This was a refugee market once, and now, more than fifty years after they were displaced

the red-and-white saris, the Desh magazines, the nolen gur sandesh dot

the shops, proclaiming the Bangla majority on the pavements and the streets.

Yet, at the corner, the tarpaulin-covered fish market spatters with

Bangla, Hindi, Oriya, Ahomiya, Bhojpuri, Manipuri, and more,

reflecting the origin of the fish piling up the plastic-lined tables of the stalls.

Mackerel from Karnataka and Pomfret from Maharashtra flash silver, their kite-like bodies

quivering the ice underneath; the fishermen pull out black thread like veins

from the brownish-grey jumbo prawns from Orissa—“Eita bish, bhoojle didi”

while the shovel-like Rohus are haggled over mostly by the Bengalis.

“Eikhan kar lok prefer boneless fish such as Surmai”, sneers Dulal’s grandson,

as if not wanting to search for flesh tearing through thousands of needle bones

reflects a lack in the people who belong here—the here that remains different from home.

Dulal’s shop is the oldest—forty years and more—

and the only shop with the “Eikhane Bangladesh-er Padma Ilish Paya jaye” sign.

Grandfather would have bought the Ilish—

not wincing at the 1200 rupees per kilogram price—a true Bengali doesn’t

count money when buying Ilish—he used to say. But grandfather is gone, and so is Dulal.

Now, his grandson jots down the day’s purchases in a notebook that seems to reflect

the blood of the fish dripping down the tables into the water tanks under them.

I buy my usual Sunday stock—250 grams of Rohu and 250 grams of the silverfish

resembling Morella—a measly total of Rupees 220, and nod at Dulal’s grandson

--Aashi—there is no word for goodbye in Bangla; instead I tell him I'll come (again).

I'm already dreaming of marinating

the pieces in salt and turmeric

and frying them crisp in smoky mustard oil—

the simplest of recipes that has travelled down

from grandfather to me—in the same way that he did—from Burma

to Bangladesh to India—just like these fish.