Culture
Source: Wikimedia Commons
In contemporary Assamese consciousness, Bihu is a joyous, inclusive occasion that marks the Assamese New Year. On government portals and cultural showcases, it is described in secular, non-religious, agrarian, or ethnic terms—a festival of spring, of joy and song, and of cultural pride. Cultural performances dominate the cities, dance competitions are held on public stages, and television channels air celebrity-studded shows.
But beneath the layers of modern branding and institutional sanitisation lies a deeper truth: Bihu is, and always was, a profoundly dhārmic festival, rooted in the Hindu cosmological, spiritual, and ritual tradition.
Today, very little of this sacred essence is remembered or discussed. What was once celebrated with mantras, symbolic worship, and ritual bathing is now marked with talent shows, dance competitions, and celebrity performances on television.
Most urban celebrants of Bihu may not even be aware that the rituals they perform—or now omit—once aligned with Vedic cosmology, ancestor worship, and Shaiva-Shakta traditions. The systematic stripping of Bihu’s Indic core is not accidental; it is the product of decades of cultural engineering, colonial condescension, and post-independence secularism that reclassified regional Hindu traditions as mere folklore.
This article seeks to restore memory. Not in a spirit of exclusion, but of reclamation. To understand Bihu merely as a cultural or agrarian event is to lose sight of its origins as a sacred celebration—of time, nature, fertility, and divine connection. In this erasure, Assam loses a fragment of its soul.
Origins of Bihu
To understand Bihu’s Hindu roots, one must begin with the concept of time in the Indic tradition. Unlike the Gregorian calendar, which is purely solar and linear, the Indic calendar is a synthesis of lunar and solar cycles, spiritually aligned with cosmic transitions. The timing of Bihu is no arbitrary choice; it coincides with Mesha Sankranti, the day when the sun enters the zodiac sign of Aries—a moment of cosmic realignment and spiritual renewal.
This is no local quirk. Across the Indic world, this date marks new beginnings: Vishu in Kerala, Puthandu in Tamil Nadu, Baisakhi in Punjab, Poila Boishakh in Bengal, and Rongali Bihu in Assam.
The synchronisation of these festivals across geography points to a shared civilisational rhythm, deeply Hindu in its metaphysics. Mesha Sankranti is traditionally associated with Yajñas (Vedic fire rituals), cleansing rites, offerings to ancestors, and temple worship. In essence, it marks the renewal of ṛta—the cosmic order.
The very term “Bihu” is believed by some scholars to derive from “Vishu,” which in Sanskrit means equal, referring to the equinox. Whether or not this is linguistically precise, the connection to Vedic calendrical systems is undeniable. The festival is luni-solar, seasonal, and spiritually synchronised—hallmarks of the dhārmic understanding of time.
It underscores the close connection between Bihu and the broader Indic understanding of time, cosmos, and agricultural cycles. Importantly, these weren’t just “practical” markers of the seasons, but believed to be sacred portals—moments when the human and divine could commune through rituals, dance, and song.
The timing of Rongali Bihu with the bursting of spring, the blossoming of nature, and the symbolic union of male and female energies is no accident. These are motifs found across Hindu festivals, especially in the Vasanta Navaratri period, celebrated across the Indic world.
The fields were sacred, the rivers holy, and even the cattle were not just property but divine companions in a cosmic dance. It was a time for ritual bathing, singing invocations, lighting lamps, and celebrating the life-force in all its expressions.
Thus, to view Bihu as a “harvest” festival alone is to strip it of its rich symbolic meaning. It is not a secular agrarian rite, but a spiritual celebration of Saṃskāra, ṛta, and Bhāva—a synchrony between man, nature, and the divine.
To reduce this to “secular celebration” is to flatten a multidimensional civilisational event into a one-dimensional ethnic spectacle.
Bihu is not a one-day event, but a sequence of celebrations spread across days—each with its own spiritual and symbolic resonance. The most prominent of these is Rongali Bihu, celebrated in the month of Bohag (mid-April). It is the most vibrant and widely observed, with rituals that stretch from cow worship to deity offerings and community dances.
