Everything fell apart when Mr Ghosh decided he didn’t like ilish anymore. It was intolerable for Mrs Ghosh to be plagued by the dismal monsoon and not have the joy of cooking ilish in a rich, mustard gravy or bathe her fine Basmati rice in the oil that the fish had been fried in, cholesterol be damned. Their daughter, Nandini, couldn’t bring herself to be fussed either way; she thought the fish stank, had too many bones and called it ‘hilsa’, which made her mother roll her eyes.
That monsoon Mr Ghosh didn’t increase the weekly bazaar budget to accommodate a regular supply of ilish. “Why are you doing this?” pleaded Mrs Ghosh. “I don’t understand what’s come over you.”
Mr Ghosh shrugged his shoulders. “I've never liked it and I just can’t pretend anymore.”
This outraged Mrs Ghosh. The memory of her husband demolishing ilish after ilish, bones and all, in a curry replete with its eggs, which any Bengali worth his fish knew was the most delicious fish egg to be had, floated in her mind’s eye. “Who are you having an affair with?” she shrieked.
“Who’s having an affair?” asked Nandini, languidly looking up from Facebook Messenger.
“Don’t be silly,” said Mr Ghosh, testily, removing his bedroom slippers and rummaging for his visit-the-neighbour sandals.
“So now you’re vegetarian?” screamed his wife as he unbolted the front door. He turned around, shocked.
“Are you crazy? I bought chicken yesterday!”
“Chicken,” sniffed Mrs Ghosh, disdainfully, as the door slammed shut.
Things didn't improve in the days to come. As the rain clouds gathered heftily and the aroma of fried ilish, smoked ilish, steamed ilish, mustard ilish, coconut ilish wafted in from the neighbours’ kitchens, Mrs Ghosh sobbed at the humiliation of not having been able to get her hands on the season’s first ilish. Mrs Sengupta across the hall had already gloated about how expensive the fish was but they’d got some anyway. “Naturally!” Mrs Ghosh had retorted, hurrying up the stairs with her striped nylon bazaar bag conspicuously devoid of the smell of fish.
At home her husband was on the phone, assuring an appalled relative, “Nayanika and I have decided we’re quite done with ilish. If you think about it, the fish is very difficult to eat, even more difficult to cook and these days it has become a battle at the fish market, getting only the pieces you want. It’s either the whole fish or nothing! Corruption everywhere, I tell you…”
Mrs Ghosh glowered at him over the kitchen counter. “I won’t stand for it!” she informed her husband, when he’d hung up. “If you won't give me money for ilish, I’ll go get some myself.”
Mr Ghosh looked at her over his spectacles with a smile she didn’t like. “And how will you do that?”
“I’ll find a way. I’ll ... I’ll sell my sarees. I’ll begin with the sarees your mother gave me for the wedding. Bilious pink! She knew it would look good on a fair-skinned girl and she only wanted to make my dark complexion look bad!”
“Those sarees were perfectly decent ... you girls are never happy…”
“What do you mean you girls exactly?” hollered Nandini, from the kitchen, digging around in her mother’s bazaar bag, for anything remotely delicious. “Ma, why have you bought bhindi again? I just can’t eat any more bhindi bhaja!”
“Too bad he didn’t get the fair bride they’d advertised for in the paper. Maybe he wouldn’t have stopped eating ilish if he’d had a fair bride!” muttered Mrs Ghosh. “And you, you eat what I bring you, or go to the bazaar yourself and haggle with the vendors there.”
“Who needs to go the bazaar when there are apps to deliver food, home?” asked Nandini, rolling her eyes. “And don’t snap at me. I’m dark too!”
Mrs Ghosh smiled. “Yes, Inu, you’re beautiful.”
“I know,” said Nandini, tossing her thick braid over her shoulder and fluttering her eyelashes.
“What’s for lunch?” asked Mr Ghosh, standing at the threshold of the kitchen. He rarely entered the kitchen; he never saw any reason to.
“Not ilish,” said Mrs Ghosh.
“Same thing, day in and day out! Ilish … ilish … ilish! I seem to hear nothing else these days. I will go out for lunch!” snapped Mr Ghosh.
“Do that,” shouted Mrs Ghosh.
When her husband left the house in a huff, she burst into tears.
“Oh, come on, Ma. Let’s go out for that hilsa festival I told you about. You’ll like it,” said Nandini, hovering anxiously over her mother.
