The Hidden Story Behind Hilsa: Life on the Bay of Bengal

It’s early morning near the Ganges estuary. The sky glows with a soft reddish hue. The tide is rising, trees along the eroded banks sway gently, and the river laps at the shore. On the fishing boats, a quiet rush begins—nets are being untangled, ropes coiled, biri lit. This is the start of the hilsa season.

For the fishermen of coastal Bengal, these three monsoon bengali months, Ashar, Shraban, Bhadra bring hope. The rest of the year is a struggle for survival, but when the tide carries the shimmering hilsa upstream, it brings dreams with it.

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Hilsa isn’t just a delicacy on our plates. It’s soaked in sweat, shaped by storms, and carried on the prayers of thousands. Behind every golden fried slice is a story of risk, resilience, and silent sacrifice.

Hilsa isn’t just a taste. For Bengal, it’s a way of life.

Tarok Pramanik, a 55-year-old fisherman now living on the shrinking island of Ghoramara, says, “We live the whole year for these few months. A couple of good hilsa in the net and I can settle shop debts, save a little. For us, hilsa is Lakshmi.”

In these fishing villages, everything depends on the hilsa wedding jewellery, school admissions, home repairs, or even the next meal. But this silver fish is elusive. Catching it depends on more than skill it requires a bond with the river, patience, and luck.

The younger generation is leaving. Many now work in cities far away Kerala, Hyderabad, Gujarat returning home only for the hilsa season. Most fishermen don’t own boats or nets, they borrow or rent. If they miss the season, the entire year collapses.

Life on the Bay of Bengal

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From July to September, hilsa is caught in large numbers. One good catch can bring in 20–50 fish, sometimes more. But it’s always a gamble. Long hours, days at sea, wild weather all for a net that may come up empty.

Even when they catch hilsa, the earnings are low. While urban buyers pay 1,500–3,000 rupees per kilo, fishermen often get only 200–300 Rupee. The rest goes to middlemen, agents, and market fees. “We catch the fish, but never learned to catch the market,” one fisherman jokes.

Behind every golden fried slice is a story of risk, resilience, and silent sacrifice.

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Many have lost homes to erosion. They now live in makeshift huts, depending entirely on hilsa fishing. For them, it’s not just a fish—it’s survival.

Hilsa isn’t just a delicacy on our plates. It’s soaked in sweat, shaped by storms, and carried on the prayers of thousands. Behind every golden fried slice is a story of risk, resilience, and silent sacrifice.

Hilsa isn’t just a taste. For Bengal, it’s a way of life.

Express photos by Shashi Ghosh