Jitu Das Blog | Assamese Culture, Philosophy & Life Reflections

🥣 Food That Holds Memory, Not Just Flavor

Take Khar, for instance. You won’t find it in most cookbooks. It’s not pretty or complicated. But it’s ours. It smells like Sunday mornings and tastes like childhood.

I once asked my grandmother why she made it so often. She said quietly,
“Khar khua tu petor karone bhaal. Eitu hol prokritiye diya upahar. Aamar biswax anujai, khare pet safa kore, gasor samasya komai, aru xorir uporat ek dhoronor poriskar prabhav thake.”
(Good for the body. A gift from nature. According to our people’s beliefs, Khar cleans the stomach, helps reduce gastric problems, and has a cleansing effect on the body.)

No branding. No trend. Just something that came from the land and stayed in our blood.

🕯️ Bihu: When the Land and Heart Dance Together

Come Bihu, and Assam bursts into color, music, and the scent of fresh pithas. But Bihu isn’t just celebration—it’s prayer, harvest, memory, and movement.

“My elders used to say, dancing Bihu isn’t just for joy—it’s a way to align our bodies with the earth’s rhythm, to ask the land for a good harvest, and to shake off old sorrow.”

And when the meji is lit during Magh Bihu, the flames don’t just warm the winter air. They burn away the old, the tired, the unspoken, and invite renewal.

🗣️ The Hidden Wisdom in Assamese Words

Some Assamese words don’t quite translate. They carry entire histories in a syllable.

“When someone says ‘iman xohoj nohoi,’ they’re not just saying ‘it’s difficult’—they’re saying life takes patience, resilience, and surrender.”

We speak in poetry without realizing it.

🍲 Kitchen as Temple: Grandma’s Medicine and Meals

I still remember the sound of the bonti slicing ginger in my grandmother’s kitchen. The way she would add a pinch of black pepper, not for taste, but for healing.

One winter morning, I watched her make paro mangkho (pigeon curry), her hands working from memory.

“Paro mangkho jodi khao, sardi laga bhal hoy.”
(If you eat pigeon meat in winter, it’s good for colds and fever.)

Food wasn’t just sustenance. It was care. It was tradition whispered through spices.

🌿 The Rooted Soul

Culture isn’t something we visit in museums. It’s in how our grandmothers stir the pot. In the songs that carry our grief. In the words we speak without thinking yet feel in our bones.

Assamese culture lives in moments we almost forget to notice—like the way Khar settles your stomach, or how Bihu reminds your body to move with joy. These are not just traditions. They are survival stories passed down as lullabies, recipes, and dances.

If this piece stirred something in you—maybe a forgotten memory or the urge to call home—then let that feeling lead you back. Back to the roots. Back to the rhythm. Back to yourself.

Written by Jitu Das | Explore more cultural stories at www.jitudas.com

 Why Writing Is the Most Powerful Tool for Self-Discovery | Jitu Das
 Explore how writing can become your most powerful tool for healing, self-awareness, and transformation. Learn why the act of writing is a sacred path back to your truest self.

“You don’t find yourself by chasing validation or scrolling through someone else’s life.
You find yourself by listening—really listening—to your own voice. And writing? That’s how you hear it.”

I Didn’t Plan to Be a Writer. I Just Needed to Breathe.

I never set out to become a writer. Honestly, I just had too many thoughts—and nowhere safe to put them. Talking didn’t help. Thinking made it worse.
But a blank page? That felt like home.

Over the years, I’ve learned something beautiful and a little haunting: writing isn’t just a creative outlet—it’s a mirror. It shows you what you’ve been hiding. It holds up the truth, even when you’re not ready to see it. And sometimes, it hands you clarity so sharp it slices through all the noise.

✍️ Writing Is Free Therapy (With No Appointment Required)

You don’t need a degree or a perfect pen. Just a little honesty. Yes, writing is free and it's priceless when it comes to give you a great feeling.

Journaling saved me—on the days when I couldn’t explain what I was feeling, when nothing else made sense.
It gave me space to rage. To unravel. To remember.
And over time, it helped me see the loops I was stuck in—the same stories I kept retelling myself, again and again.

That awareness? That was the beginning of healing.

Tip for deeper journaling: Write when you’re exhausted. Write when you’re emotional. That’s when the truth leaks out—raw and real.

💬 Writing Unlocks What Words Can’t Always Say

Have you ever tried explaining your feelings and ended up sounding… awkward?
Yeah, me too.

But when I write, the words spill. No filter. No stutter.
I’ve cried over letters to my younger self—not because they were pretty, but because they were honest.
That’s the gift of writing: it lets you grieve without being interrupted. It lets you forgive, reflect, and celebrate, all without needing applause.

🌀 Real Writing Is Messy—and That’s What Makes It Magical

Forget grammar. Forget outlines.
Some of the most transformative things I’ve ever written were total chaos. But they were real. And that’s what mattered.

It doesn’t need to be a blog post. It can be:

• A note in your phone at 3 AM

• A love letter you never send

• A rant on the back of a bill

• Or a journal entry that starts with “I don’t even know what I’m feeling…”

Pro tip: Don’t aim to impress. Just aim to express.

🔑 Ready to Explore Yourself Through Writing? Start Here:

Use these writing prompts to go deeper:

• Write a letter to your future self. Be bold, be kind, be brutally honest.

• Describe the hardest moment of your life—without using the word “hard.”

• Write about your happiest memory. Then ask: what does this say about your values?

• Try “Morning Pages” for 7 days: 3 pages, free-flow, no editing. Just let it out.

💡 Why This Matters (Even If You’re Not a Writer)

You don’t need to be an author or a poet. You just need to be willing to express your heart out.

Because the truth is, your story—the messy, unfiltered, real one—is the most important story you’ll ever tell.
Not to the world.
To yourself. To express the hidden thoughts that keeps you thinking.

And maybe your writing won’t go viral.
Maybe no one will read it.
But if it brings you back to yourself—even just a little—that’s a win.

So go ahead.
Now Grab a pen. Or your phone. Or that half-empty notebook that you already have on ypur desk.
Because your soul has something to say.

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.