Hilsa: Bengal’s Most Cherished Monsoon Affair

“Egulo Padmar, na Gangar?” someone asks. Are these from the Padma or the Ganga?

The shopkeeper points out that the hilsa in question are, in fact, from Gujarat. When did hilsa, an integral part of Bengali identity, come to be transported over 2,000 km from India’s western coast? What happened to the Padma and Ganga rivers?

While some swear by the richness of Padma hilsa, others defend the subtle sweetness of the Ganga catch. The debate never ends in agreement, but it always ends over lunch. Few food items inspire such passion. Families postpone gatherings until the season’s first hilsa arrives, restaurants launch elaborate hilsa festivals, and social media fills with photographs of mustard-yellow curries and banana leaf paturis (fish parcels). Mothers call children living abroad to lament soaring prices and they respond with equal measures of envy and nostalgia.

To outsiders, it may seem remarkable that an entire region becomes emotionally invested in the arrival of a fish. But hilsa has never been merely another fish. It is the taste of the monsoon, a reminder of the river, and a mark of cultural inheritance.

Macher Raja Or The King Of Fish

In Bengal, it occupies the position of Macher Raja—the King of Fish. This status has remained unchallenged through changing kingdoms and political borders. The king, however, does not render itself easily. Its flesh is threaded with innumerable fine bones that require patience and practice. Bengali children learn this craft under the watchful eyes of their parents and grandparents.

Food historians describe hilsa as an example of “seasonal prestige,” an ingredient prized not only for its flavour but also for its fleeting availability. Like Italy’s white truffles or Japan‘s matsutake mushrooms, it is anticipated because it is at its finest for only a short window each year. That scarcity has transformed its arrival into one of Bengal’s most enduring culinary rituals.

The Monsoon Magic

The story of hilsa begins hundreds of kilometres away from the dining table in the deep sea, as Tenualosa ilisha, an anadromous fish, spends most of its adult life in the sea before swimming upstream into freshwater rivers to breed. Every monsoon, as rivers swell and salinity falls, shoals of hilsa leave the Bay of Bengal to migrate inland into the Padma, Meghna and Ganga rivers. Before beginning this upstream journey, the fish builds substantial fat reserves rich in omega-3 and other polyunsaturated fatty acids, giving hilsa its characteristic buttery texture. As it moves from saltwater into freshwater, physiological changes alter these fats while the stored energy powers its migration.

Fisheries scientists have observed that riverine hilsa caught before spawning generally has softer flesh and a richer mouthfeel than fish harvested at sea. Although researchers continue to study the precise biochemical changes responsible, one fact is clear: timing matters. The finest hilsa reaches markets between July and September, at the height of its annual migration.

The river itself also shapes its reputation. Padma hilsa is widely regarded as the gold standard among Bengali connoisseurs, while fish from the Hooghly and other river systems inspire equally passionate loyalties. Whether these differences arise from habitat, food availability or subtle ecological variations remains a matter of scientific debate.

The Arabian Catch

Bangladesh today produces more than 570,000 metric tonnes of hilsa annually, accounting for roughly 70–75 per cent of global production, while India follows with around 180,000–190,000 metric tonnes. Bangladesh has maintained a general export ban since 2012, periodically relaxing it ahead of Durga Puja. In 2024, it approved exports of 3,000 tonnes, but only 533 tonnes eventually reached India because of poor catches, soaring domestic prices and a narrow export window.

Scientists attribute the species’ uncertain future less to cross-border trade than to shrinking freshwater flows, silted rivers, pollution, climate-driven changes in salinity and temperature, and the overfishing of juvenile hilsa. Fisheries experts credit Bangladesh’s seasonal fishing bans and protected sanctuaries with helping recover stocks, but catches remain closely tied to the health of the river systems.

That changing ecology has also reshaped Kolkata’s fish markets. Much of the city’s hilsa now arrives from Gujarat’s coast around Veraval, Porbandar, Mangrol, Jafrabad and Bharuch. Although it is the same species (Tenualosa ilisha), Gujarat hilsa is generally considered leaner and firmer, while the Padma and Ganga varieties are prized for their richer oil content and softer flesh.

Hilsa Has Many Lovers

The passion for hilsa has endured for centuries and has found expression in literature across generations. One of the earliest known references appears in the 12th-century Sanskrit encyclopaedia “Manasollasa,” compiled during the reign of the Western Chalukya king Someshvara III. Intended as a manual for rulers, it covered governance, music, hunting and cuisine, and counted hilsa among the foods worthy of royal attention.

