A Dreamy Beginning on the Water 🌧️🛥️

It wasn’t planned. Not really. We didn’t have an itinerary printed out or a checklist of spots to cover. We only had two things: an invitation to the Sundarban Hilsa Festival 2025 and a quiet craving to escape the city. As the boat left Godkhali jetty and sliced into the murky calm of the river, something inside me loosened — a knot of restlessness I didn’t know I carried.

I leaned against the side, watching the Sundarbans awaken under a cloudy sky. The air smelled like wet soil and woodsmoke, and somewhere in that stillness, I began to remember flavors — of childhood lunches, my mother’s red bangles tinkling in the kitchen, steam rising from mustard hilsa, and Rabindrasangeet playing softly on the radio.

The Floating Kitchen: Where Water Meets Fire 🍛🔥

An Unexpected Feast Mid-River

By late morning, our boat moored beside another — a floating kitchen run by local women. No signboard, no menu, only the laughter of women in colorful sarees and the mouthwatering smell of ilish curry being cooked in heavy iron pots.

We were handed brass plates and seated on wooden planks right there on the deck. And then, it happened — the first bite.

The first bite of hilsa on a boat in the Sundarbans—it tasted like monsoon and memory.

The mustard was sharp, the fish was soft, the rice was steaming, and the whole moment… transcendent. I closed my eyes. It wasn’t just taste — it was a return. A homecoming to every rainy day of my childhood.

Bimal Da: The Boatman Who Knows the Sky 🌦️🚣‍♂️

“Hilsa Comes with the Clouds”

“Hilsa won’t come if the rain doesn’t sing first,” said Bimal Da, our boatman. He had silver hair, bronzed skin, and a kind smile. As we sailed deeper into the mangroves, he narrated old fishermen’s beliefs — how the Sundarban Hilsa Festival always coincided with the rains, how the rivers knew when to gift the ilish.

“It’s not just a fish,” he said. “It’s the season’s offering — like the river’s own poem.”

He pointed to a passing boat where kids were helping their parents unload hilsa from bamboo baskets. The glistening fish shimmered like silver memories under a gray sky.

A Rainy Pause and a Grandma’s Poem ☁️🧓📖

Smells, Steam, and Storytelling

In the afternoon, it rained. Not a sharp downpour, but a steady, curtain-like drizzle. We anchored by a small island village. I found shelter under a thatched verandah, where I met Dida — an 80-year-old woman shelling mustard seeds by hand.

She offered us puffed rice mixed with fried hilsa flakes, and softly recited an old rhyme:

“Ilish aashley jhorey jol,
Ma-er haatey thakey ghorer mol.”

(“When hilsa comes, the skies weep; and in Ma’s hands, the kitchen sings.”)

It was then I realized: the Hilsa Festival in Sundarban wasn’t organized by event planners — it was woven by rivers, rains, and grandmothers like her.

Festival of the Five Senses 👀👃👂👅🖐️

What the Eyes, Nose, Ears, Tongue, and Skin Remember

• Sight: Boats painted in bright reds and yellows, nets full of ilish, steaming pots, and rain-drenched mangroves
• Smell: Mustard oil, green chili, wet wood, river salt, and smoky hilsa skin
• Sound: Rain on the tin roof, Baul songs echoing from another bank, fish sizzling in oil
• Taste: Tangy-salty hilsa curry with sticky rice, and bitter gourd fried crisp as paper
• Touch: Clay cups of tea warming cold fingers, the slippery silver scales of a just-caught fish

Every sense was alive — reminding me that real festivals are not seen, they’re felt.

Through the Eyes of a Food Vlogger 📸🍽️

Meet Shivani — The Hilsa-Hunting Creator

Shivani, a content creator from Mumbai, was on our boat. She had thousands of Instagram followers but hadn’t tasted hilsa before.

“Back home, fish doesn’t smell like this,” she said, surprised. “It smells… emotional.”

She filmed every step — from market to kitchen to plate — and by evening, she was helping local women pound mustard paste with a shil-nora.

“This is not food content,” she told me. “This is cultural archaeology.”

Bonbibi’s Blessing: Between Myth and Meal 🙏🎭

A Night Performance in the Shadows

That evening, we attended a Bonbibi pala performance near the forest edge. The tale of the jungle goddess was narrated in song and movement — protecting those who respect nature, punishing those who exploit it.

As the play ended, villagers served us a simple dish — ilish bhuna with red rice. Sitting under a tarpaulin, surrounded by flickering lamps and distant thunder, I tasted not just the fish but the story.

The Hilsa Festival 2025 wasn’t just about celebrating a delicacy — it was about honoring a way of life.

The Return: Leaving with More Than We Came For 🎒💭

The Festival Lingers in the Soul

As our boat turned toward Godkhali the next day, I kept thinking about that first bite. How could a fish carry so many emotions? Was it really just the hilsa, or was it the memory, the river, the rain, and the way it all came together?

We said goodbye to Bimal Da. Shivani waved from another boat. The floating kitchens were now quiet.

I had arrived hungry. But I left full — not just in my stomach, but in my spirit.

A Taste That Time Can’t Wash Away 🐟🌧️❤️

The first bite of hilsa on a boat in the Sundarbans—it tasted like monsoon and memory.

And that taste, I believe, will stay with me long after the rains are gone.

The Hilsa Festival tour Sundarban is not something to “visit.” It’s something to feel, to be part of, to surrender to. And if you’re lucky, like me, you’ll find yourself in a quiet moment — holding a plate of ilish, as the rain taps around you — knowing you’ve tasted something timeless