Some people say the monsoon smells like wet earth. Others say it smells like petrichor, like renewal, like the sky taking a bath. But for me, the monsoon has always smelled like frying fish. That sharp, unmistakable scent that seeps into window grilles, clings to your clothes, and lets everyone in a three-house radius know—someone is making something special today.
In our home in Mumbai, it was always my mother who fried the fish. No recipe books, no measuring spoons—just instinct, experience, and a spice mix that lived in an old Nescafé jar labeled “FISH MASALA (STRONG).” She didn’t believe in shallow frying. This was full immersion. A sizzle loud enough to drown out even the thickest thunderclap.
Timing the Tide
Fish during monsoon was tricky business. The sea was rough, the fisherfolk were cautious, and the markets—those glorious, chaotic morning arenas—were full of bargaining and speculation. “Fresh nahi hai,” someone would whisper. “Ye kal ka dikh raha hai.” Buying fish in the monsoon wasn’t shopping. It was sport. My uncle claimed to know “a guy” who sourced monsoon-safe, line-caught fish. His WhatsApp profile photo was him holding a pomfret like it was a newborn child.
Once the fish came home, the ritual began. Cleaning at the kitchen sink while the pressure cooker hissed in the background. A small bowl of turmeric and salt for the first rub. Then the masala paste—red, fiery, a blend of garlic, ginger, chilies, and something she never revealed. “Family secret,” she’d say, though I suspected it was just extra chili powder. The fish would rest, marinate, soak up the monsoon air, while the frying pan preheated like a stage being set.
Monsoon Mood, Sealed in Oil
The actual frying was theater. The hiss. The pop. The curl of steam. And then—that smell. Spiced, oily, urgent. It would travel from the kitchen, snake down the corridor, and sneak out of the balcony to mingle with the scent of wet leaves and ozone. The neighbors would peek through half-open doors. Someone would text: “Fish today, na?”
We never ate at the dining table during fish days. Too formal. Too detached. We’d sit on the floor, the fan oscillating lazily overhead, the rain rattling outside, steel plates in hand, and fried fish placed directly on banana leaves or newspaper squares. It didn’t matter what kind of fish it was—bangda, surmai, rawas. It was about the mood. The wet weather outside, the crisp skin inside, the bones you skillfully removed and the ones you accidentally bit into.
Fried, and Fried Again
The best part? Leftovers. Not for the next day, but for dinner the same night—refried with onions and green chilies, tucked into soft pav, or eaten cold with rice and a side of pickled garlic. There was something rebellious about reheated fried fish. The skin wasn’t crisp anymore, the masala had mellowed, but it hit differently. Like a second chorus of your favorite song.
Trying It Abroad, Failing Gloriously
When I moved to Austin, I tried to recreate it. Found a frozen pomfret at an Asian grocery store. Mixed up the masala. Heated oil till the smoke alarm panicked. Fried it just the way I remembered. But something was missing. The smell didn’t travel. The air was dry. The house felt too quiet. The fish was fine, technically. But it wasn’t that fish.
Maybe you need the monsoon. Maybe you need the risk of a power cut mid-frying. Maybe you need the argument about who gets the tail piece. Maybe it only works when your mother says, “Don’t touch it yet, it’s hot!” and you touch it anyway.
The Scent That Anchors
Now, every year when the rains begin, even here in Texas, I swear I smell it. Just for a moment. The air turns, a memory clicks into place, and there it is—that heady mix of oil, spice, and sea. The monsoon, knocking on my senses like an old friend, holding out a piece of fried fish wrapped in newspaper.
And just like that, I’m back in that small kitchen, bare feet on cold tile, windows fogging up, and the smell of frying fish announcing: the rains are here, and home is just one bite away.
Born in Mumbai, now stir-frying feelings in Texas. Writes about food, memory, and the messy magic in between — mostly to stay hungry, sometimes just to stay sane.
