A Lesson from Bohagi Bidai

There are some memories that never fade with time. They quietly live within us, waiting for the right moment to remind us who we truly are. My childhood in Dergaon, in a small locality called Milonpur, is filled with such memories.

Milonpur was not just a place. It was a feeling. Nearly a hundred families lived there in those days, including ours. People came from different parts of Assam, belonging to different professions, castes, and religions, yet lived together like one extended family. Perhaps that is why it was named Milonpur, a place of meeting, a place where lives blended into a shared identity.

I still remember how my father, Late Ruleswar Das, played a quiet yet meaningful role in naming the locality. It was not merely a name he suggested. It reflected the very soul of the place. A coming together of lives, hopes, and journeys finding a common home.

Every year, as April faded into May, Milonpur would come alive with the spirit of Rongali Bihu. The occasion was Bohagi Bidai, the farewell to the Bohag month. It was not just a cultural programme. It was the heartbeat of our community.

In those days, the celebrations were largely organised by a music institution called Rupjyoti Kolaparishad under the guidance of Ananda Mohanta Sir, who was the driving force behind it. For us children, it was the most awaited time of the year. Days were filled with rehearsals, laughter, small mistakes, and growing confidence. As evening descended, the entire Milonpur echoed with the rhythmic beats of the dhol and the soulful notes of the pepa. The atmosphere felt nothing short of magical.

I was in Class-V when I first joined Rupjyoti Kolaparishad. Most of us children spent our time there, each engaged in our own learning. Some learnt dance, some singing, some practised the tabla, and others the khol. The place was always alive with sound, effort, and innocent enthusiasm.

Like many children, I began with the tabla. But gradually, my interest shifted towards the guitar, which fascinated me more. Yet today, I realise it was not just music that the school gave us. It gave us discipline, belonging, confidence, and the joy of growing together.

The Bohagi Bidai celebrations had everything. The Mukoli Xova, where people gathered freely, sharing thoughts and joy without barriers. Then came the “Go As You Like” competitions, perhaps the most entertaining of all, bringing out creativity in the most unexpected ways.

l still remember one moment very clearly. One of our seniors, Mahendra Da, entered the ground dressed as a beggar. His appearance was so convincing that I genuinely thought a real beggar had wandered into the field. I even wondered what he was doing there. Only later did I realise it was part of the competition, and to everyone’s amazement, he won the first prize. That was the beauty of it. It blurred the line between performance and reality.

Another memory that still makes me smile is of our neighbour, Papori Borthakur. She came dressed as a nurse, moving around seriously with a tray of injections and medical items, as if she were on real duty. People almost forgot it was an act. My sister Riba, on the other hand, performed as a modern girl. She carried herself with confidence and charm, though she did not win any prize that day. My cousin brother, Binoj Kakaty (Bula), chose a completely different role. He dressed as an Assam Police Battalion personnel and demonstrated field movements with a wooden toy rifle. What made it special was the effort behind it. Their tenant, Ram Da, who was himself a Battalion personnel, had trained him carefully in posture and movement. For us children, it felt real, disciplined, and deeply inspiring.

But beyond prizes and results, what truly mattered was participation.

Alongside these came the Bihu dance competitions, where young boys and girls expressed the very soul of Assam through rhythm and grace. Then came the grand cultural evenings, where artists like JP Das, Arun Das, Sandhya Menon and others performed, leaving us mesmerised. Even in the 1980s, those evenings felt magical, not because of grand arrangements, but because of their sincerity and simplicity.

That small stage in Milonpur became my first platform. I still remember the day I played the electric guitar before an audience. My sister, Riba Das, also stepped onto the stage for the first time to sing. We did not realise it then, but those moments were quietly shaping our confidence and identity.

The year 1982 remains particularly special in my memory.

My sister, barely six or seven years old, was preparing for the Bihu dance competition. My paternal uncle, Late Amal Das, whom we lovingly called Amal Da, took it upon himself to guide her. I can still picture him patiently teaching every step, every expression.

At one moment, while singing “Negheri Khupate,” he gently showed her how to hold her hair bun. That word carried a deeper meaning. Negheritinga was not just a term. It was the name of a small hillock in Dergaon where a revered Shiva temple stands. At its foothills lies Negheritinga village, the place from where my father originally belonged. That moment connected dance with roots, identity, and heritage.

With my uncle’s guidance, my sister participated and won a prize. It was not the first prize, but to us, it meant everything.

Yet, the most powerful moment of that year came not from the stage, but from my own ignorance.

On the day of the competition, my mother, Late Namita Das, asked me to attend. But I refused. I dismissed Bihu dance casually, saying I was not interested in watching “girls simply dancing.” Those careless words carried disrespect I did not even understand.

My mother remained silent then. But when she returned home, her silence turned into anger. She slapped me. The marks of her fingers remained visible on my cheeks even the next morning.

The next morning at the breakfast table, she spoke calmly. She said Bihu dance is not merely a dance. It is the expression of an entire Assamese identity.

She explained how Bihu was once performed in open fields and courtyards. It was a celebration of life, youth, and connection. Boys and girls danced together, not just for enjoyment, but to understand each other, under the blessings of the divine.

She spoke about the Husori groups, how they entered courtyards with respect, performed in the name of God, and blessed the households. She spoke of the Ahom kings who celebrated Bihu with their people and honoured the dancers.

Then she said something that changed me forever. She said even today Bihu dancers are honoured with titles like Bihu Rani(Bihu Queen) and Bihu Samragyi(Bihu Empress). They are not just performers. They are carriers of our identity, dignity, and culture.

She reminded me that Assam is a land shaped by saints, reformers, and kings. A land where women have always been respected. A land where culture is lived, not just practiced. “And if you reduce a Bihu dancer to just a girl dancing,” she said, “you are not insulting her. You are insulting your own culture.” Those words stayed with me. That day, something within me changed. I began to see what I had failed to see before. The grace of a Bihu dancer was not just movement. It was history in motion. It was identity expressed through rhythm. From that day on, I never looked at Bihu the same way again.

Today, when I look back at Milonpur and those Bohagi Bidai celebrations, I realise it was not just a cultural event. It was a classroom where life quietly taught its most important lessons. And among all those lessons, one stands above the rest. Respect your culture. Respect your roots. And above all, respect the dignity that comes with it. Because sometimes, a mother’s words can shape a lifetime.

The day I disrespected Bihu, I did not realise I was distancing myself from my own identity. That day, my mother did not just correct me, she brought me back to my roots.