The celebrations begin with Goru Bihu, a day devoted to reverence towards cattle—particularly cows, who hold a central place in the Hindu worldview. On this day, cows are bathed in rivers, smeared with ritualistic maah-halodhi (black gram and turmeric paste), whipped gently with dighloti (Litsea salicifolia) and makhioti (Flemingia strobilifera), and fed lau (bottle gourd) and bengena (brinjal) as people recite:
দীঘলতিৰ দীঘল পাত, গৰু কোবাওঁ জাত জাত৷
মাখিয়তীৰ মাখি পাত, মাখি মাৰোঁ জাত জাত৷
লাউ খা বেঙেনা খা, বছৰে বছৰে বাঢ়ি যা৷
মাৰ সৰু বাপেৰ সৰু, তই হ’বি বৰ বৰ গৰু৷
"Dighloti dighal paat, goru kubau jaat jaat.
Makhioti maakhi paat, maakhi marru jaat jaat.
Lau khaa bengena khaa, bosore bosore bardhi jaa.
Maar xoru baaper xoru, toi hobi bor bor goru."
With this, people drive away the flies with the leaves of dighloti and feed their cows brinjals and gourds, hoping that they grow every year, eventually outgrowing their parents. In the evening, they’re fed homemade pithas (traditional Assamese sweets made of rice flour).
These rituals are not mere acts of animal care. They are rooted in gau-puja, the veneration of the cow as a symbol of Aditi, the cosmic mother. In Vedic and later Hindu traditions, the cow represents fertility, dharma, and abundance. Washing and blessing the cow is an act of reverence—an acknowledgment of her role in sustaining both household and agriculture.
Today, in cities, this part is often skipped or conducted symbolically. But its origins lie in deep dhārmic consciousness of animal sanctity.
The second day, Manuh Bihu, centres on human renewal. People rise before dawn, take ritualistic baths with maah-halodhi (black gram and turmeric paste), wear new clothes, and seek blessings from elders. The bathing itself is symbolic—a shedding of old energies and a purification of both body and spirit. The donning of fresh clothes marks a new karmic cycle, and the lighting of lamps or incense in the home aligns with New Year customs seen across Bharat, from Ugadi in the south to Navreh in Kashmir.
People also pay obeisance to elders and ancestral spirits. As tradition has been, people seek blessings from the elders of the family by gifting the Bihuwan or the Gamusa, as a mark of respect.
After the ritual bathing and reverence for elders, people light lamps and offer prayers at their Gosain Ghar (household prayer place). This is called Gosain Bihu, when the household deities or Gosains are invoked and worshipped.
Over time, this part of Bihu has been downplayed, especially in urban celebrations. But in the villages, where memory is more tenacious, these rituals still survive—albeit fading.
But perhaps one of the most remarkable and under-acknowledged dhārmic rituals still practiced in rural Assam is the hanging of Shiva mantras inscribed on Nahar leaves at the threshold of homes to protect the household from Bordoisila (seasonal storms that come during Bihu). On the first day of Bohag, leaves of the Nahar tree (Mesua ferrea) are carefully selected and inscribed with a mantra dedicated to Lord Shiva:
দেৱ দেৱ মহাদেৱ নীলগ্ৰীৱ জটাধৰ |
বাত বৃষ্টি হৰং দেৱ মহাদেৱ নমস্তুতে ||
“Deva Deva Mahadeva, Nilagriva Jatadhara,
Baata Brishti Harang Deva, Mahadeva Namastute.”
This mantra invokes Mahadeva, the great god Shiva—he of the blue throat (Nilagriva), bearer of matted hair (Jatadhara), and remover of calamities such as storms and rain. The inscribed leaves are then hung over the doors and windows, not merely as decoration but as protective talismans, imbued with mantra shakti. This is a clear continuity of Shaiva tradition, linking Bihu to the worship of Rudra-Shiva as the cosmic guardian and purifier.
