Labour, livelihood and language

On a Monday morning, at the junction of Cooks Road and Stephenson Road, scores of people gather on the pavements of both roads. A man pushes his cycle and leaves it under one of the big trees lining Cooks Road. There are tools wrapped up in a plastic cover and fastened securely to the cycles carrier; he takes the bag, careful not to spill its contents, and joins a group of men sitting along the battered compound wall of the Binny Mill Warehouse. They strike up a conversation while keeping an eye on every passerby, paying extra attention when anyone stops.

This corner of Jamalia, on the way to Perambur, is where workers congregate every day. This is where the work comes to them. Electricians, plumbers, painters, masons, tile layers, day labourers, all of them are available for hire. This is common in the city: Triplicane has its share of construction workers and so does Purasaiwalkam. All one has to do is go and stand at the spot. A crowd will gather around to find out the job requirement and a person will be suggested accordingly. After a quick negotiation about the wage, the employer and worker are off.

Some women squat on the edge of the pavement. Lakshmi, dressed in a simple cotton sari, has her grey-streaked hair in a neat bun decorated with a string of kanagambaram flowers. What work do you need done? I mostly do construction work carrying cement and sieving sand, things like that, she says, looking hopefully.

When she realises that theres no job coming from this source, the 53-year-olds demeanour changes , but she stays to chat for a while.

Im here from 7.30 a.m.. At times, I wait till 11 a.m. to get work. Some days, no one needs workers. Then all I can do is go back to my home in Kasimedu, she says, adding that she finds it easier to get daily work than to take up a regular job. Ask her why, and all she does is shrug and look away: This is the only thing I know how to do.

Lakshmis companion, Rani, has no jewels on, but sports a wide smile. We have been coming here for many years. Everyone knows that we work hard and work well and so they can hire us without fear, says Rani. The few curious ones who are listening in on the conversation nod their heads in agreement.

Just like high school, this crew of workers too has its factions. The biggest is the Tamil-Telugu divide: each group will stick to their side of the road. Crossing the road is like crossing the Andhra border; the chatter here is predominantly Telugu. But when asked a question in Tamil, all of them jump to answer in clear, unbroken Tamil. Tamil or Telugu, everyone here wants work.

While the Tamil group is tight-lipped about the labour situation, Nagaraj, a tile layer from Vijayawada, says, We are migrants, so the people who are from this locality might think that we are threatening their livelihood. But there is almost always enough work for all of us. We dont fight or anything, we just stick to our respective sides of the road. He lives in a shack not far from the spot, paying a rent of Rs. 2,500.

He supports his wife and two children who live back in their city. The advantage of working from here is that there are no middlemen. I already own my tools. The entire pay comes to me. I need every paisa, he says, adding that he and almost everyone he knows here has a mobile phone to make sure regular employers can contact them directly. We will never change our numbers. Its our lifeline, he says.

This side of the road is decidedly more vocal. Eighteen-year-old Shanthi rattles off that shes from a small village near Ongole but came here with her family to earn a living many years ago, that she didnt study much and that she might look scrawny but can work as well as the rest of them. I work at construction sites. We women get paid Rs. 400 per day. For the same amount of work, men get paid Rs. 500, she says.

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Labour, livelihood and language