MONO ISSUE 1 PDF FLIPBOOK - Flipbook - Page 47
FISH, DEAD OR ALIVE
by Pradeep Sen
I RECEIVED A letter from a maternal uncle last month. He wrote that Minu Mashi, my mother's
cousin (one of her eleven) died last week. She must have been about eighty, or close to it. The
last I saw of her was when I was a child, and I am inclined to believe that if she had died at
that time, I would have received the news with elation.
It is a matter of fact that the Bengali’s relationship with fish (the head, the tail, the oil) is as
natural as breathing; a fact that prompted an amateur scientist to suggest that the formation of
the jellyfish in the first stages of evolution was actually a precursor of the Bangalees. When it
became apparent that I, a Bengali from both sides of the family, with not a drop of non-Bengali
blood in my veins did not like fish, in fact hated the stuff, it caused a serious disturbance in the
community. The very sight of cooked fish, which in the Bengali way of presentation looks more
alive than dead offended me, and the smell that emanated from the dish- always the largest on
the table- dominating with size and smell- caused my stomach to agitate in the most violent
manner.
I recall a witticism from an uncle who suggested, amidst peals of laughter, that my case should
appear in the ‘Amrita Bazaar Patrika,’ a leading Daily of Calcutta. A one-liner would suffice“The Bengalee who does not eat fish.”- The irrepressible uncle continued, and added, amongst
more laughter, that I could charge a large fee for those who wished to have a glimpse of this
riddle in human form. For me, however, quite the contrary applied. I was convinced that anyone
of the human species who could delve into such an item, one that smelt like a gangrenous tank,
and with such relish, were in greater need of study and more deserving objects of humour and
ridicule. It appeared to them, however, that my antipathy towards fish was as incredible as a
German’s dislike of Beer, a Brazilian’s antipathy towards Football, and Don Quixote without a
windmill.
Minu Mashi, quite clearly, saw no humour in this, or puzzlement, nor viewed it as a phenomenon
that merited research and analyses, or, most objectionably, one that merited such a facetious
response from the family, or such gratuitous behaviour, least of all humour which led to a
trivialising of the issue. She saw it quite simply as an act of indiscipline at best, and betrayal at
worst; a conspiracy against the propagation of the Bengali culture; one which deserved
condemnation of the highest order.
During the winter holidays my mother and I left the studied sophistication of the social upper
classes of corporate Calcutta: the world of Stude Baker station wagons, the Dodges and the DeSotos with peaked-capped chauffeurs, of the world of social clubs with its Saturday night dances,
cocktail parties, Sunday morning brunches, and other such representations of my father’s more
western style of life, to spend a fortnight in the untainted prefecture of her middle-class family
home in the small town of Jawarpara.
The meals were served without ceremony; without, that is, the trappings of knives and forks,
napkin rings, and table-mats, and today, when I think back on those days it occurs to me that
it was precisely the simplicity of it all that generated a soft conviviality, a sort of homeliness that
no amount of elegant appurtenances could invoke. There were black-stone Thalas laid out on a
rough wooden table, and a row of cousins seated on both sides, with their hands placed on their
laps; a picture of polite expectation. The aunts would serve, doling out the food with big wooden
ladles directly from the cooking vessels into the Thalas; the hot rice with steam rising skywards, a
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