A leisurely weekend lunch in Guwahati, Assam. The tables filled with families; waiters moving unhurriedly between them, bringing out large plates filled with local delicacies.
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Suddenly, a toddler’s petulant scream tears through the contentment, threatening to disrupt the atmosphere. Despite their workload, the waiters don’t shoot disapproving glances at the harried parents. Instead, they kneel beside the boy, smile, and take him towards some rabbits in an enclosure near the door. Minutes later, the child's cries have transformed into delighted giggles.
This simple scene, lasting just a few minutes, reveals the gentle rhythm of life in Assam that locals call lahe-lahe – slowly, slowly.
During my decade living here, I’ve come to understand that this isn’t merely about pace, but an entire philosophy that prioritises connection, contentment, and the quiet joys that surround us.
I’ve heard old-timers tell stories of shopkeepers who close their doors after earning just 100 rupees, satisfied with the day's modest success. Fishermen who catch only what their families need, refusing to exhaust themselves or the river's bounty for excess profit. Why work longer when those precious hours can be spent with family, tending gardens, making music, or simply sitting with neighbours as the evening cools?
The essence of Assamese life has always been this: Finding joy in simplicity and beauty. In a world racing toward more, faster, bigger, Assam still remembers the wisdom of lahe-lahe. And perhaps nowhere is this philosophy more evident than in the region’s deep relationship with its most famous export – tea.
Hero photo: Debabrata Hazra. Above photos: Nilotpal Kalita; Nishaan Ahmed
The unhurried ritual of tea
“Anytime is time for sa,” said Sumana Dutta, a professor at the Indian Institute of Technology Guwahati, when I spoke with her about local customs.
“Sa" in Assamese means tea – something absolutely central to daily life here. “From morning till night, a pot of tea would remain on the stove, ready to be shared with anyone who visited,” Sumana told me, describing the homes she knew in her childhood.
Here, tea celebrates togetherness, served to family, friends, helpers, and workers as a means of connection rather than stimulation.
What most of the world drinks as Indian chai – strong, full-bodied, and flavored with spices – comes predominantly from Assam. The lowland valleys of this northeastern state provide ideal conditions for tea that’s robust and aromatic. Yet while the rest of India and the world views this strong brew as functional – to kickstart the day or ward off afternoon drowsiness – in its homeland, I’ve observed tea serving a different purpose altogether.
Sumana shared memories of the extraordinary hospitality she encountered while travelling through Assam with her father. “Complete strangers would invite us for meals – often just simple puri-bhaji (a flour and potato dish). People I had never met before or after – I’ve eaten in their homes as they inquired kindly about my family, my travels, making intimate chit-chat while we shared food.”
And of course, tea.
In this region where the famous leaves are grown, the drink isn’t meant to incite action but to create moments of pause and human connection.
Sumana remembers her grandfather saying: “Crows wake up in the morning and say 'ka ka', Assamese say 'sa sa’.”
This deliberate pause for refreshment and conversation naturally extends to another aspect of Assamese culture I’ve come to cherish – its approach to food and dining.
Savouring the land's bounty
Assam’s food culture prioritises coming together over meals to reinforce community bonds. Every celebration, every life milestone, every harvest becomes an occasion for shared feasts that stretch languidly through the afternoon and into evening. No one checks their watch; time is measured by conversation and the gradual emptying of plates.
“The air itself carries the scent of rain-soaked earth, and songs of distant birds. Life unfolds in a slower, more meaningful way,” said Prabir Banerjea, the CEO of Wild Mahaseer.
Photo: Bhaskarjyoti Das
Spread over 22 acres and surrounded by tea gardens, Wild Mahaseer is a 145-year-old heritage property that serves as both a cultural time capsule and a gateway to the Eastern Himalayan Botanic Ark. The Ark houses over 100,000 plants, 90 species of birds, and 72 species of butterflies. It’s where guests can “savour 150 years of cultural heritage and a millennia of natural heritage”, Prabir told me. He encourages guests to listen to nature’s whispers and absorb the essence of Assamese village life.
Food is a natural extension of the lahe-lahe philosophy. Unlike the fiery curries found elsewhere in India, Assamese cuisine remains mildly spiced, allowing natural flavors to shine through.
Fresh fish tenga (sour curry), bamboo shoot pork, wild greens, and local rice are prepared with minimal intervention – another manifestation of the region’s philosophy of letting things be.
I’ve noticed it’s not uncommon for Assamese people to enjoy plain white rice, savouring its subtle sweetness and texture – a perfect reflection of their appreciation for simplicity. Food here isn’t merely fuel but an opportunity to taste the land’s bounty and the season’s gifts at their most authentic.
This appreciation for authentic materials and natural processes extends beyond food to another quintessential element of Assamese cultural identity – the magnificent textiles that adorn its people during those very same celebrations.
Golden threads of tradition
Lahe-lahe village life in Assam creates time for the community. These are joyous occasions and always call for beautiful attire.
In nearly every village home, the rhythmic click-clack of looms forms the backdrop to daily life. Women weave as they have for centuries, creating textiles for everyday use.
But most cherished among these is muga silk – Assam's golden treasure.
“Authentic muga silk is special,” explained Ashwini Joshi when I spoke with her about local textiles. As a textile technology graduate of Sualkuchi, Assam’s renowned weaving center, Ashwini understands what makes this fabric unique. “It has its own natural golden luster. And muga silk fibers are very strong. Whatever fabric we make out of them will be very durable.”
Unlike other silks that deteriorate with time, I learned that muga silk grows more beautiful with each passing year. “There is a strong tradition of passing down muga saris,” Ashwini said. “One sari can last nearly three generations. Up to 100 years.”
Photo: Subinoy Das
This remarkable longevity, she explained, comes from a uniquely Assamese approach to silk processing. Most silk traditions remove sericin, a natural protein found in silk fibers. But Assam’s tradition of letting things be means the sericin remains untouched during processing. It embodies the philosophy of doing less, yet gaining more, in the process.
Weaving a single muga sari might take 12-15 days of patient work, but the resulting garment becomes a family heirloom, growing more lustrous with every wash. Even more remarkable is the fabric’s resistance to artificial colouring. “Muga silk also doesn’t really accept colour. It isn’t usually dyed. The natural golden hue is treasured,” Ashwini told me.
In a world of fast fashion and disposable garments, muga silk is an embodiment of Assam’s approach – creating things meant to last, to be cherished across generations, to grow more beautiful with time rather than deteriorate.
The essence of lahe-lahe
As dusk settles over Assam, the pace of life slows even further. Families gather on verandas, tea cups in hand, watching fireflies emerge. Children gather together to sing songs. The scent of fresh fish simmering in a light curry wafts from nearby kitchens.
This, I believe, is Assam’s greatest wealth – not its tea exports or tourism revenue, but its preservation of mindful living in a world that has largely forgotten how to slow down. The patient brewing of tea, the unhurried enjoyment of meals, the meticulous creation of textiles that last generations – all are connected by the same reverence for a life filled with connection, beauty and simplicity.
It’s a lesson offered without insistence; a gentle reminder that life’s deepest joys often arrive not through acceleration, but through attention.
Like tea leaves that release their essence only when given proper time, like silk that gains luster through years of careful handling, like a child finding delight in feeding rabbits – Assam teaches us that some things simply cannot be rushed.
