Hilsa: A fish caught in the barbed-wire fence

Has there ever been an omnipotent fish like the hilsa? It dominates the culinary discourse of a people that constitutes the third largest ethnolinguistic group globally. It dominates the cultural discourse of a people separated twice in 42 years — first as a province and then by an international border that came up at the stroke of midnight, just like that. And therefore, the hilsa now also dominates the diplomatic discourse around the friendship — or the lack of it — of a people with the same ethnic bond, who inhabit the same landmass, originally separated by a river and now by barbed-wire fences.

Much of the talk regarding the altered nature of ties between India and Bangladesh after the sudden escape of Sheikh Hasina on August 5 has pivoted around hilsa. Would the “Padmar ilish” — the hilsa variety caught in the Padma, a river that once roughly separated the two Bengals, East and West — cross the border this time? After all, it was Hasina — famously close to India, much to the chagrin of a section of her people — who facilitated its export since 2019 after a six-year ban.

An all-purpose fish

And, as feared, the interim government of Bangladesh played spoilsport and announced around the second week of September that the fish would indeed “not cross the border” — Farida Akhter, the adviser to the Bangladesh ministry of fisheries and livestock, possibly taking a dig at the repeated accusations by the Indian Right wing about her countrymen crossing the border illegally.

The interim government, however, claimed the move had nothing to do with diplomatic factors and was only to ensure that the prized fish was more available to Bangladeshi consumers. That conviction, though, was short-lived. Because, while thinking about its own people, the interim government possibly forgot that hilsa is not merely a “diplomacy fish”, it’s a “business fish” too.

Much ado over hilsa

Therefore, within less that a fortnight, “hilsa diplomacy” was back on the platter. As the Bangladesh government led by Mohammad Yunus declared last week that 3,000 tonnes of hilsa had been permitted to cross the border, it also gave several clarifications to its people — that there would not be a shortfall in the local market, that it was for the greater good, and a show of goodwill to the Indian government that had lowered the export duty on onions.

Local newspaper The Daily Star quoted Salehuddin Ahmed, commerce adviser to the interim government, as saying that the decision to export hilsa had been taken “after a lot of thought”. Besides, 3,000 tonnes were nothing compared to the massive hilsa catch Bangladesh scored last year — 5.30 lakh tonnes. It’s less than 0.5 per cent. Also, since the fish will be smuggled out to India anyway, export would at least bring in some foreign revenue, he explained.

Hilsa reaches court

The explanations, however, have not cut much ice with everyone in Bangladesh. According to The Daily Star, a lawyer has filed a public interest litigation (PIL) in Bangladesh’s High Court, challenging the legality of the decision to allow the export of 3,000 tonnes of hilsa to India since there are laws barring its free export. As the first consignment of 50 tonnes of hilsa crossed the Petrapole-Benapole border on Thursday (September 26), with more expected in the days to come, it remains to be seen what ruling the court gives.

The PIL is not without reason. The hilsa, thanks to its iconic status among Bengalis on both sides of the border, is being splayed and hacked as much in their kitchens as it is on the geopolitical chopping board. Hilsa makes up for about 12 per cent of Bangladesh’s total fish catch and contributes around 1 per cent to its GDP ($446.35 billion in 2023). Bangladesh alone contributes a whopping 70 per cent of the hilsa caught globally, while India and Myanmar make up for 15 and 10 per cent respectively. Hilsa is Bangladesh’s national fish and even has a Geographical Indication (GI) tag in that country.

A dwindling species

But as a result, the numbers of the silvery-white delicate fish have been dipping alarmingly. Both Bangladesh and India (West Bengal) have put in place laws to save the species from likely extinction but several factors — including cultural, economic, and political — have repeatedly come in the way.

Bangladesh, for instance, imposes a ban on catching hilsa thrice a year. The first comes in October, once Durga Puja is over. This is the time for the fish to lay eggs, the reason why it swims up rivers, against the current, from the sea. Bangladesh again imposes a two-month ban in March-April to protect the hatched fry. The third round of ban is imposed in May-July to allow the fish to grow. West Bengal imposes a two-month ban from April 15 to June 14. Also, the sale of khoka ilish (juvenile hilsa) is banned in the markets — a rule that is blatantly flouted.

