As Assam lights up with the rhythm and colour of its most beloved festival, Rongali Bihu, a more sobering question echoes quietly in its cultural corridors: Are we celebrating Bihu, or regulating it? Once a symbol of collective joy, agrarian unity, and artistic freedom, Bihu now finds itself entangled in a growing conflict between cultural preservation and cultural policing. The recent incident at Chandmari, Guwahati where the eminent lyricist Diganta Bharati was publicly humiliated and denied the microphone for not wearing traditional attire during his felicitation, has laid bare the tension simmering beneath the surface of Assam’s cultural pride. The irony is both poignant and troubling: a festival that blossomed in the open fields with laughter, rhythm, and spontaneity is now, in some corners, becoming a site of conformity, where identity is judged not by contribution or creativity, but by attire.
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Culture is not a monolith, nor a museum artefact. It is a living, breathing phenomenon, a collective expression of a society’s evolving identity. It thrives on relevance, dialogue, and shared experience. Yet, history offers us a paradox: the more tightly a culture is gripped under the banner of purity, the more it risks losing the very vitality it aims to protect.
Bihu was never meant to be a rigid performance. Its origins lie in the soil, literally. Among Greater Assamese communities including the Bodos, Deoris, Karbis, and Misings, Bihu was born as an agrarian celebration, tied to the cycles of nature, marked by cattle worship, flirtatious songs, and community dances under open skies. It was as much a celebration of life as of land. But as urbanisation advanced, Bihu adapted. It moved into towns and cities, acquired organised forms, and became emblematic of Assamese identity. Far from being diluted, it was enriched. Bihu morphed from a rural ritual into a symbol of shared cultural inheritance.
In recent years, a portion of society has taken it upon themselves to define what is “authentic” Bihu. On the surface, this may seem like a genuine act of preservation. But the method, often authoritarian in tone, tells another story. Prescriptions on what one must wear (dhoti-kurta, Mekhela Chador), how one must behave, and what one must perform have begun to overshadow the inclusive, organic spirit of the festival.
The Chandmari episode is illustrative of this shift. Diganta Bharati, who has contributed immeasurably to Assamese music and literature, was invited to sing on request from the audience and organisers after his felicitation when he was simply enjoying the performance of his wife from the audience. Yet, absence of traditional attire became a reason to deny him dignity. What was taken away from him wasn’t just a microphone, it was his voice, his space in the very culture he has helped enrich. This kind of enforcement reveals not devotion to culture, but assertion of power. A performer is judged, while the audience remains exempt. Such asymmetry doesn't protect culture, it fractures it.
Yet, the concern of cultural purists is not entirely baseless. In a rapidly globalising world, traditions can fade quietly, irreversibly. The decline of Sanskrit, once the language of Indian intellect, illustrates how sacred forms can lose vitality when they are removed from everyday life. Similarly, many tribal festivals in Northeast India have become vestiges of the past due to urban migration, loss of language, and lack of structured transmission.
In this context, the recent remarks made by Utpal Sarma, President of the All Assam Students’ Union (AASU) at Judges Field, Guwahati, deserve special appreciation. He rightly expressed concern about the cultural changes creeping into Assamese society, especially the way modern trends are overshadowing our age-old traditions. His critique of the inclusion of rituals like Sangeet and Mehendi in Assamese weddings is not a lament of nostalgia, but a timely reflection on how these additions, far from enriching, often increase the economic burden and slowly displace indigenous practices. It is painful to observe that Biya Naam, once central to Assamese matrimonial traditions, is now mostly confined to rural areas, yielding place to Bollywood style rituals in urban weddings.
Successful cultures are not those that resist change but those that adapt while retaining essence. Japan, during the Meiji Restoration, modernised aggressively but did not abandon its tea ceremonies, martial arts, or Shinto practices. Instead, they were recontextualised, embedded into contemporary life. The Cherokee Nation’s creation of a digital keyboard in their native language is a case of preservation through innovation. Assam must draw similar lessons. Bihu can and must grow. It can retain its core joy, rhythm, connection with the land while opening its doors to new interpretations, new voices, and new generations.
True tradition does not demand uniformity; it invites participation. Writer-philosopher Rabindranath Tagore once said, “A mind all logic is like a knife all blade; it makes the hand bleed that uses it.” The same is true of culture. If tradition is used only as a weapon of judgment, it eventually turns against its own people. When we reduce a festival to dress codes, we forget its spirit. Bihu is not about what one wears; it is about what one shares. And what Diganta Bharati has shared through his words and melodies is not just music, it is identity, memory, belonging. To silence him over a piece of attire is not tradition, it is activism.
As the renowned writer and filmmaker Dr. Bhabendra Nath Saikia once reflected, ‘Culture is not merely something one learns from books, it is the unfolding of a shared inner consciousness’. If our cultural consciousness becomes dominated by superficial practices rather than soulful engagement, we risk turning our heritage into a hollow echo chamber.
This is not merely about one incident or one man. It is about the kind of Assam we are shaping. Will we be a society that values contribution over conformity, or one that reduces culture to costumes or other superficial aspects? Will we inspire the youth to embrace tradition through joy, or alienate them through rigidity? Bihu’s journey from field to stage, from folk to formal, is not a fall from grace, it is a natural evolution. But this evolution must be accompanied by empathy and balance. Let us ask: is our culture so fragile that a piece of attire threatens its survival? Or is it resilient enough to welcome all who love it, no matter how they dress?
At the end, we can say the culture must be rooted in its past, but it must not be trapped by it. Like a tree, it draws strength from its roots but must also reach toward the sky. If Bihu is to remain Assam’s living soul, it must breathe freely; not through forced reverence, but through voluntary celebration. The incident at Chandmari need not be remembered only with regret. It can be a moment of reckoning, a time to redefine what cultural respect truly means. Let us not turn Bihu into a fortress of exclusion. Let it continue to be what it was always meant to be: a celebration of harmony, expression, and shared humanity. Because the true strength of culture lies not in how rigidly we enforce it, but in how confidently we invite others into it with dignity, joy, and an open heart.
(All views and opinions expressed are author’s own)
