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EACH APRIL, as the heat sharpens and the light turns golden, the Indian subcontinent quietly resets its clock. Across coconut groves and paddy fields, two distant communities prepare for their new year. In the lush coastal stretches of Kerala, it is Vishu, a festival of light and auspicious sight. In the river-fed plains of Assam, it is Bohag Bihu, the most joyous of the three Bihu celebrations. Both festivals are shaped by the sun and soil — and by the eternal interplay between food, folklore, and human longing.
The language of celebration is seasonal, and nowhere is this more evident than in the rituals these festivals observe. In Kerala, Vishu begins not with sound or taste, but sight. The night before, homes assemble a Vishukkani — a tableau of items carefully arranged to greet the eyes of every family member at dawn. There is rice and ripe cucumber, jackfruit and golden laburnum flowers, a mirror reflecting the self amid abundance, and often, a photograph of Sree Narayana Guru. A lit lamp glows beside a deity, the flame flickering in anticipation of the year to come.
This belief — that the first thing you see shapes your future — is not unique to Kerala, but here, it is rendered tangible. The act of waking to a vision of plenty becomes a private ceremony, one steeped in generational memory and quiet hope.
Assam’s Bohag Bihu, too, carries the rhythms of renewal. It is the first of the three Bihus and coincides with the sowing season, a prelude to labour and fertility. Spread over seven days, it begins with Goru Bihu, the washing and worshipping of cattle — companions in the agricultural life. The next day, Manuh Bihu, is for people: elders offer blessings, new garments are worn, and exchanges of the symbolic gamusa scarf reaffirm community bonds.
But if Bohag Bihu is about beginnings, Magh Bihu, observed in January, is where the culinary crescendo lies. Known also as Bhogali Bihu — literally, “the festival of feasting” — it is a harvest celebration where food takes centre stage. The evening before, communities build Bhelaghar (temporary huts) and Meji (bonfires), gathering to cook, sing, and eat under open skies.
There is no Vishukkani in Bihu, no single object of sight. Instead, the focus is communal and oral — a night spent around fire, surrounded by the warmth of pithas, larus, and stories older than memory.
The pitha is more than a sweet. Rolled, filled, steamed, or fried, these rice cakes are shaped by hand and passed down like heirlooms. Til pitha folds sesame and jaggery into roasted rice, while narikol pitha carries the sweetness of coconut. Jolpan, too, features prominently: an array of puffed, flattened, and sticky rice served with curd or cream and jaggery — light meals for spring mornings.
In Kerala, Vishu Sadhya — a grand vegetarian meal served on banana leaves — balances sweet, sour, salty, bitter, and spicy. Each dish is symbolic. There is mampazhappulissery, a mango-based curry that evokes both tang and ripeness. There is veppampoorasam, a bitter neem flower preparation, taken in deliberate contrast. From Vishu kanji, a porridge of coconut milk and rice, to Vishu katta, a cake of fresh rice powder and coconut milk served with jaggery, the table holds the year in miniature: unpredictable, layered, and whole.
Both Vishu and Bihu make space for acts of giving. In Kerala, Vishukkaineettam sees elders hand coins or small notes to younger relatives — a gesture of goodwill and fortune. In Assam, the spirit of gifting flows through gamusas, song, and shared food. Children wear flower garlands, and the air rings with Bihu geet and Bihu naas — music and dance that speak of courtship, seasons, and longing.
There are, of course, regional differences. Vishu is quieter, centred on the home and inner reflection. Bihu is louder, rhythmic, and performed in community squares. But their shared essence — the idea that the new year must be marked not just with ritual but with flavour, intention, and belonging — makes them part of the same map of meaning.
When we celebrate with food, we are doing more than eating. We are invoking memories, honouring ancestors, hoping for rain, forgiving the past, and trusting that the seeds we plant — literal or symbolic — will bear fruit. The Vishukkani mirror reflects this hope. The Meji fire burns away doubt. In these festivals of plenty, we glimpse not just how India eats, but how it remembers, how it begins again.
