Nikita Rai | 21st September 2025
Migration stories are usually told in numbers—how many men left a village, how much money they sent back, how many houses were built with remittances. Yet the heart of migration is not written in bank accounts. It is sung in courtyards, kitchens, and wedding gatherings, where women give voice to longing, resilience, and everyday survival through Bidesiya songs. To understand migration fully, we must listen not only to the men who leave but also to the women who stay behind.
A Song in the Courtyard
In Mau, Uttar Pradesh, as the evening settles, women sit peeling vegetables. One of them begins: “Bidesiya ho gail hamar piya…” (“My beloved has gone to foreign lands”). Soon others join in. Their grandmothers and great-grandmothers sang the same words. Today, they sing them again because the story of waiting never ended. Husbands, brothers, and sons are in Mumbai, Punjab, or Dubai. Women remain at home, holding memory and survival together through song.
A Land of Leaving
Eastern Uttar Pradesh, western Bihar, and parts of Jharkhand—the Bhojpuri-speaking belt—has long been a land of departure. In the 19th century, indentured ships carried men to Mauritius, Trinidad, and Fiji. Later, trains took them to Calcutta and Bombay. Today, flights take them to the Gulf. The routes change, but the pattern does not: men migrate in search of work, and women stay, their lives altered in quiet but powerful ways.
The Bidesiya in Song
The bidesiya—the man who leaves—is now a cultural figure. Playwright Bhikhari Thakur immortalized him in early 20th-century plays. But in village courtyards, it is women who keep his story alive. Their songs speak of longing and heartbreak: “Piya pardes gail, hamar jiya tadapata” (“My beloved has gone abroad, my heart aches with longing”).
Season after season, absence is felt. During the monsoon, women sing: “Sawan aail, piya na aail” (“The rains have come, but my beloved has not”). Some songs express grief, others anger. A wife may accuse her husband of forgetting her, of not sending money, of betrayal. What cannot be said openly finds a safe home in song.
Singing Together
These are not solitary laments. Women sing while cooking, working in fields, during weddings or festivals. Shared voices turn sorrow into community. As folklorist Dr. Kavita Mishra observes: “Songs are the only space where women can speak their truth. They are not only music. They are testimony.”
Festivals Without Men
Absence becomes sharper during festivals. Chhath Puja rituals feel incomplete without husbands at home. Weddings often carry songs of missing brothers or fathers: “Bhaiya pardes gail, behna roye ankhiyan” (“Brother has gone abroad, his sister weeps with teary eyes”). Festivals meant for joy also hold longing, and songs become vessels of those emotions.
Old Feelings, New Mediums
Migration may look modern—WhatsApp calls replacing letters, video chats bridging continents. Yet when the screen goes dark, the silence returns heavier than before. Despite technology, the ache of absence remains. That is why old songs still resonate. They remind us that even if the routes change, emotions endure.
Women as Leaders at Home
While men leave, women lead. They run farms, manage money, visit banks, and face government offices. “Earlier I never stepped outside,” says Rekha Devi from Siwan. “Now I manage the land and the house. People come to me for advice.” But with responsibility comes judgment. Some women are respected for strength; others are scrutinized for being alone. Songs capture both empowerment and vulnerability, documenting the paradox of women’s new roles.
A Long Memory
Bidesiya songs carry remarkable continuity. Nineteenth-century women sang about ships. Twenty-first-century women sing about Gulf migration. The specifics shift, but the emotions remain constant. Through oral tradition, women create a living history—unwritten yet unforgettable.
Beyond Money
Migration is too often reduced to remittances: money that builds homes or pays school fees. But women’s songs expose the hidden costs—loneliness, waiting, and fractured relationships. “Patra na bheje, paisa na bheje, piya mori bhulaili” (“Neither letters nor money you send, beloved, have you forgotten me?”). These verses remind us that migration is not just economic; it is deeply emotional and social.
Listening Closely
We often frame migration as the story of men—who left, where they worked, how much they earned. But in village courtyards across the Bhojpuri region, another story resounds. The bidesiya symbolizes departure, but women’s songs symbolize endurance. They are echoes of sorrow, yes, but also of resilience and resistance.
To understand Bhojpuri migration, we must listen differently. We must listen not only to the footsteps leaving but to the voices staying behind. Because in those voices, sung generation after generation, lies the true human history of migration—an archive of waiting, strength, and survival that continues to shape Bhojpuri life today.
Nikita Rai is a Mumbai-based journalist and writer who explores issues of language, culture, and identity in contemporary India.
