Random Ramblings: One. Ilish

This post is only for connoisseurs of fish, sorry vegans! Since last week, when finally monsoon descended into our parched city, the ilish of Bay of Bengal began swimming upstream to the Ganges, allegedly to lay eggs in its sweet waters. No, I am no marine biologist; this is just widely held view about behaviour of ilish, which Bongs have been devouring since ages. Bengali cuisine is incomplete without at least one item of ilish from its numerous delicacies, made famous by each district of undivided Bengal.

But, have you ever seen a live ilish? Hardly can you find out a fish eater who has seen an ilish fish gasping in a drum of water like koi, magur or even rui. It is such a sensitive fish, and dies soon it is taken out of water. All attempts to grow it in ponds failed for its habit of living in estuaries where fresh and brackish water mix to produce the unique aquatic environment for them; I was told by one old fish monger long back. And this was perhaps the reason why the quintessential Bengali angler never experienced the joy of catching an ilish with a fishing rod.

I have never went fishing, my experience of fishing was limited to watching my pishemoshai ( auntie’s husband) armed with his half a dozen fishing rods moored on the bank of a large pond, opposite to the railway stadium.

One day, while watching the bait bobbing in the placid waters, I got a shock of my life when the wheel of a fishing rod suddenly zapped and began to whir. I saw in horror, the spool of the fishing rod spinning at a tremendous speed, the nylon string unwinding out rapidly, the rod shuddering from the tug as if it were going to disappear into the water. It seemed the bait was swallowed by a watery monster that was trying to set itself free. It would have disappeared deep into the waters unless pishemoshai had secured the other end against a pole driven into the earth. Both of us, languid following Sunday lunch, stirred back to life and jumped over to catch hold of the vanishing rod, and for some time it was a tug of war between a giant katla fish and two human beings.

Finally, after swimming all around the pond, the fish became tired and decided to surrender. Pishemoshai, thrilled to have caught one of the prized catch, closed in, rewinding the line, and I had a glimpse of the giant fish, its silvery fins now catching light as it came almost to the surface. But, at the final moment, the fish leaped away back into the water, disengaging the bait, which was a puzzle for me. But, pishemashai, told me it was possible for a giant fish to tear itself away.

Though this was hardly the story of ilish I began, this was my only first-hand experience with a live fish. Every year at the beginning of the season, I often hear the fish mongers at Jodhpur Park market discuss the greatest chance of getting a big catch of ilish is the full moon night during the monsoons. I often visualised myself sailing with a fisherman boarding a small boat in the Ganges, the man throwing his net in the dark, and the moist wind brushing against us, the night whispering its symphony to my ears, too romantic for a fishing expedition. But, one day I met a person who actually went for fishing ilish during the monsoon.

I know this will interest you more than eating the fish; I was also hooked and cancelled few appointments to listen to his story.

It was actually a trawler, fitted with crude engine that sailed from Diamond harbour with three or four people on board. They sailed for days, sometimes weeks even before they came back. The man, Liton Sardar, who had sunburnt face and gnarled limbs said, “For days you don’t see anything but only water all around. And when it rains, with the gusty wind blowing, you see nothing but the grey sky above and expanse of water below touching the horizon all around. It`s scary, even for us.”

“Have you ever been caught in a storm?” I asked.
“Many times.”
“The trawler can capsize if waves are too wild!”
“Yes, it happens during every season.” He muttered something under his breath and then said, “So far we have been lucky. But don`t know what`s written in the future!”
“What do you eat?” I asked, excited about the possibility of surviving on only ilish for a week.
“We carry our food, rice, dal some basic spices.” He said.
“And ilish?”
“You get tired of it.” He said.

That was true, of course. Too much of anything is bad, even the ilish.