“Respectable Bengalis don’t eat ilish at restaurants. It’s best had at home,” sniffled Mrs
Ghosh, wiping her streaming eyes on the edge of her saree aanchol, which was uncharacteristically unpinned at the shoulder. “I don’t know what’s got into your father.”
“He’s always had strange mood swings,” said Nandini, shrugging. “You should totally buy your own Ilish. Why not? You want it, you go get it.”
“You young people! It’s not so simple. Hilsa is expensive and I don’t have money. And life is not about doing what you want all the time!”
Nandini chewed her lip. “The way I see it, Baba seems to be doing exactly what he wants all the time.”
Mrs Ghosh looked sad. “Men are like that. They don’t think…”
“That’s not an excuse, Ma!” exploded Nandini. “Let’s sell those sarees you don’t like.”
Mrs Ghosh looked amused. “I was joking! How can I just start selling clothes? At this age you want me to become a businesswoman? Like those Marwari housewives? I can’t!”
Nandini rolled her eyes as she unplugged her iPad from the living room switchboard. “Don’t judge the Marwaris for being proactive. Now let’s have a look at these bilious sarees.”
*
Sunday lunch was always a late affair, seeing that the morning sputtered to life rather slowly and the mutton took a while to simmer in its own juices, but it was almost three-thirty, which, according to Mr Ghosh, was too late even for Sunday. He emerged from his study with stern words on his lips but found no one to admonish. He couldn’t find his wife in the apartment, which only meant she must be caught up at a neighbour’s. Mr Ghosh clucked with annoyance at this negligence and knocked on his daughter’s bedroom door. It was just like Inu to take her time opening the door. Mr Ghosh clucked again. Nandini’s face appeared, clearly impatient.
“Do you know where your mother is?”
“She’s in my room.”
Mr Ghosh looked confused. “In your room, right now?”
Nandini rolled her eyes. “Yes, right now, as we speak.”
Mr Ghosh paused. Then, “What is your mother doing in your room?”
The growing impatience on his daughter’s face was evident. “We’re working.”
“We’ve finished,” called Mrs Ghosh, concealed from view.
“Finished…?
But there was a strange young woman mincing towards the door and as Nandini flung it open, he stepped aside to let her pass.
“It won’t unravel, will it?” the unknown young woman was saying.
“It most certainly won’t. We’ve pinned it down and you look beautiful,” Mrs Ghosh replied, following the girl out into the hall.
“I’ll return it tomorrow, then.”
“Of course.”
The front door slammed shut and inexplicably Nandini let out a squeal. “High five!” she shouted.
“What’s that?” asked Mrs Ghosh, giggling.
“You hold up your hand so and slap my palm like this! High five!”
“What’s happening?” asked Mr Ghosh, testily.
“I’m brilliant,” said Nandini, by way of explanation.
“Then why isn’t lunch ready?” snapped Mr Ghosh.
“Lunch is ready. You just had to go serve yourself some mutton from the cooker in the kitchen,” said Mrs Ghosh.
Mr Ghosh spluttered. Never in his thirty years of being married had he been asked to serve himself from the cooker in the kitchen. In fact, his mother had even made it a point to have his first course plated before requesting his presence at the table.
“Are you girls out of your mind?”
Nandini shrugged. “Some madness is good for everyone.”
“Who was that strange young woman in my house?” hooted Mr Ghosh.
“She’s someone who’s known to Nandini. She’s borrowing a saree for an event she has to attend,” said Mrs Ghosh, stooping to set the coasters on the centre table straight. Mr Ghosh couldn’t seem to catch her eye. Besides, his stomach was rumbling, which explained why his mind felt foggy.
“I don’t understand,” he said.
His daughter turned around at the kitchen door. “We’re renting some of Ma’s sarees to young women who don’t necessarily want to go to all the trouble of buying one for a single occasion. Most of us don’t even really know how to wear one. Now do you want lunch or not?”
*
“Where’s the hilsa?”
Mrs Ghosh looked uncertain.
“What, Ma? Oh come on, are you seriously getting cold feet?”
“I was just thinking … if he’s decided he doesn’t like the fish, I shouldn’t insist on having it in the house.”
Nandini looked appalled. “Are you serious? Why are you such a doormat?”
“I’m not a doormat!” protested, Mrs Ghosh, indignantly.
“Prove it.”
“Fine, I want all your college applications submitted tomorrow!”
