I have talked before about how we Bengalis are fish lovers. But for me, fish has never been only about what appears on the plate. My Mamoni’s thoughtful and sometimes wonderfully creative cooking made these dishes a part of my memories.
And whenever I start talking about her cooking, how can I possibly miss hilsha?
Being from a riverine country like Bangladesh, hilsha feels almost inseparable from Bengali food culture. We lovingly call it macher raja—the king of fish—and it is our national fish too.
For me, though, its place is even more personal.
Whenever I return to my childhood food memories, hilsha somehow finds its way to the centre of the table.
That Shimmer of Silver
There was something elegant about a fresh hilsha arriving at home.
Its bright silver skin almost shimmered. Once it reached our kitchen, Mamoni would cut it carefully into pieces, ready to cook it while it was fresh.
I loved hilsha in almost every form—fried until golden, cooked simply as jhol, or transformed into Mamoni’s special mustard hilsha.
Each had its own taste.
And each carries a different memory.
Hilsha Fry on a Rainy Afternoon
On a rainy afternoon, or around the special celebration of Bengali New Year—Pahela Boishakh—a simple hilsha fry could make an ordinary meal feel special.
Mamoni would marinate the pieces with just turmeric and salt and leave them for a while, allowing the seasoning to settle into the fish.
Then came the inevitable mustard oil.
As it heated in the korai over the gas stove, its sharp, pungent aroma slowly filled the kitchen. Even before the fish touched the pan, that familiar smell was enough to make my mouth water.
Then Mamoni would carefully lay each piece into the hot oil.
Hissssss.
That sizzling sound from the korai was enough to tell me that something delicious was coming.
Gradually, the silvery pieces would turn beautifully golden brown. Mamoni would lift them one by one and place them in a tissue-lined bowl, letting the excess oil soak away.
A piece of crunchy hilsha fry beside a plate of steaming rice needed very little else.
It was simple.
But somehow, it could make an afternoon feel completely satisfying.
Sometimes, Simplicity Was Enough
At other times, Mamoni would make hilsha in the simplest possible way.
A little turmeric. A little salt. Onion, green chilli and oil.
Nothing excessive.
The fish remained soft and delicate, surrounded by a light jhol. A green chilli resting in the gravy brought its familiar aroma, while the tender hilsha carried its own unmistakable richness.
With steaming rice, even this uncomplicated dish could fill both the stomach and the heart.
But then there was another version.
The one I can never forget.
Mamoni’s Mustard Hilsha
Mamoni’s mustard hilsha was different.
It demanded something more than ingredients. It needed time, patience and effort.
The mustard seeds—white or red—would first be soaked until they softened. And then came the shil pata.
Long before kitchen appliances made grinding effortless, the shil pata demanded work from your hands. Grinding those tiny mustard seeds into a smooth paste required patience and perseverance.
Mamoni never compromised on taste when she was cooking for the people she loved.
So she made that extra effort.
I can still imagine the mustard being ground slowly against the stone, gradually transforming into the pungent paste that would give the dish its character.
Then came the careful cooking of the hilsha.
The right amount of mustard mattered. Too little, and its character would disappear. Too much, and its sharpness could overwhelm the delicate fish.
But Mamoni seemed to know the balance.
The pungency of freshly ground mustard blended into the soft, rich hilsha, creating a taste that was bold yet deeply comforting.
And again, all we really needed beside it was steaming rice.
Even now, the pungent aroma of mustard and the richness of hilsha can take me straight back to Mamoni’s kitchen, where her patient hands turned an ordinary afternoon meal into a memory I still carry with me.
A gentle reminder: Sometimes the flavours closest to our hearts are the ones that quietly carry the love of home.
