Digital ‘honmilon’: How Gen Z is rebranding traditional dance

Shruti Gogoi

(shruti.gogoi95@gmail.com)

There was a time when traditional dance in Assam meant stage lights, husori teams, and festive crowds gathered in school halls or village fields. It was about rituals, repetition, and respect for culture, for elders, and for the familiar beats of the dhol. The performances followed a script. The music, the moves, the outfits – everything had a place, a purpose, and a legacy. Bihu was more than a dance. It was a symbol of community, rhythm, and seasonal celebration. The smell of the fields, the chatter of neighbours, and the excitement of matching mekhela sadors turned every performance into a memory. But today, Assam’s younger generation are turning that script inside out, reinterpreting these familiar movements through their own lens, in their own time, and on their own platforms. Gen Z isn’t waiting for Rongali Bihu or the annual college fest to perform. They are dancing every day, everywhere, like, on rooftops, in mustard fields, inside hostels, and across the reels and feeds of Instagram. And in doing so, they are not breaking tradition. They are breathing new life into it. This cultural evolution did not arise out of necessity but from a deep desire to express heritage in ways that align with present-day identities. Across Assam and its diasporic spaces, a generation raised on digital fluency is finding meaning in ancestral art by adapting it to their reality. These are dancers who film Bihu steps in paddy fields and edit them with cinematic transitions; creators who remix Xatriya choreography with spoken word poetry or jazz music; and performers who blend Bagurumba rhythms with street-style movements and shoot under flickering tube lights or studio strobes. The backdrops may be village paths or bustling rooftops, and the attire may be traditional or a carefully styled fusion, but each performance carries an unmistakable sense of pride and ownership. These visual stories, often framed in under sixty seconds for reels or shorts, are shaping a new cultural language where Assam’s folk dance is alive, visible, and dynamic. They have become forms of visual storytelling that offer not only entertainment but also emotional connection and creative exploration.

What drives this movement is not always the formal study of dance but the sheer urge to express and reclaim identity. While many of these performers may have grown up watching Bihu husori teams or participating in school programmes, their entry into digital performance is often spontaneous. For some, it begins with filming a dance in casual clothes as a reel, using trending audio. For others, it starts with a longing to connect with their roots while studying or working outside the state. In both cases, the act of dancing turns into a portal—opening up a journey where choreography becomes a bridge between the self and the community. And as they share these performances, often viewed thousands or even millions of times, they not only celebrate their heritage but also inspire others to do the same. The performative space of social media, once thought of as superficial, becomes a medium for cultural continuity and innovation. These dancers do not wait for invitations to stage programmes or classical forums. They claim their space through the screen—and invite the world in.

This transformation is particularly visible during festive periods like Bohag Bihu. Alongside traditional husoris and stage competitions, an equally vibrant digital celebration unfolds. Users from across the world upload dance covers, duets, tutorials, and fusion projects featuring Assamese music and movement. The visuals are diverse—some wear gamusas with denim, some perform barefoot on studio floors, some incorporate Bollywood flair, while others loop audio from classical instruments with trap beats. While the creative liberties are immense, they rarely feel disrespectful. In fact, most creators actively credit their cultural inspiration and encourage viewers to learn more about the traditions they are engaging with. The remixing of steps, songs, and outfits stems not from disconnection but from curiosity and affection—a need to feel at home in one’s own culture while navigating the wider world.

What makes this wave even more significant is its emotional undercurrent. For many of these dancers, especially those far from home, engaging with traditional movement becomes a way to hold on to a sense of belonging. The gestures, the rhythms, the beats—they offer comfort and continuity. In a world that is increasingly fast, fractured, and visually overstimulated, the simplicity of a foot tapping to a dhol beat can be grounding. The act of dancing becomes therapeutic. It helps process identity, grief, celebration, and self-worth. It gives form to emotions that otherwise remain unspoken. For young women, especially, this space opens up new dimensions of self-expression. In earlier times, folk dance performances often came with rigid gender norms and expectations around modesty and behaviour. Today’s digital creators challenge these restrictions with confidence. They decide what to wear, how to move, and what message their performance will carry. Some speak of empowerment. Some speak of love. Some speak of rebellion. All speak of agency.

Naturally, not everyone sees these changes positively. Elders and traditionalists often express concern that the original meaning of these dance forms is getting diluted. They worry that remixing folk beats or pairing sacred movements with trending songs trivializes their cultural significance. These are important concerns, and they deserve thoughtful conversation. But they must also be balanced with the understanding that culture is not static. It changes with time, with people, and with the spaces in which it is practised. If young people are choosing to engage with traditional dance rather than ignore it, that in itself is an act of preservation. And if they are doing it in a way that speaks to their realities, then they are not destroying the tradition, but they are evolving it. Instead of seeing these changes as threats, they can be seen as invitations—opportunities to connect with youth, to bridge generational gaps, and to ensure that these art forms are carried forward with energy and meaning. These concerns are valid and deserve reflection.

What Gen Z is doing in Assam with its folk dance heritage is not a passing trend. It is a vibrant cultural shift. It is a movement that shows how tradition, when placed in the hands of the young and the curious, can expand into something both familiar and new. It proves that cultural expression does not need to be preserved in glass cases or limited to yearly festivals. It can live in pixels, in edits, in rooftop rehearsals, in after-class dance shoots, in community collaborations, and in unexpected mashups that somehow still feel deeply Assamese. These dancers are not waiting for a perfect setting or official endorsement. They are creating their own rhythm, following their own beat, and taking Assam’s cultural legacy into places it has never gone before.

The beauty of this moment lies in its honesty. There is rawness in the movements, spontaneity in the camera angles, and emotion in the choice of music. These performances are not flawless, nor are they trying to be. They are real, vulnerable, bold, and deeply rooted in a sense of identity. They show that tradition is not a burden to carry—it is a language to speak. And when spoken in the rhythm of rebellion, it can echo louder than ever before.