“I’m working on them, Ma! I just want to make sure … you know … that if I leave the city, you won’t let Baba bully you!”
Mrs Ghosh sighed. “He’s very angry, Inu. He won’t let us continue like this. We can’t turn his house into a business centre.”
“This is not a business centre!” exploded Nandini. “And it’s your house too! Good God, I am never getting married.”
“These days things are different. Young people live differently.”
“Well, thank God for that,” snorted Nandini.
“I’m not so sure,” said Mrs Ghosh with a smile.
“Well at least I’ll be able to go buy my own fish. And while we’re being bold and breaking the rules, we should go buy some beef as well.”
“Beef?” shrieked Mrs Ghosh. “Do you eat beef? It is against our religion to eat beef!”
“Religion shmiligion. Beef kebabs are the best!”
“Inu, please…” begged Mrs Ghosh.
Nandini stopped scrolling down her Facebook news feed. “Ma, I’m seeing this boy.”
She looked up to meet the fear in her mother’s eyes.
“Saad,” confirmed Nandini.
Mrs Ghosh was resting her head in her hands. “Not a Banerjee or something, I suppose,” she said, tentatively.
“He’s most definitely a Rahman. Doesn’t have a beard, though,” said Nandini, cheerfully.
Mrs Ghosh shook her head. “Your father will never allow it.”
“Allow what?”
“Such a union.”
“Who said anything about a union? I said I’m seeing him. Casually and all that. We go for movies.”
“And?” prodded Mrs Ghosh.
“And nothing else that you need to know about. I know Baba would disapprove. He’s a bigot.
What about you?”
Mrs Ghosh’s eyes looked glassy.
“What are you worried about? I won’t do anything stupid.”
“Has he ever taken you to Sabir’s?”
“What?” Nandini was caught offguard.
“Sabir’s. It’s a small biryani shop in the Muslim part of town.”
“Never heard of it,” replied Nandini, testily. “And he doesn’t live in the Muslim part of town.
He lives in the rich part of town, if that helps.” She was going to leave the room when her mother called after her.
“Sabir’s has very good shahi tukra. I went there once, when I was very young.”
“Why are you hung up on this Sabir’s?” Nandini was annoyed.
“I never ate beef but I have never had shahi tukra like that again.”
Nandini stared at her mother’s wistful face. “What are you saying?” she asked, suspiciously.
“I went there with a Muslim boy, Inu. And he took me to eat the best shahi tukra in the world.”
“What are you saying?” repeated Nandini, slightly shrill.
“But my parents found out and I was engaged in ten days to your father.”
Nandini’s eyes bulged out if her eyes. “How did I not know this?”
“It’s not exactly a fairy-tale,” retorted Mrs Ghosh.
“So you and Baba don’t love each other at all,” said Nandini, sadly.
“It may not be the kind of love you think you have for Saad, but it’s the kind of love that makes me consider giving up ilish for him.”
Nandini scrunched up her nose. “That’s not love, that’s kowtowing to the patriarchy. Where’s Shahi Tukra Boy now?”
Mrs Ghosh sighed. “I don’t know. I think he’s a doctor but not in Calcutta. It was hard to look for him after I got married.”
“Was he at the wedding? Also … were you dating him?”
Mrs Ghosh looked shocked. “We didn’t date in those days! These new-fangled American things! And of course he was not at the wedding! My parents would have had him thrown out!
“I don’t understand … were you in love with him? I can’t believe you were forced to get married just because you were out with a boy once!”
Mrs Ghosh sighed.
“So he didn’t come to snatch you away from the altar and all that?” persisted Nandini.
“No, Inu. It wasn’t like that. He was so good looking, he made me blush and I only went out once with him to eat shahi tukra.”
“You don’t even like fried bread. You never eat French toast!” exclaimed Nandini, petulantly.
Mrs Ghosh sniffed. “French toast has no finesse. What do the French know about cooking?”
Nandini looked appalled. “Umm … everything?”
Mrs Ghosh waved her away. “But it was very romantic, even though the shop was dirty. He was talking to me about a lot of things and I could only think how the cleft on his chin made him look like that actor … Kirk Douglas.”
Nandini rolled her eyes. “I hope the shahi tukra was worth it, seeing how you ended up with Baba.”
“He’s a good man, your father. He’s just old fashioned. That’s not a bad thing. Just don’t decide to do anything silly with Saad.”
Nandini opened her mouth to say something but decided against it. “Do you have a photograph?”
