From courtyards to counters, the evolving story of Bhogali Bihu’s pitha

On cold January mornings, Assam’s villages often wake up to the steady, familiar thud of the dheki. Bora saul, soaked through the night, is laid out under the pale winter sun, then pounded patiently, hour after hour, until it found its way into pitha, shaped by collective effort and unhurried time.

Bhogali Bihu was never just about eating; it was about making. The kitchen courtyard turned into a living cultural space where women gathered, folk songs drifted through the air, and traditions were passed down; not through instruction, but through watching, doing, and remembering.

“That is the system. Every house made pithas. Three to four households came together. One would pedal the dheki, another would sort the pounded grain. It was a community act,” recalled 60-year-old Champa Das, a Guwahati resident.

Not very long ago, pitha-making was more than a culinary task. It was a collective ritual, shaped by time, labour and togetherness.

For Das, the process mattered as much as the food itself. Rice was soaked overnight, dried carefully under the winter sun, and prepared on fixed dates when women from families and neighbourhoods assembled. “It was elaborate, but it was ours. Only we could do this. Pithas belonged to us,” she said.

The quiet shift

Today, the aroma of pitha still signals the arrival of Bhogali Bihu, but its making has quietly shifted from household courtyards to urban kitchens, and increasingly, to shop counters.

In metropolitan settings, packed schedules now define everyday life. Pithas are more often bought than made. The shift raises concerns about the erosion of tradition, even as it reflects adaptation to modern realities.

In cities like Guwahati, Bhogali Bihu is frequently celebrated amid work deadlines, nuclear families and apartment living. The long, labour-intensive process of making pitha from scratch has become difficult to sustain.

“Earlier, women were mostly housewives and had time. Now people are busy, working. They don’t get time. The upcoming generation doesn’t know how to make pithas—that’s why they buy and eat,” Das said. “

While she is glad that pithas continue to be consumed, Das misses the sense of togetherness. “During our time, Bhogali Bihu meant waking up before sunrise and sitting together for hours. No one talked about buying it. Now life has become very fast.”

Her concern is echoed by many elders who fear that indigenous knowledge may gradually disappear if pitha-making remains confined to markets.

Til Pithas being packed by women workers for mass consumption in Guwahati (Photo: AT)

For younger urban residents, however, buying pitha is often about convenience as much as cultural continuity.

Hemant Saikia, a 35-year-old businessman in Guwahati originally from Teok in Jorhat district, carries vivid memories of Bihu from his childhood. “I can recall my mother sitting near the stove while my cousins and I stole hot pithas to eat. It held an emotion,” he said.

Life today looks different. Saikia and his wife both work, live in a two-bedroom apartment, and rarely get extended holidays. “It’s impossible to prepare pithas the old way with a dheki. There’s no space, no time,” he added.

Buying pitha, he believes, helps bridge that gap. “We still try to make simpler items like tel pitha, but other varieties we buy from outside. There is no good or bad here. Buying pithas still makes us feel part of Bhogali Bihu.”

“The feeling of Bihu is still there. It may not be made in our kitchen, but it connects us to home,” he said.

Pitha’s urban custodians

Cultural spaces such as Biponon Kshetra have emerged at this intersection of tradition and urban life. Founded in 2016 as a Bhogali mela, it began modestly with a dheki, ural, and 25 women making pithas.

“We started with just one pan. We collected different rice varieties; black rice from Assam Gaurav awardee Upendra Rabha, kumol rice from Tengakhat and kept everything traditional,” said its owner, Anjumani Bhattacharjya.

What motivated her was a simple question - why should pithas be limited to Bihu alone? “Why can’t pithas be cultural snacks throughout the year? Children grow up knowing pizza and burgers—why not pitha?” she asked.

Bhattacharjya acknowledges that urban life has altered celebration patterns. “For many people, it’s difficult to carry out the entire process. Buying pitha makes it easier for those who lack time, space or knowledge.”

Yet, she rejects the idea that commercialisation erases tradition. “We have live, open kitchens where children can watch pitha-making. It’s not about forgetting tradition. Cultural spaces and shops can become its new custodians.”

Different varities of pitha packaged for sale in Bhogali Bihu at Biponon Kshetra (Photo: AT)

Nearly 90% of Biponon Kshetra’s workforce are women, many from socially vulnerable backgrounds. “Some women who left their husbands or had no livelihood find dignity here. We train those who didn’t know how to make pitha. This work empowers them,” Bhattacharjya said.

She also sees commercial sellers as stakeholders in cultural preservation. “One pitha requires many hands from soaking rice to pounding and cooking. Those involved in mass production are also taking this tradition forward.”

The emotional value of pitha now travels beyond Assam as well. Biponon Kshetra has had customers carry pithas to Dubai and the United States to celebrate Bihu abroad.

“Though preservation is a challenge because pithas are made with natural ingredients, this demand shows emotional attachment to roots,” Bhattacharjya said.

That attachment is visible among younger generations too. Eleven-year-old Pratyusha Hazarika, who lives in Guwahati but visits her village in Jorhat, experiences both worlds.

“I’ve seen Borma making til pitha in the village. In Guwahati, my parents buy it from outside. I love eating hot black rice til pitha from the pan,” she said.

The journey of pitha, from dheki-filled courtyards to neatly arranged counters, reflects the changing rhythms of Assamese society.

Perhaps Bhogali Bihu today stands not at the end of tradition, but at a turning point. Whether made at home or bought from a shop, pitha continues to carry memory, effort and belonging, reminding people that culture, like life itself, survives by adapting.