Such customs are not minor folkloric oddities—they are deeply Indic expressions of domestic ritual, similar to torans of mango leaves in western India or Kolam drawings in Tamil homes. They reflect the integration of Vedic mantra, nature worship, and householder dharma.
That this practice still survives in rural Assam—while being completely absent from urban Bihu narratives—is further evidence of the slow erosion of Bihu’s Hindu dimension under the guise of modernisation and secularisation.
Only after these important rituals are done do the festivities come. The next part of the festival is Mela Bihu where people mingle in communal fairs and enjoy spectacles such as music and dance.
This is the most popular and visible element of Bihu: the Bihu dance and song tradition. The eroticism and rhythm of these performances are often described as mere expressions of rural festivity. But beneath the surface lies something deeper: symbols of fertility, divine union, and seasonal rebirth.
The circular dance formations, rhythmic clapping, and the use of instruments like dhol, pepa and gagana are not arbitrary—they reflect the sacred geometry of Indic dance, akin to Garba, Bhangra, or Yakshagana.
The music dance itself is a form of Yajña, an offering of movement and bhāva to the divine. Their sounds are not mere entertainment; they were part of the nāda, the sacred soundscape of Hindu ritual and theatre. To dismiss this as “folk culture” is to miss its sacred grammar.
Even the two other important Bihus have dhārmic undertones. Bhogali Bihu celebrated in the month of Māgha involves ceremonial burning of the meji (straw house) and invoking the god Agni. Similarly, Kongali Bihu celebrated in the month of Kātī/Kārtika involves Tulsi puja.
Secularisation of Sacred Festivals
The transformation of Bihu from a ritual observance grounded in Hindu cosmology into a “secular cultural festival” did not occur overnight. It was a slow but deliberate process, rooted in larger forces that have operated across post-independence India: the colonial reclassification of dhārmic festivals as folklore, the rise of a homogenising secular nationalism, and a tendency within regional identity movements to disassociate from pan-Indic religious frameworks.
During British rule, many indigenous festivals were documented not as living spiritual traditions, but as “tribal,” “non-Aryan,” or “ethnic customs,” stripped of religious dignity. This classification persisted into the post-colonial mindset.
For example, while Diwali and Holi were acknowledged as Hindu festivals, Bihu began to be portrayed as an ethnic or agrarian folk tradition. Even though its rituals mirrored other Hindu New Year festivals, it was bracketed off as “Assamese” rather than “Indic.”
After independence, the emerging Assamese identity sought distinction from both “mainland Indian” and “Hindu” cultural templates. In the process, the dhārmic foundations of Bihu were deemphasised, even erased. What remained was a “neutral” celebration—safe for public funding, ideal for state-sponsored cultural shows, and presentable in multi-ethnic Assam as a unifying civic tradition.
Yet in this very neutrality lies cultural dispossession. The dancing remains, but the devata is gone. The turmeric bath remains, but the sankalpa is missing. The dhol is played, but the invocations are no longer heard. What was once a sacred seasonal yajña—a harmony of man, nature, and deity—has been turned into stagecraft.
This secularisation was not unique to Assam. Across India, similar trends have unfolded: Onam without Vishnu, Pongal without Surya, Navaratri without Devi. But Bihu presents a particularly stark case. Its entire structure—from Mesha Sankranti alignment to Shiva mantra traditions—is religious. To call it secular is not just inaccurate, but a form of soft cultural erasure.
Critics of this view may argue that the association of Bihu with Hindu deities and rituals is not original to the festival, but rather a later accretion. According to this perspective, Bihu began as an indigenous agricultural festival, celebrating fertility and seasonal change, and only later absorbed Hindu elements such as the worship of Shiva and Krishna or Naamghar-based celebrations.
They might claim that since these were later additions, they can just as easily be removed today—especially in the interest of making the festival more secular and inclusive.
