Bihu Songs And Its New Forms
A heartfelt look at how Bihu geet is evolving—from poetic flirtations to risqué lyrics—and the cultural crossroads Assam now faces.
Bihu is not just another item on Assam’s cultural calendar; it’s the very heartbeat of the land, a time when even the cows seem to moo in tune with the dhol. Bohag Bihu, in particular, arrives each April like a sprightly guest who refuses to be ignored, bringing with it music, dance, flirtation, and the delicious chaos of Assamese festivity. Graceful women draped in Sador-Mekhela, dancing barefoot on open fields, while the pepa and toka make merry in the background. A scene that could melt the heart of even the grumpiest postman.
I was reading an article by Monisha Devi titled New-age Bihu geet: Are contemporary lyrics pushing boundaries of decency? published by The Assam Tribune. She writes about the present state of Bihu songs which is using rather controversial lyrics. She writes recent developments in the Bihu geet scene have made quite a few folks spill their jolpan in dismay. What once was a poetic ode to love, nature, and rustic life is now, as some might say, sounding more like a desperate audition for a risqué late-night radio show.
To be blunt, some of these new-age Bihu songs seem to have taken a tumble down a very slippery slope—from innocent flirtation to eyebrow-raising vulgarity faster than you can say “tamul-paan”. Tracks like Bati Bhorai Sira Khabi and the now notorious line Kumol Kumol tumar buku khoni from Lakhimiai, crooned by the usually beloved Zubeen Garg, have been at the centre of this cultural kerfuffle. Critics say these tunes focus more on women’s anatomy than Assam’s agrarian soul—and quite a few aunties and uncles are not amused.
And let’s not even get started on Disco Bhonti—a 2016 number that, rather awkwardly, encouraged women to stick to traditional attire but in such a cringeworthy manner that it might just have had the opposite effect. One can’t help but wonder if the lyricist was hit on the head with a taal while writing it.
Anil Saikia, respected folklorist and all-round cultural compass, notes that what we’re hearing now are often Bihu xuriya geet—songs based on Bihu tunes, not of Bihu itself. That’s rather like calling instant noodles “pasta”—yes, they’re noodly, but let’s not kid ourselves. Traditional Bihu geet were more than songs; they were living, breathing expressions of life, sung between sowing and harvest, laughter and longing.
The twist in the tale? This isn’t the first time Bihu has flirted with modernity. Even back in 1881, when trains chugged their way into Assam, Bihu lyrics hopped aboard: Upia upia rail gadi solile, Diborugort godhuli hol—a poetic line describing the train at twilight. So yes, evolution is par for the course—but there’s a fine line between keeping up with the times and getting lost in them.
Folk musician Pity Borah makes a very valid point—“flirtation is fine, vulgarity is not.” Quite right. There’s a difference between a cheeky wink and full-blown scandal. According to Borah, the key lies in intention—and one mustn’t forget that traditional Bihu instruments like the dhol, pepa, gogona and taal once carried the rhythm of entire communities. These days, that rhythm has been replaced (or drowned out) by auto-tune and beats that sound suspiciously like leftovers from a Goa trance party.
But of course, not all is doom and dhol. Many older Bihu songs are still performed, still loved, and still capable of making a grown man shed a nostalgic tear into his laal chaa. According to Saikia, there are nearly ten types of Bihu naam, each with its own nuances and charms. Those who churn out shallow, objectifying numbers, he suggests, may not grasp what a real Bihu geet represents. It’s like calling every Veg Pulao a Biryani —it simply won’t do.
Now, enter the modern-day wild west: the internet. Platforms that once promised cultural democratisation now thrive on viral oddities. Songs are no longer listened to for lyrical subtlety but shared for their “LOL” factor. Who needs depth when you’ve got double meanings, eh?
And so, we arrive at the crux of it. Assam finds itself at a cultural crossroads—one foot in the past, the other in a pair of glittery trainers. There’s nothing wrong with a fresh take on tradition (after all, the Victorians weren’t known for their Spotify playlists either). But it begs the question: can we remix the tune without throwing out the soul?
Borah thinks so. “We’re making music for the people,” he says. “Some love the raw sound of classic Bihu, others like the electronic twist. That’s all fine. But we must be mindful. It’s not about stifling creativity, it’s about wielding it with responsibility.”
Workshops, community outreach, and social media have become vital tools in ensuring that Bihu geet doesn’t go the way of the cassette tape. Today’s artistes are the cultural custodians—moulding the future while holding onto the roots.
And finally, here’s the rub: if we are to keep Bihu authentic—if we want future generations to hear its music and not mistake it for a music video gone rogue—it’s going to take more than a few op-eds. It’ll need a proper chinwag, yes, but also action. As Borah notes, the authorities must draw the line in the sand (preferably somewhere between cheeky and cheap).
Because at the end of the day, Bihu is not just something we hear—it’s something we feel. And if we don’t want that feeling to disappear in a haze of hashtags and head-bobbing nonsense, then it’s time to bring the soul back into the song.
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