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For your reading pleasure, we’ve got an article about seafood rituals in India. I was pescatarian for a LONG time but I’ve officially gone back to full vegetarian — so I’m honoring the humble fish today as I unceremoniously kick that flavor out of my life. Enjoy!

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Fishy Tales and Rituals from Bengal

By Archita Mittra

cooked steamed fish on rice inside orange plastic bowl — Photo by Harris Vo on Unsplash

The city of Kolkata where I grew up, with its narrow lanes and colonial architecture, is built on the eastern bank of the Hooghly, one of the tributaries of the Ganges river that further south, flows into the Bay of Bengal. Once the capital of the British Raj, this city is a home to a thriving community of Bengalis whose love for fish delicacies is so well-known that we have a local saying which goes “Machh-e, bhat-e Bangali” (loosely translated as “fish and rice make a Bengali”).

Indeed, one of my earliest memories include my mother and grandmother carefully picking out the fishbones for me during lunch and dinner, since I was too young to do it myself. On festive occasions, the delicious smell of doi ilish (a special fish curry where hilsa herring is cooked with yoghurt, mustard, and green chillies) wafts from the kitchens. Most mornings, my father gets up early to visit the local bazaar where an assortment of fresh fish and seafood are on display: bhekti, katla, pomfret, rui, prawns, crabs, lobsters, and even some varieties of carp. The state of West Bengal and the adjacent country of Bangladesh (that was a part of India before Partition) abounds in lakes, ponds, and rivers, and is bordered by a deltaic coast, so it is not a surprise that fish are an integral aspect of our cuisine and culture.

As water animals, fish symbolize the deep links to one’s unconscious, fertility, abundance, and even the cycle of birth and rebirth. In Hindu mythology, one of the ten avatars of Lord Vishnu (the preserver of life) is Matysa (Sanskrit for fish) who appears as a giant aquatic creature with Vishnu’s torso, saving the earth from floods and ensuring the continuation of life. In western witchcraft traditions, seafood is rarely a key ingredient in spells, but in several Bengali traditions, many rituals are considered incomplete without the presence of fish.

For instance, the day after Saraswati puja (usually celebrated on the fifth day of spring, to honor the goddess of wisdom and knowledge), jora ilish (a pair of hilsa herrings) are consecrated to the deity. Later, the fishes are cooked oil-free in a jhol made with potatoes and eggplant, while the scales are buried. Similarly, after Dashami (that concludes the ten-day Durga puja festivities), a ritual is performed that requires a very particular variety of small-sized fish called punti maach. Two or more pairs of punti maach are smeared with sindoor, and worshipped with rice grains and dubbo (grass twigs) to herald good tidings. The punti maach later find their way into a multi-course meal, either in the shukto (a curry that is usually cooked with bitter vegetables to remove toxins from the stomach) or jhol (a simple and light curry where the fish is simmered in water with local spices).

In fact, a typical Bengali meal usually includes steamed rice, served with vegetable delicacies and a fish curry of some kind. While most non-vegetarian families also consume chicken and mutton, it is from the different varieties of local freshwater fish (and the occasional seafood) that we derive our regular source of protein. As children we are often told that eating the fish’s head or the roes would make us smart. The fish with scales are considered more auspicious, and often on the day of exams, my mother would make maach bhaja (fried fish) for added luck. Meanwhile, the fish without scales such as shingi (stinging catfish) are rarely used in rituals, but are often cooked for someone who is ill. As a relatively simple dish, the fish is carefully washed and boiled in a pressure cooker with only salt and turmeric for flavor.

The Bengalis pride themselves as connoisseurs of fine aromas and flavors; so, for fancier occasions, we turn to the more expensive fish, cooking them in a variety of ways to bring out the hidden tastes. In chingri malai curry, we cook marinated prawns in coconut milk. Another delicacy involves squeezing gondhoraj lime (a cross between a lime and mandarin orange) over bhetki (Asian sea bass) or katla, flavored with a paste made of cashews, onions, ginger, and coconut milk. Another fish, rohu, is usually cooked with poppy seed paste, along with turmeric and mustard to make the mouth-watering rui posto. The punti maach I mentioned earlier, which is often used in spells to boost one’s career or income, can even be made into a chutney. In some Kali temples, the prasad (the devotional offering to the gods that is later shared among other devotees) may include fish, meat, and egg-based dishes that are cooked without onion or garlic. These delicate dishes can sometimes involve hours of careful preparation and slow cooking.

In local Bengali culture, the regular consumption of fish is associated with prosperity and stability — the marker of a good and comfortable family life. As such, fish and fish symbology play an important role in Bengali marriages and other rites. In one wedding ritual, a nadosh fish is placed in a diya (an oil lamp made with clay) that is lit in the bashor ghor (the room where the bride and groom finally sit and rest after the ceremony) to signify good fortune. The tattva (the special wedding gifts given by the in-laws) often include a huge katla fish (weighing more than four pounds); on the wedding night, the couple is expected to eat the muro (the fish’s head) by carefully picking out the bones to enjoy the mouth-watering delicacy, heralding a long and successful marriage, despite tribulations.

Since fish and seafood dishes thus signaled affluence and celebration, widows were expected to take vows of austerity and give up fish (and other food items) from their diet in earlier patriarchal traditions. After the death of a loved one, family members do not consume fish or meat and subsist only on rice and boiled vegetables for a certain period until the funerary rites are complete. Then, as part of the niyom bhongo ceremony held afterwards, a fish dish is included in the meal to signal the end of mourning and a slow return to regular life.

A personal fish favorite is the bhekti macher paturi that my mother and I cook during monsoon. First, we select a large leaf from the banana trees in our garden and cut it into small pieces (although it can also be prepared with edible gourd leaves), while my father braves the rains to bring a fresh bhekti fish from the market. Then, the body of the Asian sea bass is cut into small pieces, and all the bones are removed. Each fish piece is marinated in a delectable paste made of coconut, turmeric, chillies, mustard, and poppy seeds; wrapped in banana leaf; tied with threads; and steamed over a slow flame until tender. Served with hot steamed rice or pulao flavored with mint and coriander, they resemble small sachets or presents, which must be carefully and mindfully unwrapped to enjoy the subtle scents and tastes that melt in the mouth.

Before taking that first lip-smacking bite, we thank the gods and household spirits for the blessing of a good meal and pray for continued moments of harmony, merriment, and warmth that bind the family together.

Archita Mittra is a writer and artist based in Kolkata, India, with a love for all things vintage, magic, and darkly fantastical. She also reads tarot cards, has more hobbies than she can count, and loves blueberry milkshakes. Her work has been published in Strange Horizons, Thought Catalog, Mithila Review, Luna Luna Magazine, and elsewhere. You can say hi to her on Instagram and Twitter @architamittra and check out her blog here.

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Fishy Rituals from Bengal