Subir Roy: Good fish hunting

OFF BEAT

Only idiots try to spot them by looking to see if the gills are sufficiently red or not.

The surroundings of the fish stalls at Bangalore's HAL market are always filthy. When it rains, they only get more filthy, challenging the fish lover's intrepidity.

But no matter how offensive the surroundings, the Bengali community of east Bangalore descends on that stretch of dirt unfailing in large numbers every weekend.

The Bengali's love for fish is proverbial, though the range of preference is rather narrow. It is not just fresh water fish that will pass muster, a stall owner has only to say that the hilsa or bhekti is from Kolkata and he will be able to reap a premium.

For decades, a delicacy like the pomfret that commanded a fortune in most of the country went abegging (till shortages and high prices pushed up its price in the east also), and I can vouch for how long it took for the unadventurous Bengali to develop a taste for the humble tilapia.

Fish not only defines the insularity of the true-blue Bengali, it also brings out the latent revolutionary in him. The other Saturday was like any other at the HAL market when the mild-looking old gentleman with thick post-cataract glasses suddenly raised his voice and declared in his very Bengali English that there was something wrong with the 2-kg weight the fish seller was using.

I paid little heed and silently sniggered to myself, how he could spot the defect from a distance with his thick glasses.

But he was not be silenced. He came up, put the 2-kg weight on one side of the scales and two 1-kg weights on the other, and lo and behold, the 2-kg side travelled up.

The assembled crowd looked at him with a new reverence, the stall owner looked miserable and the three of us who had bought fish weighed by the 2-kg weight but had not yet paid up, got a 200 gm discount each. The old gentleman's day was made, he had fought against wrongdoing and triumphed.

As he walked away with his head held high, I had no doubt that this incident would enter family folklore and rule the roast for many years to come.

When we were children, we were quite indifferent to fish. The bones were a menace and the taste and smell, at times, downright fishy. We ate it because we had to but the great meal was the occasional Sunday lunch when there was mutton curry prepared with all the masala and oil that the Bengali constitution could bear.

As I grew up my father would keep telling me that it was high time I learnt how to buy fish in the same tone as he would occasionally confide that he was not very far from retirement and I should study hard and look for a job.

You could not be considered to have come of age if you could not buy fish successfully, which meant outfooling the wily fish seller who had come to earth with the god given right to fool inexperienced buyers with stale fish. Most youngsters will not go within miles of a fish market.

There is something in the culture of patronising fish which seems to have ordained that the dirtier a fish market, the better the chances of getting good fish.

It is only after I migrated to Delhi and my children began to grow up that I mustered up enough courage to go the Chittaranjan Park and do intellectual battle with the fish sellers of the No. 1 market. Writing edits for The Times of India was so much easier.

As one progresses through life, one acquires debts and I built up a sizeable debit balance with my friend Jayanti who taught me the fundamentals of spotting good fish.

She herself originally didn't care much for fish but her husband did and for his sake she became a keen spotter of good fish. Her marriage was gone, but her eye for good fish remained, to be passed on to intellectually-backward friends who were slow learners.

Only idiots try to spot a good rohu by looking to see if the gills are sufficiently red or not. The crooked fish sellers put the blood from the fish they cut to the gills to fool you. But the eyes of a fish almost never lie; the glassier they were the better.

But sometimes fish sellers will hold a fish by the eyes and damage them. The ultimate test is to turn the fish over and look at the spot through which fish relieve themselves. If it was black then you should move on to the next stall, if it was pink then you are in luck.

The greatest art is, of course, to spot a good hilsa. It must be dark on top and silvery by the side. It must be flat and conical at both ends (head and tail fin).

And don't be an idiot and expose your ignorance before the fish seller by trying to inspect the gills, warned Jayanti. The hilsa's gills are always dark and muddy. Don't go in for the big prawns, the medium-sized ones are so much tastier, and go for those that look pale green in colour. So the lessons went on.

Over the years, as I have added salt and pepper to my hair and girth to my middle, my ability to spot good fish has developed. I have realised that not just spotting good fish but enjoying the act of doing so are acquired arts.

You have to keep persevering for years for both skill and liking for the stuff to grow on you. Now, it is my children's turn to wonder how on earth I can journey every week to that filthy market and get fish that is no great shakes anyway.

I try to tell them that fish is good for your health but one of these days they will turn around and tell me that the therapeutic value is limited to sea fish.

The Bengali's love for fresh water fish is a pure indulgence, part of an eating tradition that is looked at with wonder and amusement by fellow Indians.