It was one of those April evenings in Bangalore where the sky threatens rain but holds back — like it's got secrets. The heat clung to her like an old shirt that doesn’t fit anymore, and the air was soaked in exhaust fumes and the distant honk of autos doing their daily dance of impatience. Not exactly the kind of evening that invites soft emotions or rose-tinted memories. But there she was — Jinti — sitting on the edge of her rented PG bed near Koramangala, watching the fan wobble overhead and feeling something shift quietly, achingly inside.
She had just shut her laptop after another twelve-hour day at the IT company — the kind where Slack pings feel like mosquito bites and even the strongest ginger chai from the third-floor vending machine doesn't quite cut it. Another sprint review. Another “quick sync.” She had smiled through back-to-back meetings while some anonymous lo-fi track played in her headphones, more for survival than ambiance. But now the silence had weight. And then… that one song.
“Kinu sawonire sala mok oi…”
It came in soft and sudden, like a memory sneaking up behind you — someone’s speaker in the next PG room, slightly tinny through the wall. Maybe another Assamese girl, maybe someone stumbled onto a Bihu playlist while chasing some nostalgia they didn’t know they had.
But that voice, that tune — it cracked her open.
And just like that, she wasn’t in Bangalore anymore.
She was barefoot on the dry playground of Bajali Higher Secondary School, ten years old, chasing her cousins through clouds of dust as the sun dipped low. The mekhela sador her aai had draped that morning was slipping off one shoulder, but she didn’t care. Her legs ached from dancing, her hands sticky from mitha doi scooped hastily outside the Milk Parlour, and her heart — oh, her heart — was so full it could burst. Entirely, foolishly, shamelessly happy.
She saw the old stage, too — the one with the uneven planks and that one mic that always died mid-performance. And she could still hear the cheers the year Zubeen Garg came to perform. She must’ve been in high school then, wearing lipstick for the first time, gripping her best friend’s hand like they were about to take off. The way they screamed during “Maya Matho Maya,” convinced that if Zubeen saw them in the crowd.
That same best friend, the one she used to eat momos with at Kasasti, after tuition classes, laughing till their stomachs hurt — she’s married now. Expecting a baby, actually. Her best friend had called last week, asking her to come home this Bohag Bihu.
Her mind wandered further, back to the soft mornings spent in Bamunkuchi, her maternal uncle’s village. That place smelled like firewood and river silt, and she remembered how the mornings of Bihu began there — with hot, sweetened tea in steel glasses and her cousin running barefoot with a gamusa slung over his shoulder, yelling something about rehearsals.
And the chai from Mayur Hotel, how could she forget that? That tiny, crowded place near the bus stand in Pathsala where she and her college gang would sit forever, talking about everything and nothing. The glasses were always slightly chipped, but the chai had that perfect bitterness, cut through with too much sugar.
She had missed Magh Bihu this year — again. That cursed product releases her boss had declared “critical.” So, she'd stayed. Told herself it was fine. Told herself she'd go next time. And here it was next time. April was already halfway in, and still she hadn’t decided. Or rather, she had — she just hadn’t admitted it to herself.
Yesterday, her mother had called.
“Eibar bihu’t aahibi ne majoni. Tok logi bahu man puri ase.”
(Come home this Bihu, okay? I am missing you so much.)
She had mumbled something vague. Something about meetings. About how flights were expensive. But the guilt had hung over her since — thick and itchy like an unwashed shawl.
And now… now, she was done hesitating.
She reached for her phone and opened her work calendar. Nothing unmovable. Just noise disguised as urgency. A few meetings she could shuffle. The rest would survive without her. She pulled up the leave request form and typed:
April 12th to 18th.
Then, a message to her manager — quick, honest, no frills:
Hi Ankit Sir,
I’d like to take some time off for Bihu — it’s our New Year back home in Assam. I couldn’t make it for Magh Bihu this year due to the release, but this one’s important. Hope that’s okay.
Thanks,
Jinti
Her thumb hovered for a second. Then — send.
There. It was done.
And with that, something shifted inside her. The pressure that had been coiled tight in her chest eased, and the heaviness has lifted just now. She leaned back, cracked her knuckles, let out a long breath, and for the first time in days, smiled.
Tomorrow, she’d call her cousin, the one who used to dance like the stage was hers and everyone was appreciating, and she'd tell her to save her a spot on the field. She was feeling good that she would attend Mukoli Bihu, spending quality time with her parents and cousins. She would visit her mama’s home, enjoy delicious piths, wear her traditional Bihu dress, and take photos with her family and friends to capture those joyful moments. She could already feel the dust under her feet, hear her cousin’s laughter echoing across the field. The pithas would be too sweet, the gamusa would itch a little, and she wouldn’t care one bit.
Because this time, she was going home.
Work could wait. The tech world could buffer a while.
Bohag Bihu was calling. And she was finally listening.
