The quiet disappearance of Malwai Giddha

Non-Punjabis only know Bhangra and Giddha as the two main folk dances of Punjab, I realised when I moved states. They stereotype those too, assuming Bhangra is for men and Giddha for women. But I grew up in Malwa, and my grandmother is a huge fan of Malwai Giddha. She often tells me how it’s different from other folk dances of Punjab.

Malwai Giddha, as goes the name, is usually linked to the regions of Muktsar, Bathinda, Faridkot, Sangrur, Ferozepur, Mansa, and Patiala. However, Ravi Chand from Bathinda, a government teacher and a veteran in the art form, says that it originated from Multan, Pakistan, and travelled to the Doaba region of Punjab before reaching Malwa, where it was “accepted and cared for”.

Most people associate Giddha only with women, but this Giddha is performed by men and is often called Babeyan Da Giddha. More explicit in tone than women’s giddha, but subtler in spirit than Bhangra, Malwai Giddha is also unique in the fact that the performers play their instruments in real time — including the chimta, tumbi, sap, kato and dholki — while singing. They use swords, sticks, and shields as props for added spectacle.

The eminent dancer Ashish Mohan Khokhar has called Giddha the “feminine riposte” to Bhangra, but as Anjali Gera Roy highlights in her research, Malwai Giddha uniquely provides a perfect alterity for both. Many of its boliyaan are from the point of view of women. Even if they are meant to generate laughter, they still challenge subtle stereotypes around Punjabi masculinity, which is often imagined through the lens of virility and machismo performing Bhangra in high-decibel music videos. Malwai Giddha, on the other hand, presents a softer and more intergenerational masculinity. It unsettles both stereotypical age and gender roles at once — or rather, reveals that traditional masculinity in Punjab may always have been more layered and accepting than we give it credit for.

In contrast to Bhangra, there are no leaps or spins involved in Malwai Giddha. Instead, it is characterised by cheeky boliyaan and expressions to match, paired with slow and graceful movements. These boliyaan are usually much longer than the ones sung by women. Humour and improvised wit are key tools, not just for the sake of entertainment, but also as vehicles for social commentary — an indivisible trait of Malwai Giddha that allows it to deliver the most radical of truths in the most playful of tunes.

Chand takes pride in the form’s versatility, but he also believes that “it’s time we move on from the saas-bahu dynamics to topics that are actually worth public attention. And what better way to reach the masses than folk!” His inventiveness has led Malwai Giddha to a new peak, not just in performance, but in fulfilling its purpose of not simply preserving tradition, but rethinking it. Boliyaan written by him in recent years focus on themes that demand attention in modern Punjabi society, including stubble burning, political rights, gender equality, and more. One of them goes:

Rai rai rai

Hath jod main kari benti

Kul kisana tai

Vadhe ghate chalde rehnde

Bahute hisaab na laayi

Pavan guru di sikheya utte

Rata gaur farmayi

Khet paraali nu, agg na bhrava layi…

(Rai Rai Rai

With folded hands, I make a plea

To the farming community —

Profits and losses come and go

Don’t count them too closely.

Learn from the teachings of the Pavan Guru

Let’s not burn the stubble)

With names and ideas like these taking its legacy forward, it gives me hope that such an underrated art form will find the stage and recognition it deserves, apart from the occasional marching band in rural weddings it replaces these days. It might never be as visible as Bhangra or as accepted as aurtaan da giddha, but even if it survives in smaller circles, it would still matter. If not for anyone else, at least for the niche fandom that includes boli buffs like me and my grandmother.