Ahead of Durga Puja, the biggest Hindu festival for Bengali communities across Bangladesh and India, a familiar seasonal ritual at the border has quietly come to a halt. Hilsa, or ilish, the silvery, oily river fish coveted on both sides of the frontier, is staying in Bangladesh this year.

For years, as West Bengal and Indian Bengalis prepared for festivities, Dhaka would temporarily ease export bans, sending thousands of kilograms westward. Delicacies reached Kolkata dining rooms, diplomats congratulated themselves, and everyone humored the notion that statecraft could be lubricated with seafood.

Yet no special consignments were approved this autumn, interrupting a tradition once as reliable as the monsoon. The missing delicacy is hardly a geopolitical crisis, but minor details often acquire a loud eloquence when regional relations deteriorate.

Dhaka and New Delhi have spent over two years groping for a stable equilibrium following the dramatic 2024 uprising that ended Bangladesh's former Prime Minister Sheikh Hasina’s long reign. Her decade of unusually cozy alignment with India defined bilateral affairs; her current residency in New Delhi now embodies their estrangement. Bangladesh’s new administration demands her extradition, calling the return of fugitives a prerequisite for normal relations.

Against this fraught backdrop, the unsent fish becomes a neat metaphor. Where once Hilsa was dispatched whenever cross-border friction needed smoothing, current relations are so sour that even the fish stays home. Or rather, it has briefly swum in reverse.

Between July and September, roughly 553 tonnes of Indian Hilsa crossed into Bangladesh via Benapole, a remarkable turn for a nation regarding the species as a divine right. Much originated from Gujarat, where harvests around the Narmada and Arabian Sea expanded. But on Sept. 22, Bangladesh’s Department of Fisheries abruptly revoked 103 import licences. The bureaucratic hand, however, was secondary to a higher hurdle: the unyielding Bangladeshi palate.

Locals complained the imports, frequently mislabelled as prized Padma Hilsa, lacked the characteristic richness, aroma and sweetness. One Dhaka shopper watched his purchase disintegrate in hot mustard oil; others disliked the texture and overwhelming roe. Gujarati specimens were larger and cheaper, but to local epicures, they were simply impostors. Such territorial vanity sounds trivial only to those unacquainted with Bengali culinary passion.

Scientifically termed Tenualosa ilisha, the species is an inconvenient meal, packed with a labyrinth of delicate bones designed to punish hasty eaters. Bengalis responded by turning its consumption into a refined art. They fry, steam, smother in mustard, wrap in banana leaves, and simmer the head with vegetables.

A rich specimen carries enough internal fat to fry in its own oils, its scent heralding its arrival well before reaching the table. Because the 1947 Partition severed geography rather than gastronomy, the fish renders borders absurd. Citizens on both sides quarrel over politics, cricket, and dialects, yet debate with equal passion whether Bangladesh’s Padma produces a finer specimen than India’s Ganges.

Sheikh Hasina understood the soft power of this obsession. In 1996, preceding a major Ganges water-sharing treaty, she dispatched Hilsa to West Bengal’s Chief Minister. Subsequent shipments targeted regional heavyweights, and despite a blanket export ban in 2012, her administration granted annual Puja exemptions.

In 2021 alone, 2,500 tonnes were shipped. Yet this generosity carried an underlying awkwardness: national treasures were sent abroad while domestic citizens found them increasingly unaffordable.

That internal contradiction has grown impossible to ignore. National catches dropped to roughly 500,000 tonnes recently, down from 571,000 tonnes two years prior, squeezed by overfishing, river siltation, and ecological strain. In Dhaka markets, prime specimens fetch between 2,000 and 3,200 taka ($17 to $26) per kilogram, placing them beyond ordinary households.

This reality made a recent gathering in New Delhi particularly tone-deaf. On Sept. 26, Bangladesh’s High Commission hosted an "Ilish Fest" for diplomats and journalists. Among the attendees was Abhijit Iyer-Mitra, a controversial commentator known for far-right Hindutva rhetoric and calls to deport Bangladeshis from India.

Reports emerged that the outgoing High Commissioner personally reserved a bowl of fried fish for him. While hospitality is a diplomatic duty, guests carry symbolism. As domestic consumers paid luxury prices, public shipments remained blocked, and state ties stayed frosty, Dhaka’s mission was serving national delicacies to a commentator who actively promotes anti-Bangladeshi vitriol.

It is a striking parable of contemporary South Asian diplomacy. Under Hasina, the fish crossing the border served as the primary message; today, its absence speaks just as loudly. Hilsa never dictated high politics since fish do not draft treaties or negotiate extraditions.

The beauty of the tradition lay in its very frivolity. It acknowledged that beneath strategic anxieties lay a shared cultural heritage of appetite and memory that outlasted imperial division. That is why this year’s empty platters matter, if only a little.