From Padma to Ganga: A food rivalry and a fish that unites

People from West Bengal, called Ghotis, often say that Baangals, people from East Bengal, ruin food by drowning it in spices and oil and eat undercooked fish. East Bengalis, meanwhile, will tell you that people from West Bengal spoil everything by adding bowls of sugar– not entirely incorrect–and by frying fish till they have killed its taste. And that Baangals prefer to eat chapatis instead of rice, which, as we all know, is sacrilege.

If you dig deeper and speak to a West Bengal Hindu and an East Bengal Muslim, you will be told how the Bengali Hindu thinks that flavouring a meat curry simply means adding cumin, while the Bengali Hindu will tell you how the Bengali Muslim cannot cook without onion and garlic.

I’m going to touch on just a few staples from epaar (this side of the border) and also opaar (that side of the border). The culinary worth and skill of a Bengali household can be judged by the flavour of their fish curry or maacher jhol. The jhol (a light, thin curry) is the mainstay of every Bengali lunch and is cooked year-round. None of these North Indian notions of not eating fish in months without ‘r’ in them.

But here too, you can see a stark difference in how fish is cooked in Ghoti homes compared to Baangal homes. Ghoti homes will always fry (if not deep-fry) fish pieces marinated in turmeric and salt before adding them to the gravy. Baangals would rather go hungry than fry the fish before cooking it, because they believe you are killing both the texture and the taste of the fish by frying it. I veer towards the latter and at most lightly sauté my fish before cooking it Bengali-style.

Bengalis love spinach. We eat around 14 varieties of it. (Freepik)

The one ingredient that unites East and West Bengal is that the most delicious fish in undivided Bengal is the king of fish—ilish or hilsa. Paeans have been written on the boatmen of the Padma River in Bangladesh, who fish for hilsa through the night. The ilish is so loved that the early droplets of rain, which are more mist than rain, are called ilshe guri—ilshe referring to ilish, and guri to grain or powder. Even West Bengal Ghotis agree that Padmar ilish is one of the finest, although I can bet my bottom dollar most connoisseurs wouldn’t know the difference between hilsa from the Ganga and that from the Padma.

In West Bengal, we cook ilish either in steamed banana leaves, with mustard, or in a thin gravy that allows the flavours of the fish to shine through, and of course, simply fried and served with the mustard oil it was fried in. To be eaten with rice. The Baangals are a lot more adventurous and creative and will cook ilish with coconut milk or onions and ghee!

The meat and chicken preparations of East Bengal are legendary. But the criticism from Ghotis is that Baangals treat vegetables the way they treat meat—cooked with onions and green chilis and heavy on spice.

Bengalis love spinach. We eat around 14 varieties of it. But there is one spinach called Dhenki Saag, a little fern-like leafy vegetable that does not grow easily in West Bengal. This spinach, found mainly in today’s Bangladesh, is cooked with tiny cubed potatoes, shrimp, freshly ground mustard, freshly ground coconut, green chilis, turmeric and salt.

The Baangals also love cooking duck, and I have to say that a Duck Bhuna recipe that I found in an old tattered Bengali cookbook and a Handi Kabab recipe—which should ideally be made with thinly sliced beef (but which I replaced with pieces of mutton)—served with pulao or porothas, are simply superb.

Sadly, I have not been to Bangladesh, which is where my grandmother’s family is from, but one day I hope to travel there just to sample the food. But till such time, I make the most of the recipes and flavours I saw being cooked at home, which are actually a lesson in living peacefully –by adapting the best of both worlds to add to your plate.

Next week, I will write on sattu, chickpea flour, which Bihar and the new health brigade swear by.