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Our Love is on the Scale, the Fish Weighs More

My darling, your eyes are twin ilish in monsoon light,
Sparkling, silvery, slightly smug — impossible to fight.
When you whisper, “I love you,” I know it’s not for me,
It’s for the hilsa on the table, swimming in the mustard sea.

Roses are red, violets are blue,
I am temporary, but machher-jhol is forever true.
You say, “till death do us part,” then spot a koi climbing the wall,
Suddenly, the wedding vows don’t matter at all.

I brought you chocolates from Switzerland, the finest and poshest —
You looked at them like I’d offered laundry in need of a wash
Then Ma brought pabda in shorshe, steaming and yellow,
You nearly proposed to the plate, my dear, jealous fellow.

Your Tinder bio was honest, no lies, no tricks
“Bengali. Will swipe right for anyone
who brings chingri malai with thick coconut milk.”
I swiped. I lost. The prawn won by a mile.
You married me anyway — but the fish carried the aisle.

At restaurants, you ignore the menu’s first forty pages,
Skip the chicken, the lamb, the vegetarian stages.
Straight to the fish section, eyes manic and wide,
Like a woman possessed by the spirit of the tide.

You call me pet names: shona, babu, honeydew,
But when the rui kalia arrives, it’s “aashun na, machh-ti!”
I see the betrayal, the passion, the heat —
I’m the side character; the fish gets the front seat.

One day I asked, trembling, voice soft as a bhapa crumb:
“Between me and a perfectly fried topshe -
who’d you choose, hmm?”
You paused. You thought. You took a dramatic breath.
Then: “Don’t be silly, you can’t eat a husband
with kasundi to death.”

So here I remain, second place, forever resigned,
To the greatest love story Bengal ever designed.
You, me, and ten thousand varieties of fish —
A trois blessed by the rivers, eternally delish.

I accept my fate with grace and some misplaced pride:
At least I’m married to someone whose heart is deep-fried.
O fish-loving woman, my shorshe-coated queen,
Take all my love — and pass the mishti doi, please,
been waiting since seventeen.

Picture design by Anumita Roy

4 Comments Text
  • Delectable … enjoyed reading thoroughly your witty poem, Sir. I can say that it is perhaps the best poem on the best love story of Bengal ever imagined. Poor narrator having lost the love battle to the rival Hilsa and now waiting for the ‘mishti doi’ is really a pitiable character! Hats off to you, Sir.

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