does drink, but that’s because he’s in pain due to a physical condition. Her phone rings just then and Kalyani rages at the caller. I want my money!’, she screams, her eyes bulging and hair flying. She goes on in this fashion, threatening him. Once she cuts the call, she sighs. That man owes me money and is raising his voice. I want it back. Money is what she toils day and night for. I recently bought a 600 sq ft house in Ice House, she says. It’s something to be proud of, but also something that forces her to put away a major chunk of her earnings towards a loan. I deposit an amount at the bank every day once I sell fish. The 42-year-old says she will stop working only once she sends her daughters to college. I want one to become a Collector and the other, a police officer. I love my girls. Was her voice always this brusque? No, it wasn’t, she laughs. I talk to so many people every day. But there is another reason behind it: Kalyani never speaks, she half-shouts to customers and to her colleagues. Twenty years of selling fish, speaking over the din of the waves, and handling business deals on the rough terrain of the harbour has toughened her her voice is collateral damage.