The maacher baajar in our sleepy town is nothing to write home about.
A row of make-shift decrepit stalls, canopied by hole-riddled blue plastic sheets, attempted to be held in place by four rickety bamboo poles at the four corners.
On an elevated pockmarked pedestal, is seated the owner of the stall, confident, almost imperious, sporting a luxuriant moustache and a makeshift fly-whisk, a long stick at the end of which is attached what looks like a handkerchief that has lived its life. He swishes it once in a while, amidst conversations with his prospective customers, trying to keep the swarms of flies at bay.
Katla and rohu are available in abundance..
Caught before daybreak from the ponds that dot the town.
And left to swim in an oversized vat filled to its brim with water.
Live katla and rohu attract a premium price, a generous amount more than their lifeless siblings.
Buying fish, as the fish connoisseurs shall take the liberty to advise you at length, is an art.
An expertise picked up over years.
You needed to ‘feel’ the fish.
Flip up the cover to see if the gills were still red.
Inspect the eyes.
And finally after what is inevitably a lot of dilly dallying (nothing at all to be embarrassed about, they shall reiterate) point at the particular one you want.
The fish is weighed.
Eulogised profusely by the moustachioed fish stall owner.
And then handed over to the young Man Friday, barely out of his teens, who diligently scales the fish and then, using his ominous bnoti, slices the fish into the kind of slices that you instruct him to.
Getting the slices of fish right is non-negotiable.
And acrimony and bitterness over the young apprentice not having paid attention and sliced the fish inappropriately is commonplace.
The staple taken care of, you move ahead to scout what the other stalls were doing.
There is parshe. In an assortment of sizes.
Dishi tyangra and delightful pabda. As fresh as you can get.
Bata netted this dawn in the village ponds.
Puti and mourola, glistening in the sun, in disciplined mounds.
But this morning, you are drawn towards a gregarious crowd that has gathered around one of the stalls.
Like an industrious bee to the perfume of flowers.
You crane your curious neck industriously to have a look.
And there they are.
Dishi koi.
In a battered aluminum tub.
That hardly has an inch or two of water.
Swimming around in carefree abandon.
The ponds must have overflown post the fierce kalboisakhi showers last evening.
Resulting in an exodus of schools of fish from their safe aquatic environs to the paddy fields which are now flooded.
Most fish wouldn’t survive the brutal onslaught that this was. But then koi maach were known to be rugged and lusty, survivors who didn’t let deprivation stifle their joi de vivre.
They swam around in indifferent arrogance, traveled to distant horizons, even dared to climb palm trees.
Till finally outwitted by village urchins, using primitive baskets, looking to make a quick fortune.
The ancient man at the stall struggles to keep pace with the demand. The freshest koi in a long time. He’s not surprised.
And Bapi gets home koi maach.
One of his favourites. The radiant smile says it all.
Maa is beaming too. And why not ? Chotomashi is visiting and she adores koi maach.
As for me, I have just about shed my fear over the ominous bones of koi maach and developed a taste for this delectable fish. I am elated.
Cannot say the same of Dada though. He’s paranoid about spiny fish. I see him whispering into Grandmas ears. Can well guess what he’s complaining about.
And for lunch, Chotomashi cooks a sublime sheem bichi diye Koi Maach. A Sylheti delicacy. Painstaking to prepare (you have to peel the outer membrane of each sheem seed individually :-)), but worth the effort. The curry tastes delectable. And additional servings of rice go around to mop up the curry. Satiated smiles grace the table (barring Dada, who long done, is fiddling with an old electric torch).
Chotomashis sheem bichi diye Koi Maach.
An offbeat combination of flat bean seeds and koi maach.
A sublime no onion-no garlic curry . Perfumed with freshly ground cumin and coriander .
Yet another classic from a Bangal household .
Enjoy!
And by the way, if you adore your koi maach as much as I do, try these koi delicacies from my blog. Guaranteed to put that smile on your face !!
Sheem Bichi diye Koi Maach
Ingredients
- 7-8 medium sized koi maach
- 100 g dried flat green bean seeds (sheem bichi in Bengali)
- 2 potatoes cut into batons
- 1 tsp ginger paste
- green chillis slit
- 1 tsp turmeric powder
- 1/2 tsp cumin seeds
- 1-2 bay leaves
- 2-3 dry red chilies
- 1/3 cup mustard oil
- salt to taste
For the masala paste
- 1.5 tsp cumin seeds
- 1.5 tsp coriander seeds
- 2 dry red chilies
- 2 bay leaves
Instructions
For the masala paste
- Soak the cumin seeds, coriander seeds, dry red chillies and bay leaves in water for 3-4 hours. Drain from water, grind to a fine paste with just a splash of water.
For the curry
- Soak the dry flat green bean seeds (sheem bichi) overnight . Drain from water. One seed at a time, gently press the seed with your thumb. The fine seed membrane shall peel off easily. Remove for all the seeds.
- Pressure cook the seeds in salt water, 1 whistle or so.
- Smear the koi maach with just a pinch of turmeric and salt.
- Heat 4 tbsp oil in a kadhai, shallow fry the koi maach. Keep aside.
- In the same pan, fry the potatoes, keep aside.
- Add the remaining mustard oil into the same pan, throw in the cumin seeds, bay leaves and dry red chillies. Allow the spices to splutter.
- Stir in the ground masala paste, ginger paste and the remaining turmeric powder. Continue to stir fry over a medium flame until the masala starts to release oil.
- Pour 2 cups of warm water, throw in the potatoes, chillies and boiled flat green bean seeds. Gently place the fried koi maach in the curry. Cover and cook over a medium flame for 7-10 minutes. Serve hot.
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