But even as a non-practising member of the breed (bhodrolok, not guerrilla), the moment I heard that push had come to shove for Queen Hasina, I just had to show my solidarity with the Bangladeshi people. Or, as my grandmother from west West Bengal would call them, the “other Bengalis”.
Quite obviously, trans-national Bengali solidarity can be shown only in one way: by breaking fish. And not just any fish, but the ilish— which by some strange anti-cockney formulation is known as hilsa to those who don’t care for it. So, foregoing plans to have a Chinese meal, I proceeded to an ilish lunch at the not-too-subtly named Ilish Truly Bong Restaurant, on Park Street, that stretch of eateries in Kolkata— some 80 km from the nearest Bangladesh border post—where Kolkatans come to feel ‘more saheb, less Bengali’. (The six-year-old Ilish Truly Bong is the only Bengali restaurant on Bengal’s famous high street.) I was glad I was there—it turned out that Bangladesh had just announced that supply of ilish from the Padma, considered its finest variety, will be stopped. Even as an asymptomatic Bengali who’s not besotted with fish (or Tagore), this was a shocker.
You, my gentle non-Bengali friend, must understand the gastro-cultural importance ilish holds to all Bengalis, whether in Dhaka, Delhi or Detroit. The Scot has his whisky, the Russian his vodka, the Gujarati his money—the Bengali’s fervour and fealty is to ilish. In the granular world of identity politics, the species Tenualosa ilisha holds a special place not only among Bangladeshis, but also among “Bangaals”, that geographically-marked sub-species of Bengalis whose origins lie east of India/West Bengal. This arch indicatordemarcator is still played up during football derbies between “Kolkata giants” Mohun Bagan and East Bengal. A win for Bagan results in celebratory chingri (prawn) meals in Bagan households, and wins for East Bengal with ilish taking pride of place on the dining table. But with less people following (Indian) football, this “prawn vs hilsa” ritual is almost vegetarian these days. But not the craze for ilish. The distinctive aroma, taste and texture of ilish comes from its fat. It’s a sea fish that breeds upstream in rivers and are most prized as adults making their way back to the sea, says Ilish Truly Bong co-owner Lopamudra Kamilya. Fishing young ilish that are as small as 80 gm is banned. Respectable ilish have to be at least 130 gm. “But you still see them in markets. They don’t have taste, but what to do when the demand is so huge?” she tells me, as I remove a shard of fish bone from the side of my mouth. (Don’t try this at home unless accompanied by a Bengali.)
I mix ’n’ mash the brittle, flaky skin of my piece of ilish fried in its own oil with its pillow-soft, fleshy meat with khichdi. But the pièce de résistance is the bowl of crushed ilish head, bones and all, cooked with pumpkin and pui saag. I suddenly recall why I’m here—Joy Bangla! The hilsa is alive with the sound of democracy.