By the Mughal period, the fish had become a seasonal luxury in imperial kitchens. Monsoon consignments travelled upriver to royal courts, where cooks prepared elaborate feasts. Although Mughal cuisine is often associated with rich meat dishes, the eastern provinces celebrated fish, and hilsa emerged as one of the empire’s most prized seasonal delicacies. Its prestige transcended class: what appeared on royal tables also found its way into village kitchens, where simple recipes allowed the fish’s natural flavour to shine.

The medieval “Prakritapaingala” imagines an ideal meal served on a banana leaf, hot rice with ghee, fried jute leaves, warm milk and hilsa, placing the fish at the centre of domestic contentment rather than royal extravagance.

Centuries later, hilsa swam through Bengali literature once again in “Padma Nadir Majhi,” where the day’s catch is inseparable from the lives of fishermen who depend on the river. The fish becomes a symbol of hope, labour and uncertainty, its abundance determining whether families prosper or struggle.

Hilsa also appears in the tales of Gopal Bhar, representing appetite, prosperity and the everyday vanities of ordinary life. That enduring presence explains why, unlike many royal delicacies, hilsa never faded into history. It belongs equally to kings and fishermen, to literature and folklore, to memory and migration.

Partition, Memory, And A Fish That Crossed Borders

The Padma, Meghna and Ganga once formed one vast river system across undivided Bengal, carrying not only fishermen and boats but also recipes, traditions and folklore. Then came Partition. The division of Bengal into East and West Bengal meant that one cultural community suddenly found itself separated by an international border.

Many of the richest hilsa fishing grounds became part of East Pakistan (now Bangladesh), while millions of displaced Bengalis crossed into West Bengal carrying memories of homes they would never return to. Among those memories was the taste of Padma hilsa. For many Bangals, families whose roots lie in present-day Bangladesh, the Padma’s hilsa remains the gold standard. Ghotis, whose families have long lived in West Bengal, defend the Hooghly and the Ganga with equal conviction. Hilsa thus transcended its role as food to become a marker of identity.

Hilsa Diplomacy: A Fishy Affair

If Partition gave hilsa emotional significance, politics gave it diplomatic value.

Bangladesh produces the overwhelming majority of the world’s hilsa, declared it its national fish and secured a Geographical Indication (GI) tag for it in 2017. Supporting hundreds of thousands of fishing families, the fish is central to the country’s economy and identity.

From the 1990s onwards, Bangladesh periodically exported hilsa to India as a gesture of goodwill, a practice that became known as “hilsa diplomacy”. Under former Prime Minister Sheikh Hasina, limited consignments were often allowed ahead of Durga Puja, enabling prized Padma hilsa to reach West Bengal despite broader export restrictions. For many Bengalis on both sides of the border, these annual shipments symbolised a shared cultural heritage that transcended political boundaries.

Hilsa returned to the headlines in 2024 when Bangladesh’s interim government announced stricter enforcement of its long-standing ban on exports to India. Fisheries adviser Farida Akhter argued that the country could no longer justify exporting its national fish while it had become increasingly unaffordable for many Bangladeshis. The move marked a departure from Sheikh Hasina’s policy of permitting seasonal exports during Durga Puja and underscored hilsa’s growing importance as both an economic asset and a diplomatic tool.

Time To Taste

Yet the enthusiasm for hilsa lives on through the ebb and flow of political and ecological turmoil. In Kolkata, the hilsa season is one of celebration, when heritage hotels, fine-dining restaurants and neighbourhood favourites serve seasonal menus featuring classics such as shorshe ilish, bhapa ilish, ilish paturi and macher tel jhol. Across the city, dedicated hilsa festivals celebrate not just the fish but the culinary traditions that transcend borders.

For many, however, the truest expression of their love for this fish begins with arriving at the neighbourhood fish market early in the morning, choosing one with the perfect balance of texture and aroma, and cooking it at home according to recipes handed down through generations. Sources have diversified, with catches from Gujarat now supplying a significant share of Kolkata’s fish markets, owing to shortages in West Bengal and restricted imports from Bangladesh. Yet the emotion remains unchanged, passionate, irrational and steeped in memory.

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