When Magh Bihu meant more than a day: Memories from Assam’s winter hearths

Magh Bihu has arrived, and a festive hush has settled over Assam. Smoke and devotion are rearing to rise from blazing meji fires, frost still grips the grass at dawn, and the aroma of freshly made pithas drifts through the air, lending the season its familiar warmth.

Yet for many, the festival also evokes a quiet longing as cherished traditions mingle with memory.

For those who grow up in rural Assam, Magh Bihu is never confined to a single night or day. It unfolds slowly, almost patiently, beginning with the arrival of Puh maah, the coldest month in the Assamese calendar.

As winter deepens, village life follows a different rhythm. Mornings begin before sunrise, silence is broken by devotional songs, and preparations for Bhogali Bihu take precedence over festivity.

A file image of people celebrating Magh Bihu. (Photo: AIR news Guwahati)

Long before Uruka night, villages observe Probhati, an early morning prayer processions that move from house to house in the faint light of dawn.

Wrapped in warm clothes, villagers step into the cold, their voices rising together in Sankirtan (Kirtan). The ritual is believed to cleanse the surroundings, ward off bad omens, and spiritually prepare households for the harvest festival.

More than prayer, Probhati sets the tone for the season, underscoring restraint, faith and shared responsibility.

Rama Kanta Nath, now a Guwahati resident who spent his childhood in Goalpara, describes Probhati as inseparable from Magh Bihu’s soul.

“Earlier, Probhati used to continue for the full month. Gradually it came down to 15–20 days, and now it barely lasts three days. The main aim is to remove bad omens and cleanse the surroundings,” he says.

If Probhati reflects devotion and discipline, Uruka night reveals the festival’s playful spirit. Across villages, the night before Magh Bihu comes alive with laughter, mischief and excitement.

Young boys move through dark lanes, bamboo gates disappear to fuel bonfires and ducks or chickens are sometimes taken if left unguarded.

Shouts, mock chases and laughter echo through the night, blurring the line between mischief and tradition.

Champa Devi, born and raised in Dudhnoi and now residing in Guwahati, recalls Uruka with fond nostalgia.

“People would steal bamboo gates for the bonfire. Sometimes even ducks and chickens were taken if no one was around. Some households happily gave their belongings, while others chased the robbers. It was all fun and games. Now, we hardly see such things. I miss those days,” she says.

As dawn breaks, attention shifts to the burning of the Bhela Ghar. Paddy fields transform into sacred spaces as flames rise against the pale winter sky. The ritual begins quietly, with earthen lamps lit and Sankirtan sung to the rhythm of taal and khol.

“During our days, not just one Bhela Ghar was burned; there were many in the fields. Everyone gathered very early. Before lighting it, we first lit an earthen lamp and sang Sankirtan. People of all ages, from elders to children, came together to pray,” Nath recalls.

As the day unfolds, small groups move from house to house singing Naam Kirtan, their voices carrying through the crisp winter air. At each home, they pause briefly. Tea is offered—warm and fragrant—and the simple act of sharing a drink becomes a quiet ritual of connection, strengthening bonds that go beyond celebration.

A file image of women pounding rice. (Photo: AIR news Guwahati)

Many of these practices, however, have grown faint. Icy river baths before sunrise, when villagers shivered together and laughed through the cold, have largely disappeared. Long walks to distant fields to light Bhela Ghar, once a communal effort filled with chatter and anticipation, have become rare.

“The stillness before the flames, when everyone gathered to pray and reflect, now exists mostly in memory,” Devi says. “Earlier, we bathed around 4 am on freezing mornings and then burned the meji. Today, we don’t see that. We miss it.”

Even the making of pithas has shifted. Once, the rhythmic pounding of the dheki echoed across villages as women gathered to grind rice. Laughter and stories floated over fields while skills were shared across generations.

“If a house had a dheki, all the women would go there. Every woman knew how to make pithas. There were no organised groups like today,” Devi adds, recalling a time when tradition flowed naturally through daily life.

In these quiet moments, the shared tea, the pounding of rice, the early morning river baths, Magh Bihu thrived not only as a festival but as a living tapestry of village life.

Today, Magh Bihu continues to be celebrated across Assam, with meji fires blazing, pithas shared and laughter echoing through villages.

Yet for many, the festival’s deepest warmth lies not in grand gestures alone, but in memories of the quieter rituals that once gave the celebration its soul; carried forward softly, from one generation to the next.

Magh Bihu thrived not only as a festival but as a living tapestry of village life. (Photo: AIR news Guwahati)