Culture, rituals, and nostalgia

But why so much brouhaha over a fish? Why can’t Bengalis not do without a fish that is facing an existential threat now? Why so much discussion over whether a country would export the fish or not? The reasons are partly sociocultural and partly pure emotion and nostalgia.

Culturally and ritualistically, the hilsa is more an integral part of the Hindus of East Bengal (now Bangladesh) and less of West Bengal. And they brought those rituals when they migrated to India. For instance, while the Bengalis of West Bengal mandatorily eat vegetarian food on Saraswati Puja (Basant Panchami), those from East mandatorily offer jora ilish (a pair of hilsa) to the Goddess and eat the sanctified fish as prasad.

A fish for all occasions

Apparently, hilsa used to be a common offering to goddesses Durga, Lakshmi, and Kali in East Bengal. On Vijaya Dashami, Hindus in Dhaka, Comilla, and Faridpur districts would bid adieu to Goddess Durga after a bite of hilsa or its roe. Similar practices exist in West Bengal, with some families mandatorily eating scorched fish (macch-pora) on Vijaya Dashami but the fish is not hilsa.

For those in West Bengal, hilsa has more to do with taste and status. The fish is a must for many on Poila Boisakh (Bengali New Year), Jamai Shashthi (a day that celebrates sons-in-law), or as a Durga Puja lunch. In weddings, while those from East Bengal may send a decorated hilsa in tatwa (bride’s / groom’s gifts), those in West Bengal will send a rohu.

However, on an occasion such as Ranna Puja (worshipping the kitchen tools on Vishwakarma Puja), the hilsa is a must for many from West Bengal too. And with prices continuing at astronomical sums such as Rs 1500–2500, many opt for the cheaper but banned khoka ilish that sells for Rs 600–800 a kilo.

Taste of home

For the Bengalis of West Bengal, it is more about emotional ties with the hilsa. It’s a taste of home. There are tales galore about parents carrying hilsa for their children settled in other Indian states or even abroad — often at their request.

To share some personal anecdotes, my brother-in-law’s parents once fought for many minutes — unsuccessfully — with humourless staff at Kolkata airport who did not allow them to board their plane with raw hilsa. They finally called a relative, who rushed all the way from home to happily bag the unexpected windfall. Similarly, an uncle and aunt would carry cooked hilsa for their daughter in Mumbai every time they visited her.

Why Padma hilsa is so cherished

The reason why the hilsa holds greater cultural ties with East Bengal (or Bangladesh) can be gauged if we look at the Padma-Meghna River system that is home to the most delicious and succulent of ilish. After all, it is the Padma that emerges from the main flow of the Ganga, and is doubly strengthened by the Brahmaputra, while the Bhagirathi-Hooghly system that flows down through West Bengal is a much narrower stream.

Therefore, though hilsa is also caught in the Bhagirathi-Hooghly and its tributary, the Rupnarayan, the taste is nowhere close to the Padma hilsa. The fish that get the widest path to breed freely in the Padma-Meghna River system are bigger and have a higher fat content. While many may argue that the “Gangar ilish” tastes just as delicious as the “Padmar ilish”, I can personally vouch for the fact that it is not.

Hilsa going bland

Growing up in Tripura, I was bred on a healthy dose of fresh Padmar ilish, thanks to the porous border in those parts during those times. My father, an ardent connoisseur of the fish who spent 20 years in Tripura, rued for the rest of his life in Kolkata that the hilsa never tasted half as good. And my mother fondly recalls to date her first experience of handling Padmar ilish. She poured oil in the pan as usual, but when she added the fish to fry it, it released so much oil that she was caught off-guard.

Not that the oil went to waste — Bengalis can lap up a plateful of rice with only ilish macher tel (the oil used to fry hilsa). All it needs as accompaniments is a pinch of salt and a green chilli.

But those days are over now. Even the Padma hilsa is losing its fat content and taste, thanks to pollution and ecological damage. As a result, as also due to overfishing, the catch is dwindling too. This year, the hilsa catch has reportedly been extremely poor in Bangladesh. So, even though 3,000 tonnes have been approved, how much actually makes its way across the border remains to be seen — as also how long the fish survives on the Bengali platter.