Make dried fish while the sun shines

It’s a smell that many would label unpleasant. But it’s what K Rajeswari has been breathing in all her life. The 80-year-old makes a living out of making and selling dried fish at the Kasimedu fish market. She’s the best in the business. “I buy her dried fish to cook at home,” says R Gopi, who owns a shop next to hers. Rajeswari’s wrinkled hands clean and preserve fish with nuance — she takes her time on each piece, but it’s worth it.

“See that inclination over there?” Gopi points to the slope below the road running above the harbour. “She climbs it at least a 100 times a day to dry fish.”

Summer is here and the dried fish makers of Kasimedu are on their feet; they make most of their income for the year during the coming months and the stretch of tile-roofed shops selling the fish is abuzz. Two young men are working on a heap of fish in front of a stall — they’ve just mixed salt to one batch. They pile the lot into a plastic container and will soon head to the sun-kissed ground nearby to dry the fish. The shop-owner, who looms in on them from a slab at the entrance, watches their every move. Two women, their heads wrapped in towels to protect themselves from the heat, are weaving a carpet of silvery fish a little distance away.

“It takes three days to make dried fish,” explains Gopi. The day’s catch that ends up unsold is brought to the 10 shops that sell dried fish. “We get to work immediately. We clean the fish, apply rock salt, and put it out to dry. The next day, we wash it thrice with soft water. This way, all the excess salt gets washed away. We spread them out for a couple of more days. Dried fish is then ready to be sold,” adds Gopi.

During the three days the fish dry in the sun, the men and women who readied them, wait inside their shops, looking on at them as they would their children. “My stomach will dry while my fish does,” says T Nagaraj. The 65-year-old is seated with baskets of various varieties of dried fish at his shop. “This is because only when I get them ready, will I be able to make some money.”

This is why the summer sun plays a crucial role in their lives. For, the more sun, the quicker their products are ready to reach the market.

Kasimedu dried fish is known for its quality. “What we prepare has very less salt,” says Gopi. “I prepare dried fish the way my family and I would eat it; I ensure that the end product is not too salty since too much salt can damage the body,” he adds. Nagaraj points to white vaala dried fish heaped in a basket at his stall. “The fish gleams because it has less salt. I can add more to increase the weight of the dried fish so that I make more profit. But I don’t want to be unethical.”

From powdery dried prawns, snake-like vaala, and the grey-black vanjiram, to finger-sized nethili, Rajeswari’s shop boasts a variety. “Vanjiram is the most sought-after,” explains Gopi. “We sell a kilo for ₹400.” Fresh vanjiram, however, is cheaper. “The price is for the work we put in,” he says. “We pay ₹10 for a pot of clean water to wash the fish and spend a lot of time on every batch that reaches us.”

Dried fish is an acquired taste. “But if prepared well, no dish can come close. If you eat a bowl of rice with fish, with dried fish, you’ll eat two,” smiles Gopi. “It’s like mango pickle. Even a boring meal becomes a feast with it.”

The sun climbs higher as the afternoon progresses. Every patch of land that the sun pecks at in Kasimedu is covered with dried fish.

An old woman gathers baskets of them from a carpet near the wharf. It’s a telling spectacle — the shimmering dried fish and its wizened maker. But just as we’re about to click a picture, she shoos us away.

“You think this is a game?” she calls out, as we leave hastily, “I’m frying in the sun and you want to take my picture?”