As I sit in my quiet study room in America, the hustle and bustle of life back home seem distant, yet still so vivid in my memory. The last time I celebrated Pohela Boishakh—the Bengali New Year—in Bangladesh was in 2020. That year, I was surrounded by my students and colleagues at the Department of Folklore at Nazrul University, Bangladesh, where we gathered to embrace the spirit of the new year with traditional fervor. After that, the world changed forever. The Covid-19 pandemic halted not only our personal lives but also the ways in which we celebrated our most cherished traditions. I left for America to pursue my PhD in 2021, and though life continued, a part of me remained rooted in the celebrations and cultural experiences I had left behind. The memory of Pohela Boishakh- the Bangla New Year celebration especially the ones celebrated with family and friends, remains as fresh as ever.
Pohela Boishakh was a time when the entire country seemed to come alive with colors. The streets were adorned with vibrant hues as men donned yellow, green, and red panjabis, while women wore white saris with red borders, their attire representing the simplicity and elegance of our cultural traditions. It was a beautiful sight—an explosion of colors that spoke to our shared identity. Pohela Boishakh, for me, was never just another day—it was a celebration of the self, of belonging, and of deep cultural connection. My mornings would start with the fragrance of freshly prepared food wafting through the house. The kitchen would be filled with the tantalizing aroma of panta bhat (fermented rice) and hilsa fish, Alu vhorta (smashed potato), deshi sobji (vegetables) dishes that my mother would prepare with great care, and love. She always bought the hilsa in advance, keeping it safely in the fridge for the big day, knowing how important it was to our New Year traditions. I remember those simple moments with fondness, having a hearty breakfast with my family before heading to the campus.
While the morning was spent at home, the afternoon was typically dedicated to the vibrant energy of the campus. Mangal Shobhajatra, the grand New Year procession, has become a prominent part of our cultural celebrations. I am someone who avoids crowds, preferring the quiet of a more intimate celebration, but every time I stepped out of my home, I found myself inevitably part of that chaotic, joyous mass of people marching through the streets of Dhaka. The traffic and the crowds are the inescapable pulse of the city during Pohela Boishakh. I still remember one particularly hot day when I ran to campus in my white, red border sari, feeling the heat on my skin as I navigated the crowded streets. Unable to find a rickshaw through the sea of people, I had no choice but to walk. Despite the intense heat, the traffic, and the dense crowds, there was an undeniable sense of joy that emanated from every person around me. We were all united in the celebration of our heritage and the hope that the New Year would bring better days.
Over the years, my understanding of Pohela Boishakh began to evolve. As I delved deeper into my festival studies, I began to realize that the celebration of the New Year is not only just a cultural practice, but it often can also hold divisive political essence in it. The celebration of Bengaliness during Pohela Boishakh, while uniting the majority, could inadvertently exclude its non-Bengalee minorities. This realization came with a certain dissonance, as I began understanding how a nation can be more inclusive in terms of celebrating a national festival. For many years, I, along with others, have discussed the issue of minority representation at the Mangal Shobhajatra during these festivities. It is heartening to know that this year, Bangladesh’s Ministry of Culture has taken steps to ensure that Pohela Boishakh no longer serves as an exclusive model for just the Bengali majority. For the first time, ethnic minorities will be represented in the Mangal Shobhajatra, a move that signifies growth in our collective cultural consciousness. I find this development particularly uplifting, as it acknowledges the diverse ethnic makeup of our nation and gives voice to communities that have often been marginalized.
Living abroad, I miss the celebrations. There are no grand processions or the infectious energy of the crowd here in the diaspora. Yet, I have heard from friends and fellow Bangladeshis in New York that they are celebrating the our New Year with the same enthusiasm, a reflection of the enduring connection we share with our roots, even across the oceans. I find myself yearning to be a part of that celebration, even if from afar.
In my current life, far from my homeland Bangladesh, I try to recreate the memory of Bangla New Year with small gesture and event. On the day of Bangla New Year, I dress in my white-red bordered saree—a small but significant act that transports me back home. I can almost feel the familiar weight of the fabric as I wrap it around myself, the memories of my mother helping me adjust it before we left for the celebrations. Sometime Bangladeshi Students organization arrange small get together, where female students wear traditional saree, male wear Panjabi to remember the sense of celebration even from thousands of miles away.
Alongside wearing my white-red bordered saree, I make an effort to cook traditional Bengali dishes, trying to recreate the flavors that once filled our home during Pohela Boishakh. Panta bhat with hilsa fish, along with a few traditional curries and vegetable dishes, were staples that my mother always prepared with such care. While I do my best to replicate them, it’s never quite the same as the ones she made, yet they are close enough to evoke a warmth of memory. We also had a family tradition of enjoying fruits like jackfruit, watermelon, and mangoes on the Bangla New Year. While watermelon is easy to find here, I’ve never been able to find mangoes or jackfruit that taste quite like the one from Bangladesh.
In the diaspora, these small gestures of reliving the celebration become more powerful than one might imagine. They are acts of defiance against the distance and the time that separates me from home. Through these rituals, I am reminded of who I am, where I come from, and the traditions that shaped me. They are a source of comfort, a way to keep the connection alive when the physical distance feels insurmountable. It is also a reminder that celebrations, even in their absence, carry deep meaning. It is not bound by location or circumstance. Pohela Boishakh, as a tradition, has always been more than just a day of celebration—it is an expression of identity, community, and belonging. And no matter how far I am from home, I will always find a way to honor it, to keep it alive, and to celebrate the roots that have shaped me.
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Niger Sultana is a PhD Candidate in the Dept. of Folklore and Ethnomusicology, Indiana University Bloomington. With her focus on ritual, religion, and politics of tradition, her Ph.D. dissertation topic is the South Asian Shia diaspora community. She is also an assistant professor in Bangladesh in the Folklore department at JKKNIU and is now on study leave.
Your recounting of Pohela Boushakh resonates with millions of expatriate Bangladeshis who are invisible in the great mosaic of this country. Reading this piece is a pleasure and pain we all bear when living in a country far from our origin. Rituals and performance as I understand, connect people, build a sense of belonging, and collective identity, and create a space to express a unified self beyond mundane. Thus, break separation and loneliness toward a life larger than pettiness.