A Fish and a Philosophical Question

Words by Mandela Alapati

You can’t step into the same river twice. About 2500 years ago, this is how the Greek Philosopher Heraclitus felt about ‘the inevitability of change’ in both the universe and life. As food is an integral part of our lives and offers a mystifying physical experience, I wonder if anyone has ever looked at it from this perspective and asked the question: ‘Can you eat the same dish twice?’

A dish made by cooking a distinctive fish in tamarind sauce in the southern parts of India offers an intriguing exploration of this question.

Away from the hustle and bustle of the modern world, in the mountain range of the Western Ghats of India, from a small watering hole, the River Godavari takes its birth. It journeys 910 miles through rugged mountains, wilderness, human settlements, and finally empties itself into the Bay of Bengal.

Riverbanks are the birthplaces of civilizations, and the Godavari is no exception. The second-largest river in India after the Ganges, this river is famously referred to as the South Ganges by the Hindu religion and revered as a holy river. This river flows from west to east and approximately 250 miles above the Bay of Bengal, it takes a rather noticeable right turn in the mountain range of the Eastern Ghats and enters the state of Andhra Pradesh. Thereafter, it flows from north to south, dividing the land into two districts: East Godavari and West Godavari, and thus giving birth to a unique and rich culture. The lives of people in these districts are inseparable from this river.

Drawing water from the teats of the river, the land here is fecund. Similar to the Mediterranean, people in this region are largely dependent on local produce for their food. Though globalisation brought a few changes, local food habits thrive to this day. Artisanal ways of cooking make the cuisine of this region unparalleled and rich. This place is the birthplace of many sweets, savouries, and meat dishes. This makes people of this region gourmands and highly critical about what they eat. Among all the delicacies, one particular tangy concoction creates all the fuss and fervour.

Two months into the monsoon, Godavari is up to the brim with muddy water painted in the colour of reddish brown. And when these muddy waters reach the Bay of Bengal, life finds its way. Ilish or Hilsa, a fish native to the Bay of Bengal, is anadromous in nature; in plain English, it swims upstream into the river for spawning when it senses the muddy waters in the sea. As it swims across the earthy waters, changes occur in its body, and these changes give this fish an unrivalled taste. It changes its colour from silver to a whitish silver with a golden tinge as it swims in the river waters, and it is also said that the further it swims, the more it acquires in taste.

About 100 miles from the estuary, fishermen wait patiently in the river to catch this fish. But ultimately, luck has the final say as catching this fish is highly unlikely. But all the waiting and efforts are worth it as the fish can fetch remarkable prices. With an average weight of 1.5 to 2 pounds, this fish sells at a price of £30 to £50 per fish. If more than two customers approach the fishmonger for the fish, it will go up for auction, and the highest bidder takes it home. And these bids are unusually high, raising the question: ‘Is it worth it?’

‘Pulasa’—the regional name for the fish is not just a fish, but an emotion for this region. ‘You should eat this fish even if it takes to sell your wife’s wedlock necklace’ (a necklace with a couple of lockets in Hinduism is what a wedding ring is to Christians) is the famous saying around this region.

Buying this fish is just one side of the coin as cooking requires great skill. ’Pulusu’— a tangy, spicy, and hot stew is made out of this fish. Not everybody, but experienced elders or cooks specialised in cooking this fish, are allowed to cook this authentic dish. Though the recipe is well known and there are no secret ingredients, cooking is confined to a few. But the process is arduous and lengthy.

This fish is cooked only in clay pots and on the flames of good firewood. Fish slices marinated in ginger, garlic, salt, and chili pepper are added to the onions, fried to golden brown in the clay pot. Thick tamarind sauce and spices are added and cooked for an hour. Thereupon, it is simmered on a low flame for about four hours. Right before the stew cooking process is about to finish, the magical ingredient is brought in.

In the summer which precedes this monsoon, raw mangoes are pickled in oil, chilly, salt, and mustard. A ladle full of this oil from the pickled mangoes which has acquired great amounts of flavour from mangoes and mustard is added to the stew. The stew then is left aside for the slices of fish to absorb the flavours. It is cooked in the morning and served during dinners and some prefer to have it the next day.

The stew which was once a common dish acquired fame and became the dish of landlords. Today, it finds its way onto the dinner tables of the affluent while the others try to catch hold of one. This demand has saw its cheaper cousins enter the market and some fishermen cheat by selling the fish which is caught in the sea but not in the red waters of the river.

The tumult doesn’t end here. Luxurious five star hotels sell this delicacy at flabbergasting prices. And few who wants to acquire benefits from the governments, organise dinner parties for the bureaucrats with this stew. Such acts have corrupted the emotions around this fish stew while the older generations who ate this fish for many monsoons of their lives nodding in dismay that ‘this fish stew is losing its authenticity slowly.’

But what is authenticity?

Authenticity can be anything. It can be that golden tinge on the Ilish fish or it can be the way it swims against the current to lay eggs. It also lies in preserving our traditions which we receive from our elders to pass on to the next generations. It can be smelled in the aromas of meticulously cooked dishes. And can be experienced in the love and passion in cooking and serving. It can be preserved when we cook with local ingredients which in turn encourages the local farmers who were being destroyed by big organisations which aim to make this world one global village. And finally it lives in the narratives constructed around the idea of having a particular dish and living the experience of eating it.

So, can you eat the same dish twice?