Ilish: Reflection on memories and displacement
As a person who grew up on Padma riverbanks, ilish to me is one food we do not measure with market price, but with emotions
I was looking for an eloquent quote on food to begin my reflection. After successfully endeavouring on GoodReads, binary quotes, and of course, memes, I realised that the philosophy of a palate is rather personal. So let's roll the dice and start with my ancestor's journey by boat.
Our family hails from a village called Medinimandal (means 'solar system') in Bangladesh, located next to the Padma River - the second-longest river in Bangladesh and a source of livelihood for millions. I grew up playing on the riverbank because our ancestral home was next to it.
My father, at a young age, used to go fishing with his cousins and uncles for days to catch and sell fish to make a living. His fascination with this fish reflected its hype among all ilish lovers, including me. Even when I roamed across my village neighbourhood, I could smell the aroma of ilish, cooked to perfection. And the next thing I used to smell was the grass and the soil that soothed my soul.
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Decades later, as I walk through the doorways of the international student housing, I smell simmering kimchi, braised beef, meat patties, fish that is not ilish, and whatnot. But sadly, after arriving in Canada, an excruciating hunger for food of my country (read ilish) became ever-present.
Ilish (also called Hilsa, scientific name: Tenualosa ilisha), is one of the most delicate fishes. As it immediately dies after getting caught, '(Ilish macher pran) vitality of Hilsa' is used in Bengali vernacular as a proverb for something evanescent. Yet, it left a long-lasting impression on my mind, and as I grew up, ilish started to make more sense to me beyond tantalising my taste buds.
In retrospect, ilish mach can have cultural, economic and political aspects.
Ilish mach: Symbolic of our culture
Without Panta-Ilish (water-soaked leftover rice with fried ilish and other condiments), no one can imagine starting the celebration of Pahela Baishakh (Bangalee New Year). I certainly enjoy this one-day fame of the item but dislike its commercialisation. This rice dish (without the ilish) is the staple food of millions of people. Elevating this by adding an ilish fry and calling it aesthetic with an exaggerated price tag does not represent the true essence of the Bangladeshi cultural space. Hence, it prevents the working class from celebrating their customs caused by the price hike.
As our family could not afford ilish, particularly during this period, I find this cultural practice exclusionary. But there are traditions which always secure an interesting place in the lives of common people. For example, there is one tradition where the groom's family presents the bride with two decorated ilish as a pre-wedding gift during weddings. At my cousin's marriage ceremony in my village, we put a cigarette in the fishes' mouth to make it look like the groom and covered the other with a red veil to resemble the bride.
Those golden memories of the silver ilish still light up my memory lanes.
The economics of ilish mach
In FY 2018-2019, the total catch of ilish in Bangladesh was 533,000 tons, indicating a striking 84% increase from FY 2008-2009. More than 450,000 people are directly involved with ilish production, while four-five million are indirectly dependent. Bangladesh is also the top ilish producing country accounting for 86% of the global production.
This fish is available in some South Asian and Middle Eastern countries, but in my biassed opinion (many will agree), the taste of ilish from Padma River is the best of all. Although it is a sea fish, they specifically enter the river to lay eggs, and because their body fat is at its peak, it adds that extra flavour.
It is one food that we do not measure with market price but emotions. This fish turns a poor man's food (soaked rice panta) into a luxury for one day. But my question is, how many poor people can afford to eat this 'king of all fish'? Is this hype justified? The answer only makes me feel guilty.
Love that transcends borders: Ilish mach, West Bengal and Bangladesh
The politics of ilish transcends from the national to the international level (at least regionally) as it is also the state fish of West Bengal, India. We could look into the roots of the love for ilish by reminiscing the pre-partition days when Bengal was one entity.
In 2015, I co-hosted a group of delegates from West Bengal in Dhaka to research the 1947 partition. Their craving for ilish still makes me doubt my confidence as an ilish-lover. A popular restaurant in Dhaka prepared off-the-menu ilish items in their honour.
