Every April, as the golden sun lingers a little longer in the sky and the air carries a faint whiff of blooming kopou phool, something stirs in the hearts of people across Assam. Shops start stocking pithas and jolpan ingredients, gamosas flutter proudly on balconies, and the rhythmic beat of the dhol makes its way into every lane and bylane. It’s Bihu season—when time slows down just enough for us to celebrate love, land, and life itself.
Bihu is not just a festival; it’s a feeling. A reminder of who we are, where we come from, and the stories we carry with us.
A Festival Rooted in the Land
Originally, Rongali Bihu marked the beginning of the Assamese New Year and celebrated the arrival of spring—a time of sowing, hope, and abundance. It was nature’s way of saying, “Begin again.” For generations, it was closely tied to agriculture. The songs, dances, and rituals were not separate from the land; they grew out of it, like the young paddy sprouts in April fields.
Even today, Goru Bihu—the day dedicated to cattle—is observed with care in many villages. Cows and bulls, the silent companions in a farmer’s journey, are bathed in rivers, adorned with garlands, and thanked for their tireless labour. It’s a ritual that reminds us of our bond with animals, with earth, with the very cycle of life.
These simple, grounded rituals are powerful reminders in today’s tech-heavy world. They show us that respect—for land, life, and labour—can still be deeply sacred.
But as we moved away from the soil—physically and metaphorically—Bihu transformed too. For some of us, it's now less about sowing crops and more about reconnecting with cultural roots. In apartments and urban neighbourhoods, we no longer have cows to bathe, but we hold on to the songs, the dances, the food, and the spirit.
Of Pithas, Pepas, and Personal Rituals
Ask anyone about their earliest Bihu memories, and food will probably be the first word. The aroma of freshly roasted sesame seeds, the delicate crispness of til pitha, the sweet stickiness of narikolor laru—these are more than just snacks; they’re edible heirlooms. Recipes passed from grandmother to mother, and now being Googled by city kids trying to recreate a slice of home in faraway kitchens.
Making pitha was never just a culinary exercise. It was a bonding ritual. Families gathered, hands rolled, stories flowed. If you grew up in Assam, chances are, your palms have the muscle memory of shaping a pitha, even if your adult life is spent typing on laptops.
And yet, it’s more than food—it’s nostalgia kneaded into rice flour. It’s a quiet declaration that no matter where we go, we carry flavours of home within us.
The pepa and toka too—those humble instruments—carry centuries of sound. Their music isn’t polished or staged. It’s raw, rustic, and real. It’s the kind of music that doesn’t just enter your ears but settles in your bones.
Bihu in the Backyard and Beyond
Growing up, Bihu meant dance competitions in school auditoriums, where every girl learned to tie a mekhela sador for the first time, and every boy tried to copy the perfect dhol rhythm. It meant walking from house to house, performing husori, and coming back with pockets full of sweets and compliments.
But Bihu has travelled far from the paddy fields of Assam. Today, there are Bihu celebrations in Delhi, Bangalore, New York, and even Tokyo. Assamese communities across the globe organize events, cook together, and dance till their feet hurt—sometimes with their children who’ve never been to Assam but know every step of the Bihu dance.
There’s something deeply comforting about that. Bihu reminds us that culture isn’t tied to geography. It lives where people carry it—in their habits, songs, and hearts.
And sometimes, it’s in these borrowed lands that Bihu becomes even more vibrant—touched by stories of migration, mingled with longing, and lit with the love of preserving identity far from home.
A Time to Reflect and Reconnect
Bihu also has a quieter side. Beyond the music and the laughter, it’s a time for reflection. For many, Bihu is when families meet after months, sometimes years. It’s when estranged siblings talk again, when parents forgive, when lovers reunite. There’s something about Bihu that softens the hardest edges.
Maybe it’s the season. Maybe it’s the music. Maybe it’s the fact that Bihu is ours—it doesn’t belong to any religion, class, or language. Everyone is welcome under the Bihu sky. And that inclusivity is its greatest strength.
In a world that’s increasingly divided, Bihu whispers a gentle reminder: celebrate togetherness.
The Relevance of Bihu Today
One might ask—what role does Bihu play in 2025? Does it still matter to the young generation?
Absolutely. In fact, maybe now more than ever.
We live fast lives, constantly connected and yet emotionally distant. Festivals like Bihu ask us to pause. To look around. To share a meal, a laugh, a dance, a warm hug, or even a moment of silence. In an era where we click “like” more than we say “I love you,” Bihu urges us to be present—not just online, but with each other.
It also offers a sense of continuity. In a world of change, it’s comforting to know that some things remain—the beat of the dhol, the warmth of a Bihu bonfire, the joy of wearing a fresh gamosa. For the children of tomorrow, Bihu can be that anchor. Not just a festival they attend, but a feeling they inherit.
Bihu matters because it connects joy with meaning, and memory with hope. "And for every generation, that bridge is sacred, timeless, and deeply personal too."
Carrying Bihu Forward
The beauty of Bihu is that it evolves. Today, we see Bihu-themed music videos on YouTube, fusion Bihu tracks in cafés, and even eco-conscious celebrations where pithas are packed in banana leaves, not plastic.
We see boys proudly learning traditional dances and girls learning to play the dhol. We see queer couples celebrating Bihu with joy and visibility. That’s the Bihu we need—one that belongs to everyone.
As we celebrate this year, let us remember that Bihu is not something we attend. It’s something we create—with our stories, our laughter, our memories. Whether you’re in a village lighting the Uruka fire or in a high-rise flat sharing pithas with neighbours, know this: if your heart beats to the rhythm of togetherness, you are already celebrating Bihu.
(The author is a Former Research Scholar in Guwahati based University. All views and opinions expressed are author’s own)
