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 Greek Philosopher Heraclitus felt about ‘the inevitability of change’ in both universe and life. As food being an integral part of our life and offers mystifying physical experience, I wonder has anyone ever looked it in 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 modern world, in the mountain range of Western Ghats of India, from a small watering hole, River Godavari takes its birth. It journeys 910 miles through rugged mountains, wilderness, human inhabitations, and finally empties itself into the Bay of Bengal.

River banks are birthplaces of civilisations and Godavari is no exception. The second largest river of India after Ganges, this river is famously referred as South Ganges by the religion of Hinduism and revered as a holy river. This river flows from west to east and approximately 250 miles above Bay of Bengal, it takes a rather noticeable right turn in the mountain range of Eastern Ghats and enters into 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. And lives of people of these districts are inseparable from this river.

Drawing water from the teats of the river, the land here is fecund. Akin to Mediterranean, people of this region are totally dependent on local produce for 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 monsoon, Godavari is up to the brim with muddy water painted in the colour of reddish brown. And when these muddy waters reach 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 whitish silver with a golden tinge as it swims in the river waters and also it is said that the more distance it swims the more taste it acquires.

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 wait and efforts are worthy 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 for an auction and the highest bidder takes it home. And these bids are unusually high raising the question: ‘is it worthy?’

‘Pulasa’—the regional name of 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 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 what 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 chilly pepper are added to the onions fried to golden brown in the clay pot. Thick tamarind sauce and spices are added and is cooked for an hour. Thereupon it is simmered on low flame for about four hours. Right before when the stew 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?