The rituals associated with deities like Shiva and Krishna, or traditional invocations of fertility and prosperity, have become deeply embedded in the fabric of Bihu. These are not mere religious impositions; they are the result of generations of cultural negotiation and adaptation.
To strip Bihu of its Hindu character today is not a neutral act of restoration—it is a conscious and political redefinition. While earlier incorporations were inclusive and organic, the current attempt to secularise Bihu appears driven by an ideological agenda.
It seeks to sanitize public culture by erasing Hindu elements, not out of respect for diversity, but under the guise of enforced neutrality. This kind of state-driven or elite-led cultural engineering is neither inclusive nor democratic.
Similar efforts have been witnessed nationally. For example, the DMK in Tamil Nadu once attempted to shift the Tamil New Year from Puthandu to Pongal, rebranding it as a secular harvest festival. This too was met with resistance, as it was seen as tampering with cultural memory and the religious sentiments of the people.
Such efforts must be opposed—not because they challenge Hindu practices per se, but because they violate the organic integrity of long-standing and voluntarily-accepted cultural traditions.
The reclamation of Bihu in its present form is not a defense of religious orthodoxy, but a defense of cultural authenticity. Traditions should be allowed to evolve naturally—not be re-engineered to suit contemporary political or ideological agendas.
Reclaiming Bihu: Memory and Resistance
Yet all is not lost. In rural Assam, fragments of the sacred still live. In homes untouched by urban kitsch and bureaucratic rebranding, the rituals of Bihu are still performed with their original bhāva.
In many villages, cattle are still washed in rivers and venerated. Nahar leaves are still inscribed with Mahadeva mantras and hung from doorways. Tulasi plants are revered, and houses are ritually purified with turmeric, incense, and prayers.
Elderly women still sing Bihu geets that carry devotional themes—not just of longing for a lover, but for Krishna, Shiva, or the Earth Mother. Local shrines, often no more than sacred stones under a banyan tree, still receive offerings of lamps, naivaidyam, and flowers during the Bihu days.
These are not backward practices. They are acts of cultural fidelity—resistance against forgetting. They embody the sacred geography of India—a living network of spiritual nodes where even the most “regional” traditions are tied to a larger dhārmic universe.
The time has come to reclaim Bihu—not just as a symbol of Assamese identity, but as a sacred expression of Sanātana Dharma. This reclamation is not about exclusion. It is about restoration—about remembering what was, and reviving what must be.
What might this look like?
Reintegrating deity worship and reviving the forgotten Gosain Bihu practices in public celebrations—offering bhog to local deities, lighting lamps in community shrines, conducting simple pujas before the start of performances.
Teaching school children the Shiva mantras once inscribed on Nahar leaves and explaining their meanings. Printing them on Bihu greetings. Reconnecting festival to devatā and reviving the ancient nāma traditions.
Publicly acknowledging Bihu’s alignment with Mesha Sankranti, and teaching people how it connects Assam to the larger Indic cosmic rhythm—from Puthandu to Baisakhi.
Honouring traditional heroes like Kumar Bhaskara Varman, whose accession to the throne of Kāmarūpa marks the New Year on the Bhāskarābda calendar—an indigenous calendar deeply rooted in Assamese civilisational memory.
De-folklorising the dance, and de-sexualising the music—bringing back dignity to Bihu geets and dance forms. Training dancers to understand the sacred geometry behind their formations—the mandala-like choreography, the invocation of feminine power, the rhythm as a form of nāda yoga.
Writers, scholars, and cultural custodians must stop hiding behind the fig leaf of secularism. Bihu is Hindu. It always was. And like Durga Puja or Holi, its dhārmic character is essential to its meaning.
In a time when cultural memory is under siege, reclaiming Bihu is an act of devotion, dignity, and decolonisation. Let Bihu once again be what it was meant to be: a celebration of ṛta (cosmic order), bhāva (emotion), prakriti (nature), and devatā (divinity).
In remembering this, Assam does not become less inclusive. It becomes more rooted, more authentic, and more alive to the civilisational pulse that unites the subcontinent across time and space.