The lights dim. Pinpoint silence around. The stage is all set. A young girl—ten, maybe eleven—steps forward, wearing a pink dress. Her name is Dia Das. She takes a breath, her small hands gripping the microphone, and begins to sing Mor Ghumoghore Ele Monohor—a timeless Nazrul melody that floats through the room like a warm breeze. The judges fall silent. It feels like something magical is slowly unfolding before their very eyes. Like Dia Das’s performance, most of the other children’s performances feel equally spellbinding.

This is Notun Kuri—Bangladesh Television’s legendary children’s talent show—back on air in 2025 after nearly two decades. As the familiar opening tune, Amra Notun, Amra Kuri, plays once again, many watching at home feel a rush of emotion. For countless Bangladeshis, it is the sound of a nation rediscovering its voice.

A Nostalgic return

For a generation that grew up in the glow of black-and-white television sets, Notun Kuri was more than a show. It became a ritual. Every week, families gathered around their bulky TV, switching on the only channel in existence that time, BTV, waiting to see the next batch of young dreamers.

Back then, a child from a small town could stand before the nation and become a household name. The show launched some of Bangladesh’s most beloved artists: Nusrat Imroz Tisha, Rumana Rashid Ishita, Tarin Jahan, Tarana Halim, Meher Afroze Shaon, and many more.

First aired in 1976 under the vision of Mustafa Monwar, Notun Kuri quickly became a cornerstone of national culture. It offered a platform where art and childhood intertwined, where innocence met discipline, and where creativity was nurtured rather than commodified. For nearly three decades, it shaped the cultural imagination of the country.

Its absence since 2006 left a silence. But silence, as art often teaches us, is never permanent—it waits to be filled again.

The new dawn: Notun Kuri 2025

In 2025, Notun Kuri has returned, and the excitement feels electric. The new season opened applications between 15 August and 5 September, dividing Bangladesh into 19 regions for primary auditions. From Sylhet to Khulna, from the hill tracts of Rangamati to the riverine plains of Barisal, children aged 6 to 15 arrived with songs, poems, and stories to tell.

Nine categories now define the competition—acting, recitation, storytelling or comedy, general dance, patriotic and modern songs, Rabindra Sangeet, Nazrul Sangeet, folk songs, and Hamd-Naat. Each performance, whether a folk lullaby or a Tagore classic, carries echoes of the nation’s artistic soul.

The Top Ten auditions, set to be held in Dhaka from 24 October to 29, showcased extraordinary promise. Judges praised contestants not only for their technical mastery but for the sincerity and originality that radiated from their performances. The finalists are now undergoing grooming sessions before the grand televised finals in early November—a modern continuation of an age-old legacy.

More than a contest

To call Notun Kuri a “competition” almost feels reductive. It has always been something larger: a proving ground where talent meets mentorship, where the young inherit the cultural mantle from those before them. Here, art is not just performed—it is lived.

Watching these children sing Rabindra Sangeet or recite Shamsur Rahman’s poetry with confidence and heart can move even the most stoic viewer to tears. Their voices carry not only notes and words but something less tangible: hope. Hope that the arts still matter. Hope that the country still believes in nurturing beauty, imagination, and truth.

The show’s revival is already rippling across social media. Clips of young contestants—like Dia Das’s Nazrul performance—are being shared widely, drawing admiration from audiences who may never have watched BTV before. For many, this feels like a bridge between eras: the analogue sincerity of the past meeting the digital immediacy of the present.

The legacy that built a nation’s taste

The roots of Notun Kuri run deep. Its origins trace back even before Bangladesh’s independence—to 1966, when Pakistan Television sought to create a platform for young talent. The idea was simple: every week, children would perform songs across various genres—Adhunik, Polligeeti, Rabindra Sangeet, Nazrul Geeti—and compete in a friendly, educational environment. The enthusiasm was overwhelming. Even with limited resources, the show became a nationwide phenomenon.

The early days were raw and inventive. Everything was done live, without modern editing or audience voting. When judges needed extra time to score contestants, hosts would improvise—chatting with the audience, joking with children, keeping the energy alive. That spontaneity, that unfiltered humanity, gave Notun Kuri its enduring charm.

Masuma Khatun, a pioneering anchor who later joined the Voice of America, was among the early hosts. Sometimes, Mustafa Monwar himself would step in front of the camera, his presence exuding warmth and wisdom. Behind the scenes, television legends like Zaman Ali, Abdullah Al Mamun, and later Kazi Kayum worked tirelessly to refine the show’s format.

When BTV moved from its small DIT studio to the larger Rampura complex, Notun Kuri expanded its reach, becoming a truly national contest.

Kazi Kayum, once a quiz-show champion himself, ensured that children from all corners of Bangladesh could participate. He meticulously planned how participants would travel to Dhaka, how judges would tour outside the capital, and how regional auditions could be standardised.

The result was transformative. Notun Kuri didn’t just entertain, rather it created ecosystems. Music schools, children’s cultural centres, even magazines sprouted from its influence. It cultivated not only performers but audiences, teaching a generation how to listen, appreciate, and dream.

Rekindling the flame

Today, in an era dominated by short-form videos and viral content, Notun Kuri’s return feels almost radical. It asks viewers to slow down, to listen, to celebrate the process of becoming rather than just the product of fame.

When a child performs a folk song in 2025, they carry with them centuries of oral tradition. When another recites a poem by Tagore or sings a Nazrul composition, they bridge the past with the present. Each act becomes a reaffirmation that Bangladesh’s cultural roots are deep—and still alive.

For the parents watching from home, there’s pride, yes—but also gratitude. Gratitude that their children are being taught to value artistry and heritage in a world increasingly obsessed with speed and novelty. For the older generation, the show’s revival is a homecoming of sorts—a reminder of a time when creativity was communal, not algorithmic.

A cultural renaissance in motion

The return of Notun Kuri signals something greater than nostalgia. It represents a collective reawakening. As the young performers take the stage, they are not merely singing or dancing—they are stitching together the threads of a fragmented cultural memory.

They remind us that heritage is not static; it evolves through participation. Every performance, every applause, every shared clip online becomes an act of renewal.

In the words of Mustafa Monwar, who once described Notun Kuri as “a garden of new flowers,” the show continues to bloom, year after year, generation after generation. And as Bangladesh watches, listens, and celebrates once more, it becomes clear that these new flowers are not just performers. They are the guardians of the nation’s artistic heart.