With Bangladesh’s Ministry of Commerce approving shipments, Bengalis can look forward to a pujo fare replete with the Padma ilish, bhapa or with the shorshe gravy or fried. (Express photo by Partha Paul)
Among the debates in which almost every Bengali who wears gastronomy on their sleeve has a say is one about the hilsa, the ilish. At addas, at Durga Pujas and even in media and academic circles, that perennial question requires no provocation: Which is the river that best nurtures the silver-hued bony fish? The Hooghly — the Ganga — or the Padma in Bangladesh? Even the generation, on whom the Radcliffe Line does not weigh heavy on most other matters, can go to lengths, sometimes parroting receiving wisdom, on how address is the greatest determinant of how oily the ilish is, or whether it’s plump or lean.
The trouble, however, is that during the hilsa season, markets in the country do not always sparkle with the silver crop. Ecological reasons and overfishing have meant that the Bengali in India has to rely on goodwill gestures from the Bangladesh government to whet their appetite, especially during the Durga Puja season. The Sheikh Hasina government would usually ease export restrictions during the festival season. Fears that the Muhammad-Yunus-led ministry, which has taken charge after Hasina’s ouster in August, would be less generous have proven unfounded. With Bangladesh’s Ministry of Commerce approving shipments, Bengalis can look forward to a pujo fare replete with the Padma ilish, bhapa or with the shorshe gravy or fried, sort out the bones in their mouth, let the large concentric circles of fat unravel to reveal the sweet salty taste of the fish, while also sparring over which variety is the best. Only those who can afford it though — a kg of the Padma hilsa can go into thousands. The Narmada and the Godavari also provide Hilsa, but they are deemed interlopers, and play no role in the culinary debate.
Padma ilish is actually an umbrella term for the fish from Bangladesh. It can be from the Meghna or the Karnaphuli or a number of other small rivers as well. For those displaced from their homes because of politics and nationalism, the fish harkens to days spent amidst rivers, when hilsa did not just mean a fancy fare — it takes people back to monsoon afternoons, when smeared with turmeric, salt, a dash of mustard oil along with a few chopped chillies, and fried in hot oil, the ilish would reveal its flavours on a plate of steaming rice. In pre-Partition Bengal, the river Padma was the geographical line dividing east and west. Demographics reinforced this division, Muslims forming the majority in East Bengal and Hindus in the West. However, as food writer Chitrita Banerjee has pointed out in several of her works, a common bond of culture and language persisted — rice and fish remained the ideal Bengali meal on both sides of the border, with hilsa evoking memories of pre-Partition days.
With Partition came poverty, the demands of feeding often large families. Most fish lend themselves to circumstances and innovation. Hilsa is a delicate fish, and needs to be handled carefully, but the Bengalis also found that it gives generously. Fish head, with a medley of vegetables, brinjals, pumpkin, potatoes and pui leaf or kochu shaak, cooked in mustard oil in which mustard and black cumin had spluttered leaving behind a mild bitterness, is a meal in itself. Strips from its tail, after sorting bones, were mashed, combined with green chillies and mustard oil into a bharta that would feed families in times they needed to use every part of the fish. Ilish bharta, even today, is a delicacy in homes and in parts of rural Bangladesh. The plumper Padma ilish lends itself better to such culinary inventiveness.
Culinary history shows that food memories, the sense of love and belonging, often blend seamlessly with brand making. For long, Bengalis adhered to a maxim — hilsa would disappear from kitchens a few days after the pujos, to reappear four to six months later. This moratorium, which respected breeding cycles, was discarded with the fish becoming a part of high cuisine. Brand hilsa, especially the one from the Padma, has meant the fish is no longer a preserve of Bengali kitchens, or the odd pice hotel. Restaurants today do excellent versions of dishes that spare the eater the labour of deboning the fish. But discarding gastronomic shibboleth is one thing. The culture that has created Brand hilsa cannot deny complicity in overfishing, putting the ilish to peril.
Bangladesh has dedicated research departments for hilsa. It has put in place fishing moratoriums. Export restrictions are part of this revival effort and so are conversations on means to ensure that fish markets don’t run out of stock in peak season. Most of West Bengal is an outlier to such conversations. The question on which hilsa tastes the best will go on. But if prices are anything to go by, Padma Hilsa is no doubt the bigger brand.
At addas during this Durga Puja, as ilish aficionados go back to their never-ending debate, perhaps they could also celebrate the fish with a message on sustainable fishing, and responsible dining.
kaushik.dasgupta@expressindia.com
© The Indian Express Pvt Ltd
First uploaded on: 23-09-2024 at 18:18 IST
