There was a time when Rongali Bihu did not need a reminder. It simply arrived—first as a feeling, and then as a celebration that took over everything around us.
Sometimes, it arrived with a sound.
The first song of the cuckoo.
That soft, familiar call echoing through the morning air… and somehow, without anyone saying it out loud, we all knew—Bihu had arrived. It filled our hearts with a kind of joy that is difficult to explain today. A quiet happiness, a sense of belonging, a feeling that something beautiful was about to unfold.
You could sense it in everything around you. The distant rhythm of the dhol, the quiet rehearsals in neighbourhoods, the sudden excitement in everyday conversations, markets filled with colourful attires—Bihu was coming alive.
And we were never just spectators. We were part of it.
There was always a group—friends, cousins, neighbours—coming together to prepare something for the local Bihu function. Some years it was a dance, some years a song, and then there was the chorus by the neighbourhood kids. We would spend days practicing, repeating the same steps and songs, laughing at our mistakes, correcting each other, and slowly building something we could proudly call our own.
Those evening practices had a life of their own. Open spaces, courtyards, unfinished stages—it did not matter. What mattered was that shared energy, that simple joy of doing something together.
And then, the performances.
The little ones from the colony would take the stage, dressed in their colourful mekhela sador, slightly nervous but glowing with excitement. And we would be right there—in the first row—cheering the loudest. Clapping harder than anyone else, calling out their names, making sure they felt like stars. Because in that moment, they were.
And then came the nights. Those long, unforgettable nights at the Bihu pandals.
Walking towards the pandal with friends, the music growing louder with every step, the lights pulling you in—it always felt like entering another world.
We would sit there for hours, completely immersed.
Artists from across Assam would take the stage—each bringing their own rhythm, their own story. Names like Boron Bikash, Biman Baruah, Krishnamoni Chutia, Bornali Kalita, Zublee Borthakur—each performance adding to the night in its own way.
But some performances stayed with you a little longer.
Like Bhaya Mama’s troupe.
They brought a completely different energy to the stage—laughter that echoed across the pandal, but with a depth that stayed with you long after. Their satire, their timing, the way they turned everyday realities into something both humorous and meaningful—it felt effortless, yet powerful.
Even today, when I think of those Bihu nights, it is impossible not to remember them… as if they were an inseparable part of that time.
We were never just watching. We were clapping, singing, sometimes even getting up to dance. Time moved differently there. Midnight would pass, then another performance would begin, and another.
Tea stalls became our little breaks between memories. Conversations, laughter, endless munching—and still, no one wanted to leave.
We stayed till morning. Because leaving early never felt right.
And then, there were those unexpected moments that became stories of their own.
The sudden arrival of Bordoisila winds.
Strong, wild, almost dramatic—sweeping through the pandal without warning. Chairs would shift, lights would flicker, dust would rise, howling winds, thunderstorm… and suddenly, everyone would rush together for shelter.
At the Rukmini Nagar Bihutoli, that meant one place—the huge greenroom.
Performers, organisers, audience—everyone packed together, laughing, adjusting, waiting for the wind to pass. In those moments, there was no separation. Just people sharing the same experience.
And strangely, those interruptions became memories we still hold on to.
And then, there was always that one moment everyone waited for.
When Zubeen Garg took the stage.
There was something about his presence that cannot be explained. The energy shifted. The crowd moved closer. Voices grew louder—but beyond all that, there was a connection that felt deeply personal.
His songs were not just played. They stayed.
Year after year, his performance became a part of our Bihu. Something we looked forward to without even saying it out loud.
And maybe that is why this Bihu feels a little incomplete. Everything is still there—the lights, the music, the celebrations.
But somewhere, there is a silence.
A space that reminds us of what we had, of what we grew up with.
We left Rukmini Nagar almost 20 years ago. Life moved on. Places changed.
But that Bihu… That Bihu never really left.
Even today, when the cuckoo sings, when the dhol plays somewhere in the distance, it does not just feel like a festival beginning.
It feels like home.
