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Ilish or Hilsa is not just a fish to a Bong, it’s an emotion. And having Ilish mach bhaja (fried Hilsa), steamed rice ladened with Ilish bhaja tel (oil from fried fish), flavoured with kancha lonka (green chili) is the ultimate goal of Bong-life on a monsoon afternoon. The ‘bhat-ghum’ afterwards is inevitable.
So Hilsa is much more than gastronomy for a Bong. It is about identity, history and nostalgia. A Bong will take a mouthful of hilsa and sort out the bones without showing any sign of discomfort.
Numerous men rush to the fish market despite the monsoon (or rather, because of it) hoping to get there before the stock runs out. Yes monsoon is the time when you should shell out that few thousand rupees for what is the best fish you could ever have. Despite the bones, ask any Bangali Bhadrolok how he scouts for the best Hilsa. More often than not, he goes to each fish stall and searches for the right silvery textured plump fish with the right weight. But ask him about the best way to eat Ilish and you might get very different answers.
Infact, there are time-tested Ilish bhapa and other recipes. Or, may be even the not so popular but still traditional Ilish macher tok (Hilsa in sour gravy) or the Nona Ilish (Hilsa dried in salt). Then there are Hilsa-Paturi, Ilish with white wine or white garlic sauce, the baked boneless Hilsa, and the list goes on and on.
The fish Hilsa is such a romance that it features in Bengali novels and literature too. In Manik Bandopadhyay’s novel ‘Padma Nadir Majhi,’ Kuber comes home in the wee hours under a delicately-clouded sky, with the light from a solitary lantern illuminating the niche in the boat where lay the Hilsa he had caught.
In her book, Life and Food in Bengal, Chitrita Banerji, writes – the fish’s versatility is the stuff of culinary lore. She explains that her mother would fashion an entire meal around the Hilsa. ‘We started with a few pieces of fried fish and the roe. Then, plain rice was enlivened by pouring over it the oil in which these had been fried — the bare teaspoon of mustard oil in the pan usually increasing to half a cup with the rendered fat from the fish. The head came next, fried, broken up into pieces, and combined with the leaves and stems of a green called pui. The bulk of the fish was divided into two portions, one cooked with a ground mustard paste, its pungency merging into that of the mustard oil, the other (bonier portions of the back) made either into a jhal [a spicy curry] with hot red chilli paste, or an ambal [a tangy broth] with tamarind pulp.’
In another instance Chitrita writes, ‘Bengal’s glorious fish, Hilsa, became more than a mere accompaniment for rice. Baked into a rice-flour crepe, it stunned my palate with its delicate intensity.’
So be it steamed in mustard sauce or simply fried, Hilsa has somehow managed to take a place of pride in the hearts of millions of Bengalis. Come monsoon, the Bengali palate is decorated with white steamed rice and Hilsa curry.
Hilsa, as I always call, is an object of desire for both India and Bangladesh. And such madness is rarely seen anywhere. In Bangladesh and West Bengal during Poila Boisakh (the first day of the Bengali New Year), it is customary to have ilish with panta bhat (fermented rice) at breakfast. The meal is the traditional way to celebrate the Bengali new year
