As every year, our departmental Boishakh celebration committee came to give me an invitation to the Pohela Boishakh celebration. I asked how many kinds of bhorta there would be with the panta this time. They said, "Sir, at least ten kinds." Before I could ask anything else, someone beside them said: "Sir, please don't mind, but there's no fried hilsa this time. The budget won't stretch to it, so we've gone for sarpunti instead. You'll get a whole fried sarpunti each, sir!"

Hearing "No hilsa, but there is sarpunti, sir", I felt rather downcast but tried to hide it from them. I said, fine; even if the budget does not allow hilsa, the Boishakh event will not wait for hilsa. "Oh yes, listen: after the panta, put out batasha and kodma," I added. They seemed pleased and left.

At first I thought the disappointment was mine alone, because everyone in the department knows I am mad about hilsa, so I kept quiet in case others laughed. Later, from the way my colleagues spoke, I realised they felt the same. Our department's hilsa-less Boishakh this year carries an important message about our economy, our market system and the emptiness in our consumer culture.

Once, panta-ilish was within reach of ordinary people. The rivers of riverine Bangladesh were full of hilsa and prices were relatively bearable. Today hilsa is steadily becoming a 'premium product', almost a symbol of luxury. For middle-class families, buying hilsa for Pohela Boishakh means financial strain, and hilsa has largely become a consumer good for a particular class.

In the capital's supermarkets, gleaming hilsa wrapped in ice seems no longer a fish but a 'status symbol'. Ordinary buyers are stunned when they hear the price, and finding good-quality hilsa for under a few thousand taka seems a fantasy.

Our consumer culture needs careful thought here. We have presented panta-ilish as though Boishakh is incomplete without it. Yet historically the link between panta and hilsa was not so strong. In rural Bengal, panta was eaten mainly with whatever was easily available: green chillies, onion, lentil bhorta, potato bhorta or small fish. Hilsa was a seasonal fish, not daily food.

But in modern urban life, especially under the influence of the media and corporate culture, panta-ilish has become a kind of 'icon'. Boishakh packages at restaurants and special events at corporate offices have turned it into a branded festival, and ordinary people come under financial pressure trying to keep up. This idea of symbolic consumption is strongest among the urban middle and upper classes.

There are several reasons behind this change. First, loss of river navigability, pollution and the effects of climate change are hampering the natural production of hilsa. Second, illegal catching of jatka and overfishing are reducing hilsa numbers. Third, the dominance of syndicates and middlemen in the market is pushing prices up abnormally. With low production and high demand, sky-high hilsa prices have become the norm.

Another point is the extreme income inequality between people. One class spends thousands of taka on hilsa to celebrate Boishakh, while a large section finds it hard to get even an ordinary fish to go with their panta. This inequality is not only economic; it is also creating a cultural divide, and a universal festival like Boishakh is gradually becoming class-based.

Against this background, the arrival of sarpunti is on one hand an acknowledgement of reality and on the other a new interpretation of tradition. Sarpunti may not carry the taste or prestige of hilsa, but it is locally available, cheap and nutritious, so it should not be looked down on as a substitute. Serving sarpunti with panta is in no way an insult to tradition; it reconciles tradition with reality. It reminds us that tradition is not about a particular food, but about the joy of the festival and shared participation.

In this sense, "No hilsa, but there is sarpunti" can also be seen as a symbolic protest. The joy of a festival does not depend on expensive food but on warmth, participation and equality. If an event can ensure everyone takes part, even with sarpunti, that is the true reflection of the Boishakh spirit.

Alongside accepting this reality, we also have responsibilities. Effective steps must be taken to conserve hilsa. Strict enforcement of the law to stop jatka catching, prevention of river pollution and protection of the natural environment must be priorities. At the same time, market management must become transparent so that prices cannot be raised by creating artificial shortages.

There is also something here for government policymakers to consider. Hilsa conservation, an end to jatka killing, control of river pollution and transparency in market management are urgent. Encouraging the production and marketing of alternative fish would also make affordable food available to ordinary people.

Perhaps in future Boishakhs we will see, instead of hilsa with panta, a spread of different native fish, bhortas and village foods. That would bring back the scent of the roots we have lost. Because Boishakh is not only about eating hilsa; Boishakh is the eternal festival of the Bengali spirit.

The writer is a professor in the Department of Social Work at Rajshahi University and a former dean of the Faculty of Social Sciences.

Source: Jagonews24. First published in Bengali on The Agro News.