Why Biju Phukan Still Matters: Remembering Assamese Cinema's First Superstar

In an age of pan-Indian content and algorithm-driven fame, the legacy of Biju Phukan offers a powerful counter-narrative about what it truly means to be an artist.

There's a scene that plays out in living rooms across Assam even today. A grandmother/ grandfather hums "Mon Hira Doi," and for a brief moment, three generations are connected by a shared memory. The song is from Bowari (1982), and the man who made it immortal was Biju Phukan, an actor who, I would argue, we have not fully appreciated for what he represented.

Biju Phukan passed away on November 22, 2017, and with him, an era of Assamese cinema quietly closed its curtains. But as I watch the current generation of artists chase Instagram followers and Bollywood validation, I can't help but wonder: have we forgotten what he taught us?

The Man Who Chose to Stay

Let me be direct about what made Biju Phukan extraordinary. It wasn't just his good looks or screen presence, though he had both in abundance. It was his radical commitment to staying exactly where he was.

Born in Dibrugarh in 1947, the very year India gained independence, Phukan could have easily pursued opportunities in Bombay or Calcutta. By the mid-1970s, he had already proven himself. His debut in Dr. Bezbarua (1970) had turned heads, and Aranya (1971) had won the National Award for Best Regional Film. The doors were open.

He didn't walk through them.

Instead, he moved to Guwahati in 1976 and dedicated the next four decades to building something that mattered more to him: an Assamese film industry that could stand on its own. Over 80 films. Reportedly only two flops. A career that shaped what it meant to be a star in regional cinema.

This, I believe, is the first lesson we've forgotten. In our current obsession with "making it big," we've lost sight of the fact that making it *meaningful* might be the braver choice.

What We Lost When We Stopped Watching Regional Cinema

I'll admit my bias here. I believe regional cinema is the soul of Indian storytelling, and I believe we've been slowly selling that soul for the promise of wider reach and bigger budgets.

Biju Phukan understood something that today's artists often don't: your audience is not a number. It's a relationship. When he played Ranger Jayanta opposite Bidya Rao in Aranya, he wasn't performing for a demographic; he was speaking to his people, in their language, about their landscapes. The film was shot in Bhairabkunda on the Indo-Bhutan border. It was funded entirely by a local club in Mangaldoi. This wasn't content; it was community.

Compare this to today's model, where regional actors are encouraged to "cross over" as quickly as possible, where speaking your mother tongue on a national platform is treated as a charming quirk rather than a creative choice, and where algorithms decide what stories get told.

I'm not suggesting we reject progress or isolate ourselves from the broader Indian film industry. But I am suggesting that Biju Phukan's career offers a different model, one where success is measured not by how far you travel from home, but by how deeply you root yourself in it.

Here's an uncomfortable truth about contemporary regional cinema: we've stopped expecting our stars to be versatile.

Biju Phukan moved between romance, action, drama, and even comedy. He acted in theatre Captain Gogoi, Falgo, Haiya Dhuwai Nile and worked with mobile theatre groups like Abahon Theatre and Bhagyadevi Theatre. He directed films. He produced them. He appeared in a television serial, Deuta, written by the legendary Dr. Bhabendra Nath Saikia. He even tried his hand at politics.

Was he brilliant at everything? Probably not. But he tried everything, and in doing so, he expanded what an Assamese artist could be.

Today, we slot our actors into boxes almost immediately. The romantic hero. The action star. The character actor. The chocolate hero. We've imported Bollywood's typecasting without importing its resources, leaving regional artists trapped in narrow lanes with nowhere to go.

New generation artists, if you're reading this, here's my plea: refuse the box. Biju Phukan's filmography from Antony Mur Naam to Agnisnaan, from Papori to Barood, is proof that audiences will follow you if you have the courage to lead them somewhere new.

The Patience We've Abandoned

I want to address something that might sound old-fashioned but needs to be said: careers take time.

Biju Phukan didn't become a superstar overnight. His journey from Dibrugarh to Guwahati to the top of Assamese cinema was gradual, deliberate, and built on consistent work. He wasn't chasing virality. He wasn't optimising for engagement. He was showing up, film after film, earning trust.

We've lost this patience. In the age of social media, we expect artists to arrive fully formed, to go viral with their first project, to leverage every moment into content. And when they don't, when they're merely good instead of immediately great, we move on.

This is a disservice to art and artists alike. 

The Biju Phukan, who won a National Award with Aranya in 1971, was not the same actor who delivered the nuanced performances of the 1980s. He grew. He deepened. He was given the time and space to become himself.

Are we giving that space to today's artists? Or are we consuming and discarding them before they've had a chance to mature?

When Assam Governor Prof. Jagdish Mukhi said that Biju Phukan's death created "a void that will be hard to fill," he wasn't exaggerating. But here's the thing about voids: they can either be filled or they can collapse.

Biju Phukan didn't just act in Assamese films; he was Assamese cinema, along with some of his peers, for an entire generation. He served on the jury of the Indian Panorama. He mentored younger artists. He stayed when staying was harder than leaving. He proved that regional cinema could produce genuine superstars, not just stepping stones to something bigger.

The question now is whether we honour that legacy or let it fade into nostalgia. 

To the new generation of Assamese artists, I say this: you don't have to imitate Biju Phukan. You shouldn't, actually. But you should understand what he represented. A commitment to place. A dedication to craft. A belief that your audience, your specific, local, Assamese-speaking audience, is worth your best work.

You have tools he never had. Streaming platforms. Social media. Global distribution. But tools are only as good as the hands that wield them. If you use these tools to escape Assamese cinema, you've learned nothing. If you use them to expand what Assamese cinema can be—to tell our stories to the world without abandoning who we are—then you've truly honoured his legacy.

A Personal Confession

I'll end with something personal. I did meet Biju Phukan at a few social gatherings. I watched his films the way many of my generation did on grainy VHS tapes, on Doordarshan, in crowded cinema halls that no longer exist. I made sure that my husband gets the tickets, even if it means he has to shell out a few extra bucks; I can't claim any special insight into who he was as a person.

 But I can tell you what he meant to me as an idea.

 He meant that it was possible to be somebody without going somewhere. He meant that Assamese stories were worth telling, that Assamese audiences were worth respecting, that Assamese artists could dream big while staying home. In a culture that constantly tells us to leave to migrate to bigger cities, to assimilate into dominant cultures, to trade our mother tongue for broader appeal, he was proof that another path existed.

 That path is still there. It's overgrown now, perhaps. Less travelled. But it's there.

 The question for the new generation is simple: will you walk it?

 Alaka Baishya is a retired school head teacher and is a columnist on topics ranging from life to community.

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