In the bustling market of Chittaranjan Park in New Delhi, on a wintry December evening, Dr Prabal Chakarborty sits at a corner table inside Maa Tara, a Bengali restaurant. The familiar sounds of clinking glasses, laughter and the chatter of fellow Bengalis fill the air, bringing a strange comfort. The rich aroma of mustard oil and spices wrap around him, a fleeting reminder of home. It’s almost as if he’s transported back to the Sundays of his childhood in Kolkata.

Growing up in West Bengal, Sunday meant more than just a day of rest; it was a sacred time for togetherness. The kitchen in Prabal’s childhood home would come alive with the hiss of simmering pots, the sizzle of freshly caught fish frying, and the unmistakable fragrance of ilish being prepared. Also known as hilsa, the celebrated fish was a symbol of home, of love and the rituals that bound his family together.

Prabal often visits Maa Tara to recapture that sense of belonging. Known commonly as CR Park, Chittaranjan Park was established in the 1960s as the East Pakistan Displaced Persons Colony to accommodate people from East Pakistan (today’s Bangladesh) who’d been displaced by the partition of India. The Bengali community residing here is one of the largest and most vibrant in Delhi, with a rich history and strong cultural presence. The marketplace, where Prabal and his fellow Bengalis find a little piece of their roots, feels like a haven. It’s here that one can get anything a Bengali misses: the right mustard oil, the spices for a perfect curry, and, most importantly, ilish.

In Bengali culture—a rich mosaic of traditions, rituals and culinary wonders—ilish is deeply intertwined with identity, memory and celebration. It is part of birthdays, weddings, religious and traditional rituals like Durga Puja. “Ilish is basically the queen of the fishes. Absolutely no doubt about it,” Prabal says, savouring the dish before him. “If you take this one, it has a delectable taste. It’s mouth-watering, right? Particularly when you have it hot with rice, mustard oil, green chillies and lemon. It’ll taste delicious and fantastic.” With each small, comforting bite, Prabal finds home, no matter how far away it might be.

Bengalis living in the national capital come to CR Park to buy ilish. In the market, the rhythmic sound of knives scaling fish melds with the calls of vendors trying to persuade customers to inspect their catch. While Indian rivers like the Ganges and Rupnarayan yield their share of the prized fish, the catch from Bangladesh’s Padma River enjoys a mythical status. Connoisseurs argue that, due to the freshwater river’s fast-flowing current and nutrient-rich ecosystem, the texture and aroma of Padma hilsa (or Bangladeshi ilish, as it’s commonly known) is superior to its Indian counterparts.

“There’s always an air of mystery and admiration around Bangladeshi ilish,” says Satya Da, the owner of Maa Tara. “However, only the trained palate can truly distinguish the unique characteristics of Padma hilsa—its middle portions, its aroma and its distinct taste.”

It’s not easy to import ilish from Bangladesh; political tensions, trade restrictions and the fish’s delicate nature make it a rare and expensive treat in Indian markets. The political turmoil in Bangladesh has further complicated matters. In August 2024, weeks of anti-government protests led to the toppling of Sheikh Hasina’s fifteen-year-long regime. Although this has opened up hopes for a more democratic Bangladesh, the political crisis also caused disruptions to trade and export. In September 2024, Bangladesh doubled down on a long-standing ban on exporting ilish to India. Although the previous Bangladeshi government was known to lift the ban on exports during the Durga Puja festival—a policy that was dubbed “hilsa diplomacy”—the new government has taken a much stricter stance.

“The previous government would lift the ban during the Durga Puja festival. They used to call it a gift,” Farida Akhter, an adviser to Bangladesh’s ministry of fisheries and livestock, told the BBC. “This time I don’t think we need to give a gift because [if we do it] our people will not be able to eat the fish while it is allowed to be exported to India in large numbers.”

Despite these hurdles, the allure of Bangladeshi ilish is undiminished. Cases of smuggling occasionally make headlines in the Indian press—of course, those are only stories of smugglers who’ve been caught. When we ask Satya whether the vendors in CR Park are really selling Bangladeshi ilish, he shrugs and says enigmatically: “Hilsa from the Padma is not just a fish; it’s an experience, a luxury.”

