I remember—it was late afternoon, the sun leaning westward. From a distance, a soft yet resolute melody drifted through the air. I was just a boy then, curious and drawn by the sound. I approached quietly. The women of our neighbourhood had gathered beneath the jackfruit tree on the side of our yard. A low wooden stool sat there, upon which a group of village women had seated themselves and begun to sing:
"Gao hyalani diya nachey Golapi / Kol hyalani diya nachey Golapi / Golapir-o shisher sendur roidey jholomol korey / Golapir-o naker nolok roidey jholomol korey..."
[Sway, O Golapi, sway with your hips / She sways with grace, she sways with ease / Her vermilion sparkles in the sun / Her nose ring glitters with light...]
This biye'r geet is more than mere melody; it is an invisible theatre without stage or instruments, yet rich with the prose of life. A language of survival and self-expression, it allows women to voice joy, sorrow, memory, or protest.
These songs are the heartbeat of our intangible culture—though now rare in everyday practice, they still flow like a quiet stream through the villages of Rangpur. Meanwhile, on urban stages, biye'r geet is experiencing renewed life, with digital platforms such as YouTube and Facebook hosting countless performances that often blend traditional voices with both local and contemporary musical accompaniment.
At their core, these songs are layered with the emotions of departure: of leaving one's father's home for another family. In them echo the thrill and panic of transition, the beauty and ache of detachment. In a single verse, one hears longing, loss, and the unspoken fear of an uncertain future. Some voices make us laugh, some move us to tears, while others pierce through sarcasm, irony, and poetic mischief to touch parts of the heart untouched by words alone. These melodies reach beyond meaning itself; they are the music of lived experience, intimately and uniquely feminine.
Men rarely participate in these songs, as they are historically and culturally rooted in women's oral traditions. Occasionally, a man of humour or someone with a fluid gender identity may join, but the tone, language, and performance remain unequivocally female. Women compose and perform spontaneously, drawing from memory and inherited tradition. These songs require no musical training, no formal choreography. The capacity to sing a wedding song is not taught; it is absorbed, embodied, passed from one generation to the next.
Wedding songs are dynamic and constantly evolving, with new verses crafted by altering select lines to mirror the unique circumstances and experiences of each community. The local accent, the inflection of the spoken dialect, shapes the musical phrasing. Thus, a single geet might sound different in Nilphamari than it does in the Gaibandha districts of Rangpur division.
The journey of marriage begins with matchmaking, and even that stage finds expression in song. These early songs carry not shame but a kind of humorous self-assertion: "O worthless matchmaker, why did you come? / We have no rice in the pot, what will we serve you…."
[Ore morar bayaṭa ghaṭokkona / Alche hamar baṛitey / Ki khaite dimō elay / Chaul nai hamar haṛite...]
Yet even here, there's no apology—just an honest, sometimes cheeky presentation of life's truths. The bride's party sings with dry humour; the matchmaker's side replies, sometimes in kind: "Why not? Serve some stale rice / Add a bit of fried greens / We'll eat and fill our stomachs / And make this match happen!"
[Hoy na kyane panta bahey / Sathey ekna bhujna dyao / Khaya nemo paṭ bhore / Aghoton ghatamo hamra / Biyeokona hobar porey.]
Once the negotiations conclude, the ceremonies unfold: gaaye holud, the turmeric bathing; the setting of the marowa (banana plant altar) wrapped in pieces of vibrant, colourful cloth or papers; the lighting and submerging of the phorol (clay lamp); and many more. Each ritual is accompanied by songs. In one verse, the singers hide a woman's sorrow; in the next, it is laid bare in melody:
"Raindrops fall upon the yard / It's slippery with tears / There I tried to dance, O beloved / My necklace snapped and fell..."
[Jhori pore chipo re chipo / Angina hoila mor pichila re Rosia / Sei na anginay nachon re nachite / Chhirila golar malar re Rosia...]
The broken necklace is more than jewellery—it's a symbol of a girl's separation from childhood, from home, from identity. She knows she will not be the same after this night:
"Mother calls me her little one / Father says he won't marry me off / But how long can I live / In the shadows of youth…"
[Maaye koy mok chhoto chhoto / Bape na dey biya / Ar kotokal akimo / Joibon onchole bandiya...]
Wedding songs often repeat the same words, sung to a continuous, undulating rhythm. Their consistent pattern turns listeners into participants. In some cases, songs are sung in alternating groups—one for the bride's side, one for the groom's—creating a musical dialogue, almost like a social debate.
In every part of the wedding, song is inseparable from ritual. As the bride sits before the marowa, the women sing: "Little marowa, spread your leaves / The crows have flown to the city / O marowa, stay with us, we love you..."
[Chhoto chhoto marowa / Dhal dhal paan / Shohore melia geise kaak / Re marowa bhalobasom tok…]
Before the phorol is submerged in water, another verse rises:
"The leader goes ahead, her lamps behind / Between them goes the golden light / But with gold at hand, they chose bamboo instead / So be it, let the wedding happen!"
[Age age jay re Moroli / Pache jay tar Phoroli / Modhhey jay re sonar chailon bati / Sonar chailon thakite basher chailon byarakaishe / Hoya jak aaj ei chailoner shadi…]
These songs have no single author, no written notation, no scores. They are born in voice, sustained in memory, and shaped by life. As the ethnomusicologist Bruno Nettl reminds us, "Traditional music is not just a set of sounds, it is a symbolic act embedded in society." The biye'r geet is a living expression of collective behaviour, an intangible cultural heritage, an identity, and a deep-rooted echo of who we are.
And yet, this art form now stands tragically on the brink of disappearance. Social and religious anxieties, economic marginalisation, and cultural neglect are slowly reducing these songs to relics fit for museums. In many wedding yards today, the air is filled not with biye'r geet but with loudspeakers blaring Hindi film songs or DJ remixes. The geet gaownis—the women who once led these songs—have fallen into silence.
Still, when a wedding arrives, they wait to gather again, voices rising in memory and defiance. Perhaps they are the last generation. But they hope that the new generation will one day recognise that biye'r geet is not just cultural ornamentation—it is the language of women's introspection, resistance, and remembrance. Through these songs, women have articulated questions they could not otherwise ask, and answers they could only sing. To lose these songs would be to erase the unwritten autobiography of our women, their collective memories, and one of the most exquisite oral literatures of Bangladesh.
Nurunnabi Shanto is a short fiction writer and researcher specialising in intangible cultural heritage.
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