From the lyrical genius of Sudhakontho Dr Bhupen Hazarika to the present-day visual cacophony of self-proclaimed performers flooding our screens, one might argue that the arts—and perhaps society at large—have evolved. But as I watch the changing tides of taste, expression, and morality, I find myself returning to a more uncomfortable question: have we truly progressed, or are we simply dressing up our descent in the fashionable language of liberation?

We live in a time that prides itself on being progressive, inclusive, and bold. The walls that once framed tradition, discipline, and nuance are being bulldozed to make room for "anything goes" philosophies. Rules are deemed archaic, structure is viewed with suspicion, and any call for restraint is quickly labeled regressive. But beneath the noise of this relentless pursuit of freedom, I find a silence that is hard to ignore—the silence of substance, of grounded thought, of meaning.

There exists a certain grammar to life, to art, to human expression. This grammar—though invisible—is not imaginary. It is the unwritten code that governs not just how we create, but why we create. It brings balance to chaos, gives form to feeling, and above all, offers respect to the craft and to its audience. This structure, I believe, should not be discarded lightly or broken merely to earn the badge of being “liberal” or “forward-thinking.”

To illustrate this, let me draw a seemingly strange yet striking parallel.

We attend to nature’s call in designated places—spaces built specifically for that most primal human urge. These are spaces where such acts are acceptable and expected. Now imagine someone tomorrow claiming that relieving oneself is not only natural but an ultimate truth of existence, and therefore it should be permissible in spaces of reverence—be it a shrine, a temple, a church, or a mosque. “Why should sacredness restrict authenticity?” they may argue. “Isn’t everything natural sacred?”

Would society accept such a claim under the pretense of progress? Maybe. In this era, where shock is often mistaken for bravery, and defiance is marketed as depth, it wouldn’t be surprising. But should it be accepted? That’s a different matter entirely.

The very reason we separate our most basic urges from our highest ideals is because we understand the value of boundaries. Boundaries are not walls meant to confine; they are frameworks that elevate. Just as a river needs banks to flow meaningfully and not dissolve into a swamp, so too does freedom require form. The erosion of these forms, especially in the arts, in culture, and in the values we pass down, leaves us not freer, but unmoored.

Let’s return to Dr. Bhupen Hazarika—a name that echoes across generations not just because of his rich baritone or poetic brilliance, but because of the soul he infused into every word and every note. His songs were rooted in context. They carried a sense of place, a sense of people. They were shaped by the grammar of history, emotion, and discipline. That is why they still resonate. He did not break rules for the sake of being different. He mastered the form before he bent it—and when he did, it created something sublime.

Compare that to much of today’s cultural output, where disruption is treated as its own achievement. Where form is abandoned not for innovation, but because it is inconvenient. Where content often lacks both content and context. Self-expression is important, yes, but it is not sacred merely because it is personal. Expression becomes sacred when it is shaped with thought, with purpose, and above all, with responsibility.

Art has always been a mirror to society—but today, it often acts more like a megaphone, shouting into the void with the volume turned up, but little to say. And the audience, trained to react instead of reflect, responds with likes and shares rather than introspection. This isn’t progress. It’s performance masquerading as revolution.

Of course, evolution is inevitable—and in many ways, necessary. Traditions must be re-examined. Norms must be questioned. But questioning does not mean dismantling. Progress should build upon the past, not burn it to the ground. The foundation of a strong future lies not in the rejection of all that came before, but in the thoughtful integration of its wisdom with the needs of the present.

Some may call this mindset old-fashioned. And to them, I say—gladly. Because if being old-school means valuing depth over display, thought over theatrics, and structure over chaos, then I wear that label with pride. Not out of nostalgia, but out of a desire to preserve what is worth keeping in a world obsessed with reinvention.

We must ask ourselves: Are we progressing, or are we simply moving—directionless and dazzled by our own defiance? Not all motion is forward, and not all noise is meaningful. In this relentless chase for the new, let us not lose sight of the true.

There is still room for reverence in a world hungry for relevance. There is still strength in structure. And there is still value in being the quiet voice that says, “Perhaps we need to slow down, reflect, and remember where we came from.”

Because sometimes, the most radical act in a world gone wild—is to remain grounded.

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