“I told you … Kirk Douglas.”
Nandini laughed. “I can show you Facebook photographs of Saad.”
Mrs Ghosh shook her head. “I don’t want to see. Not just now.”
“But he’s cute!” protested Nandini.
“When you have something to say about him other than that, I’ll see his photograph.”
Nandini bit her lip. “He has a sense of humour.”
“I’ll see his photograph when he’s exhausted all his jokes.”
“Fine!”
“I think I’ll fry the ilish now,” said Mrs Ghosh, looking up the clock. “Your father will be home soon.”
“You did buy it!”
“I did,” smiled Mrs Ghosh. “Not such a doormat after all.”
“But you won’t let Baba stop this saree rental thing, right? It’s going to really catch on. And it’s super convenient to give the girls the option of having it draped as well.”
“I’m also learning new styles,” said Mrs Ghosh, lifting an aluminium bowl from the kitchen table to sniff at the fish that had been marinating in mustard. “But this dhoti-saree craze … it is not elegant at all.”
“It’s cool with a crop top,” said Nandini, leaning against the door frame.
“What’s wrong with sarees worn the traditional way? It looks so graceful. With well-cut blouses. Nowadays all you girls want is cropped this and ripped that.”
Nandini laughed. “I do actually like traditional sarees. If only it were less trouble!”
“We used to climb fences in sarees.”
“Uh huh, I’m sure Shahi Tukra Boy liked catching a glimpse of your bare leg when you did that,” grinned Nandini with an exaggerated wink.
“Inu! Don’t be obscene!”
“Wow … you have no idea what obscene is,” muttered Nandini.
Mrs Ghosh glared at her. “Does Saad like ilish?”
“Really doubt it,” sniggered Nandini. “And it doesn’t matter because I don’t like this smelly fish either.”
They both looked up when they heard the key in the front door. The footsteps paused at the living room. “Why does it smell like Ilish here?” asked Mr Ghosh, loudly.
“Because it is,” replied Mrs Ghosh and her daughter in unison. They giggled.
“Everything is getting out of hand,” grumbled Mr Ghosh, stooping to undo his laces. “First sarees being rented, and now ilish in the house.”
“You started it by banning ilish in the first place,” called Mrs Ghosh. “There’s some pomfret for you. The ilish is only for me.”
Mr Ghosh strode into the dining room and set a box down on the table. He sniffed at the smell of fried fish wafting in from the kitchen. “I’ll have some too.”
His wife appeared at the kitchen door, looking mutinous. “What did you say?”
“I said I’ll have some too,” replied Mr Ghosh, evenly.
“I thought you didn’t want any. I haven’t got enough for both of us.”
“Of course you have, you always do.”
“Have you gone mad?”
“Why should I be mad? You wanted me to want ilish. Now that I want some, you want me to not want it. It seems to me that you are mad.”
Mr Ghosh disappeared into his bedroom, leaving the women gaping.
“I don’t know how you live with him,” said Nandini, shaking her head. “But look, he’s got some dessert.” She started to untie the thin plastic bag the box was placed in.
“What is it?” asked Mrs Ghosh, returning to the kitchen. “I have to get a blood test done again for diabetes ... I’ve been eating too many sweets.”
Nandini stared at the box. “Ma…”
The bedroom door opened. “I got some mithai, by the way. “Some shahi tukra from this old place called Sabir’s. We had some brought in at the office. I hear it’s unparalleled.”
Nandini shuffled her feet while the sound of fish being surrendered into bubbling oil filled the room.
“Did you hear me?” asked Mr Ghosh, raising his voice.
“Never heard of the place,” came the response from the kitchen.
Nandini fought down laughter. “I have! I know a girl who was dating a Muslim boy who took her to this place for shahi tukra. But she couldn’t have any because he was so good looking.”
“Silliest story I ever heard,” snapped Mr Ghosh, retreating into his bedroom.
“Inu!” Mrs Ghosh’s irate face appeared around the kitchen door. “Stop talking nonsense and lay the table for dinner! You can have the leftover egg curry from the afternoon.”
“Actually, I think I’ll have some ilish too,” she said. She wrapped her arms around her mother to stifle the protests. “It’s totally the day for it. You know it is. You can have all the shahi tukra.”
“Cheeky!” said Mrs Ghosh, pushing her away. She reached for the second bowl of marinated fish when her daughter turned around to fetch the dinner plates. It was never a bad idea to buy extra ilish.
~~~
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