If it’s monsoon, then where is the Hilsa?

Kolkata: Earlier this week, the Times of India commented that an abundance of Pomfret was compensating for the drought of Hilsa, in Calcutta fish markets. Pure blasphemy I say, as the silver-spangled monarch cannot be compared to a Koliwada starlet.

A living urban tragedy for autonomous, not hybrid, Bengal is is the fertility of the Hilsa race, way below the Replacement Rate. Unlike the galavanting crayfish or the steadfast fish fry, its supply has not kept pace with affections, vicious bones notwithstanding. Not to mention the minor point of the Godzilla price point, alarming for any procurement policy however liberal. The Hilsa does appear occasionally in present day plates, but its pedigree resides in memorial palates and I must share my share.

Being a diva of unusually mild temperament, the Hilsa is best served in milder forms of inflammation, subtle yet beatific. Therefore the steamed entity, wrapped in banana leaf, conjured by a long-departed grandaunt was deserving of Lifetime Oscars. Quite like Kishore Kumar, you see, Hilsa is a moody being, delighted to absorb inspiration while loathe to obey commands. This lady managed the relationship perfectly, invariably bewildering the recipients of this largesse.

Then comes a deeply romantic episode, for the sensitive and the gourmand. Hilsa smuggled from the River Padma, in Indian outposts belonging to the Northerly climes of 24 Parganas. An aunt in this instance, prematurely in the ages, who steamed this with astute affections, a texture that refuses to recede even after four decades. Quite like the sitar or the sarod, the ability to do justice to the Hilsa is a heavenly accolade, not an acquired skill. Those who have it know it and those who have the Hilsa can ably endorse it.

Saraswati Puja was a high point for this pisces celebrity, as rather strangely, the Goddess of Knowledge seemed to endorse this clearly expensive accessory. At the Ramakrishna Mission Hospital in Calcutta, the ensemble was elaborate yet sincere on this day. Sunburnt versions as starters, crispier than the most vivid imagination of Colonel Sanders of KFC vintage. Then an awesome twosome as curries, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, identical flesh masquerading as divergent twins, one forgiving and the other furious.

A notable excursion was the drive to Kolaghat, the Mecca for Indian Hilsa. A slender excursion through meandering lanes led to pleasing fishermen, thankfully embellished by willing allies with mustard oil and functional stoves. As the greedy radiators of Ambassador cars enjoyed needy refreshments, scholastic occupants wasted little time in buying or eating the magnificence of the seasonal catch. In Bangladesh, there are equivalents I have visited, where the eggs are served with autonomous glee, not as collaborator of the unblemished body.

Yet another accomplished veteran is the simple home curry, the Macher Jhol with genuinely compatible veggies, Quislings not welcome. When done well, under the auspices of my mother, it's a serene Vilayat Khan alap, Mand Bhairav possibly. Gently suggesting the possibilities of the faster pieces without succumbing to their unmistakable allure, seducing the recipient with sensible provocation. The Hilsa race responds beautifully to such challenges as they just need to turn up, no need to invest in Gauri Khan makeup.

The Hilsa does have an able doppelganger, the boneless and smoked avatar, as the obstructions were deemed to be enemies of diversity. As legend suggests, Firpo cracked the Smoked Hilsa, no bones spared, a tradition continued by Oberoi Grand, Sky Room and a few cultured peers. For those capable of combating the linear deviations, this frankly is pure play placebo, as the cure for an insatiable wanderlust must always be the deboning ritual. The Ikea Effect, as management gurus may infer, the passion of the consumption wedded to the involvement in creation.

Quite like Lochinvar’s choices, there are restaurants in India akin to lassies in Scotland, who would gladly be bride to the willing Hilsa. But they must suffer in historical comparison, as the hysterical elation that accompanied such joys in the past is sadly past expiry date. So the gravies may be commendable, if the Chef is sincere, else they may resemble the photocopied taste of bharta, if EMIs are pending. Some may choose to innovate splendidly but if the flesh is genetically weak, the willingness of the spirit is inconsequential.

Whether the Hilsa will live or die is a matter of scientific conjecture. But the debates on Padma versus Hilsa will surely end with the current generations, whether partition survivors or the hearsay brigade. But Hilsa will surely live and we are simply awaiting the very next avatar.