Similarly, when I visited West Bengal in 2014 and ate ilish, I had the same spiritual realisation. I was surviving on carrots and cucumbers for two weeks as traditional Indian food was not my cup of tea back then. With the first bite of the Shorshe Ilish (ilish steamed in mustard paste), I found my way back home. I felt like Tom Hanks from Cast Away after he was rescued. But there is hardly any evidence of using this commonality as a tool of unity.
Instead, a post-partition diasporic population who migrated to West Bengal, India, from East Bengal (present Bangladesh) is labelled "Bangals." They are branded as Bangals by the social group "Ghoti," who considers themselves the natives distinguished by dialect, culture, ritual and cuisine. For Ghotis, prawn is the crown protein instead of ilish.
This post-partition diasporic culture could reconfigure the intercultural relationships we share with West Bengal, and reciprocation on both sides of the borders (West Bengal and Bangladesh) could have unfolded an alternative to this ongoing postcolonial self and othering. A missed opportunity indeed.
Of love, identity and displacement
Altogether, ilish is a significant element in upholding Bangalee (language-based) and Bangladeshi (land-based) identity. This comprehensive narrative, in my understanding, is the sum of the individual perception towards ilish, constituting a collective memory of belonging - be it the Pahela Baishakh, a meal with family, or connecting pre-colonial ties.
During the first Covid-19 pandemic lockdown, our family was already confined to a small rented flat in Dhaka, probably for four months. One day, while I looked down from the balcony, I saw a hawker selling ilish. For a moment, I broke my bubble, went down, and brought one pair. It somehow boosted me, and I will never forget that. In hindsight, I can understand now why it felt like that. It goes back into our family's story of displacement.
Our ancestral home was a sum of four huts, a small-sized fish pond, a backyard along the Padma riverbank, a small field where we harvested vegetables and a cow shade. Although it was too close to the river, it would never get flooded or eroded. My grandparents had 12 children, and four of my uncles lived there in the last few days before displacement.
One fine day, government officials acquired our ancestral and community lands in exchange for compensation to build one of the biggest megaprojects of Bangladesh, the Padma Bridge. It will connect the southwestern part of Bangladesh with the capital Dhaka.
The riverbank, where we used to play as our backyard, is now a construction site. In the nearby Mawa Ghat, thousands visit that place every day to enjoy the sight. They now have super popular Panta-Ilish restaurants to serve the visitors. I have never visited after that land acquisition, nor felt like it was my home anymore.
Once I crossed that place from afar, and saw the freshwater tubewell my grandfather installed for the travellers who crossed Padma River using a ferry or boat. It was the only remaining evidence of our ancestral village home, while everything else was levelled. That scene broke my heart. It is the worst memory I have regarding my home. The land was ours, and we can still visit there just like thousands of tourists, but it is no more our home. Only some abstract notions remind us of the past. The smell, sight and taste of ilish are one of them. For example, we later built a new house in another village that I hardly visit. But every time I do, my family members make sure to feed me ilish for the sake of the good old days.
My late grandmother taught her daughters-in-law how to prepare the meal according to the family recipe (a simple curry with gourd), and that for sure tastes like home no matter where we live.
As I study in Canada, I have a physical detachment from the Bangladeshi society where I was born and raised. From belonging to a majority Muslim country, I became a minority – a Bangladeshi diaspora member.
To my utmost surprise, during a visit to Parliament Street in downtown Toronto in a Bangladeshi grocery shop, I encountered ilish from the Padma River wrapped in a clear bag, frozen like ice. Seeing that fragile fish making its way up to the groceries in Canada dramatically reduced the level of alienation I was experiencing. The fish's final destination was at our family lunch in my aunt's residence, where the ilish curry was the centrepiece. Nobody told my Canadian cousin to put the dish in the centre, but it just happened naturally.
The aroma of the fish and the company of my immigrant extended family made my day. This is perhaps the circle of life. It keeps me aware of my origin and my ancestors' struggles, and I remain humble and thankful for my life because of them.
I still write down the address of our old home as my permanent address, although it is literally gone; and if I ever go to heaven, I will prefer having smoked-ilish just like my grandmother used to cook on a mud stove.
