The Taste of Life in Marakkanam

In 1930, a frail freedom seeker from Gujarat decided to walk all the way to the coastal town of Dandi. His colonial masters dismissed his plan as unpopular. But they never realised the symbolism behind the march. Salt was not just another condiment in the larder. It was opulence on the tongue of common men, it was a symbol of freedom in a commoditized world. And as the days stretched to weeks, the British were left unprepared for the chaos that followed. Salt had managed to galvanise Indians across the board. Religious differences, and regional prejudices gave way to the yearning for freely available salt. The infamous salt tax had shown the world that something as simple and common as salt, can do what tall leaders and economic reverses never could- mobilise the masses. Almost a century later, the feeling has not changed. Salt is still the most common ingredient in our diet. The importance of salt is even embedded in common culture and literature. Readers might define this article as ‘salt less’ if they feel it lacks certain desirable attributes. Thus salt has become a lot more than just another thing to mix in with our food.

Kids have textbooks that make generic statements of how salt comes from the seawater. This is a gross oversimplification of the long and strenuous process that ends with packaged salt on our tables. Only men and women who work in the salt pans, under the pelting sun can tell you how the abundance of the sea gives way to crystals of white salt. One such salt pan can be seen alongside the beautiful East coast road which runs along the Bay of Bengal from Chennai. Marakkanam is a typical rural enclave in Tamil Nadu, around 30 kilometres away from Pondicherry.

 The first thing that attracts a visitor is the visibly old Bhoomieshwer temple, built around 1000 years ago by the Cholas. With creepers hugging on to its short dome, and rays of sunlight bursting through the ancient architecture; the temple gives out a very soothing vibe. Around half a kilometre from the temple, we found the salt pans. A vast stretch of literally nothingness. Just mud and sand, demarcated into shallow plots. Some of them were brimming with water, some were dry to the point of an uneasiness in our throat. On the other end of the pan, we could see the sea, unwilling to flow inland and loitering at the edge. The strong sea breeze was largely successful in countering the almost visible heat!

The plots themselves were much like quicksand. One could easily slip an entire foot into it. The hardened and dry paths crisscrossing the plots are a much better bet. But there wasn’t any salt in the whole area. As beautiful as salt pans are, it’s the salt that lends them their aesthetics. A salt pan without salt is just a huge swathe of barren land. An enquiry however revealed that January and February are the months of initiation. The bulk of the salt production happens in and around June and July, when the high tide brings the sea water into the salt pans. The Marakkanam salt pans are the third largest in the state and is sold in many surrounding areas, including Chennai. In the first months of the year, Marakkanam doesn’t look equipped to satisfy the needs of a village, yet alone a metropolis like Chennai. A few dozen workers can be seen repairing what looks like medieval pumps. Long pipes stick out of the ground and dump groundwater onto the pans. Once the plots are filled to the brim, the pumps are turned off, and then the sun gets to work. So yes, in the so-called off season, most of the salt that Marakkanam produces comes from underground water than sea water. But this is not as lucrative as making salt from the sea water, as explained to us by one of the workers, Selvam.

“For one, we have to operate the motors, and that too for long periods every day. Diesel isn’t getting any cheaper, and these old pumps eat up a lot of fuel.”

“Further, the sea water has a lot more salt content and gives us more output from every plot.”

Thus the first few months are mainly toil, without any reward. This seasonal fluctuation has apparently pushed many people away from the profession, like Selvam’s son. But many flock to the pans once the sea level rises and the money starts coming. But there should be no misconceptions about the returns from the pans. Most of the workers are hired labour who have no connection with the land or the future of their produce. Apparently the salt pans are owned by individuals who have leased them out to landlords who in turn work the plots with the hired labour. It’s a well-oiled machinery which seems to be working well for at least some people.

“The male workers get 400 rupees a day for their work, while the female workers get exactly the half. We work 2 and a half hours in the morning and the same after lunch”, says Selvam as he asks us to wait while he gets his tools. Selvam’s tools are pretty simple, but the process requires great care. He steps right into one of the slippery plots which seemed ripe for salt harvesting. Most of the water had evaporated from the plot. What was left was stone sized salt crystals loosely scattered in the water that remained. As Selvam stepped into the pond, his footprints were invisible. 

He tiptoed around like a matador and used his long rake to sweep the salt crystals onto the hardened bank. Incidentally, when we walked into the pond, the prints we left behind started sucking in the water and the salt. The more nimble we tried to be, the matters just got worse. “It requires a lot of experience and care”, said Selvam as he danced around the plot, as if rubbing ‘salt’ into our wounds! Once he had raked all the salt to the side, he used his feet to push it onto the bank.

This would have to be done in all the salt ponds, and there were plenty of them! “This is a dying a profession now. The new generation is simply not interested in all this hard work” Selvam’s disappointment is quite evident on his face. “Right now, a 120kg sack is sold for 150 rupees”, says Selvam. “So there isn’t enough money for the youth to be interested in it” With this he moved onto the next pond, bare feet, the rake towing alongside him. Selvam knows just one thing in the world, to harvest salt. He does not have the luxury to complain about fatigue, nor the time to take care of his dry feet.

The salt that is harvested from Marikkanam is marketed by a local mandi, called the MVTC salt mandi. They have a shoddy little office cum warehouse where sacks of salt are stored and later transported. They also have a couple of lorries which take the salt to places as far as Kadappa and Tirupati. The officers at the mandi claim that they buy the salt from the producers and sell it at merely 7 to 8 rupees extra. The mandi sells a sack of 110kg at 180-190 rupees, which is considerably more than the selling price quoted by Selvam. Whether this is ignorance on the part of the workers, or a case of gross exploitation is indeed a puzzling question. “The salt business is not doing that well. The prices fluctuate a lot and the new GST system has really complicated our functioning”, said an officer of the Mandi.

Salt is present in almost everything we eat. It is this unavoidable quality of salt that has made it a part of not just our diet, but also our society and polity. Salt as a food item has largely remained sacred and people and corporates have treated it with much reverence. But the story behind the flavor of our food is quite dull. Workers are leaving salt pans in search for better jobs. The job has become seasonal with only a few veterans still turning up diligently. Considering the magnitude of its consumption, 400 rupees a day for salt harvesting seems like a meagre pay. Further, the blatant and shameless difference in the wages of men and women makes you question how salt became the vehicle of social change almost a century back. One of the major problems is the complete lack of government regulation. For once, India could actually do with some extra bureaucracy! Government regulation would probably go a long way in securing stable and equal wages, and also eliminate the money siphoned off by middlemen.

So Marikkanam in January and February is an underwhelming sight. There are no beds of crystals or towering heaps of salt. But what you will find are a few dozen people hard at work. People who work to make our food delicious. So the next time you feel the impeccable taste of salt on your tongue, maybe spare a thought for people like Selvam who make it possible.