Bengalis flock to CR Park’s because it’s the best source of authentic Bengali food in the city. If Bangladeshi ilish has made its way to Delhi, it’s fair to assume that it’ll end up here. But it’s not always easy to confirm the presence of this coveted prize. Shahdeb, the owner of the well-known KP Fish Centre, doesn’t mince his words. He stands next to his stall, where the scent of fresh fish mingles with his stories of the sea. “I have been in this business my whole life. I have handled every variety of fish you can name and served generations of customers,” he declares in a voice full of conviction built from decades of experience. “But Bangladeshi ilish? Not here. Not once.” He pauses, as if searching through his memories. “There’s a difference between what people say and what’s real. If Bangladeshi ilish had ever come here, I would have known.”

Arkaprabha is a twenty-five-year-old entrepreneur from North Kolkata who moved to Chattarpur a year-and-a-half ago. He comes to CR Park for ilish, moving from shop to shop conversing with a Bengali accent. He touches the shiny texture of each exhibited fish, examining it from all ends before placing it carefully back and moving forward until he finds one he’s satisfied with.

The peak season for ilish spans from May to October, transforming fish markets into vibrant hubs of activity. Families negotiate passionately with fishmongers, inspecting the catch with discerning eyes. “The fresh aroma of hilsa, its texture and its shimmering scales hold an unmatched allure,” Akraprabha says.

“The best ilish comes from Bangladesh,” he tells us. “It’s not just the taste but the smell and appearance that sets it apart. In Delhi, it’s difficult to find fresh or authentic Bangladeshi ilish. CR Park is often the last option for fish shopping here, but the quality doesn’t compare to what we get back home.”

He speaks the minds of many Bengalis living in Delhi who are sometimes disappointed not to get exactly what they’re used to back in their hometowns. “Frankly speaking, ilish is a big part of us. It’s something every Bengali household, whether middle-class or poor, savours at least once a year,” Akraprabha says. “Even if we don’t get good ones now due to the crisis in Bangladesh, it’s still an integral part of our tradition. For Bengalis, ilish is an emotion.”

This claim is backed up by ilish’s appearance in traditional Bengali proverbs and idioms. Lopamudra Mitra, a renowned Bengali singer, once sang ‘Bangla Amar Sorshe Ilish (My Bengal’s Mustard Ilish)’ a song that beautifully captures the importance of ilish to the people and their land.

To Sharmistha Pal, an independent academic mentor who has lived in CR Park for six years, ilish is about celebration. Her family usually only has ilish to mark an occasion, transforming a day into something more special: “Whether it’s a birthday, anniversary or any small celebration, ilish is often on the menu. In the monsoon season, when it’s more readily available, we might have it more often, but it still remains a rare delight. For us, having ilish feels like a joyful occasion—something that adds a festive touch to the atmosphere.”

Sharmistha has heard fellow buyers talk about disruptions to the supply of ilish from Bangladesh, but it hasn’t affected her too much. “In CR Park, people usually don’t face much difficulty finding ilish as it’s imported from Bengal’s Colabhad, Diamond Harbour and other regions. While the Bangladesh supply has been affected, other sources have managed to meet the demand.” Some people, she notes, have begun to actively boycott Bangladeshi ilish in response to reports of violence against Hindus in Bangladesh. It’s an indication of how politics permeates everywhere—including kitchens and dinner tables.

Talk of an uncertain supply of Bangladeshi ilish continues, but the Bengali love affair with the fish holds steady. Vendors still make confident claims about the authenticity of the ilish on their shop counters, and migrants grow more discerning in their quest to find their favourite Bangladeshi ilish.

Whether they’re in Kolkata, Dhaka or CR Park, ilish is a fish that ties all Bengalis together. For Prabal, Arkaprabha and Sharmistha, CR Park is a refuge for their Bengali identity, resilience and joy. The ilish they find here evokes memories of familial warmth, festive celebrations and an enduring bond with their heritage. As Prabal aptly puts it: “Bengali without ilish is nothing.”

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• Tags: Ashish Kumar Kataria, food, Free to read, India, Issue 40, Mohsina Malik