Punjab, a land soaked in the rhythm of dhol, the flavor of mustard fields, and the heat of defiant hearts. It has always known how to express itself. If bhangra is the roar, then giddha is the sigh! A gentler, lyrical, and deeply emotional. Where bhangra celebrates might, giddha tells stories. It is less about performance, and more about a shared womanhood. Its joys, sorrows, satire, and sass. But what happens when a man such as Noor Zora enters this space? Not to mock or parody, but to live, and feel it in its full essence?
What Is Giddha?
Giddha is one of Punjab’s oldest, and most beloved folk dances, traditionally performed by women. Unlike bhangra, which is energetic, and masculine, giddha is graceful, expressive, and intimate. It involves rhythmic clapping, spinning movements, and playful verses called boliyan -which areshort couplets sung on the spot that express everything from love, and heartbreak to everyday gossip, political satire, and social commentary.
It’s not just a dance. It’s conversation. A mirror reflecting the emotional world of women. Be it wives, daughters, sisters. Whose voices were often silenced elsewhere. In village courtyards, weddings, and harvest festivals, giddha brings women together not just to dance, but to speak, laugh, and resist.
Born as Zorawar Singh in the heart of Punjab, he did not grow up like other boys. As a child, he wore his sisters’ salwar-kameezes, adorned himself with bangles, and danced before the mirror. He was laughed at, scolded, sometimes even punished. But the impulse to express never left him.
Growing up, he pursued education diligently. Completing a B.Ed, M.A., and M.Phil in folklore, he eventually became a government school teacher, quietly teaching during the day, and carrying a hidden fire in his heart.
That fire burst forth at a friend’s wedding. On impulse, he dressed in a heavily embroidered salwar kameez, and performed a spontaneous giddha. The joy in the crowd’s faces, the laughter, the applause, the sai(money offered during folk dances) something shifted.
Zorawar had entered a sacred space, and it welcomed him back with open arms.
He became Noor Zora.
The Beginning of a Movement
What started as a personal catharsis soon turned into a public mission. Noor formed Lok Rang Noor Art, a 12-member troupe composed entirely of queer men from rural Punjab. Their art form was Aurtaan da Giddha, women’s giddha, in its most traditional form. They didn’t parody it. They lived it. With every turn of the wrist, every clap, every verse about love, betrayal, village politics, or feminism. They reclaimed the dance that had been boxed into gender.
This wasn’t drag. This wasn’t mockery. This was heritage.
Principles Over Performance
Noor Zora’s giddha is more than art. He refuses to dilute the tradition for stage appeal. Their costumes are hand-stitched, their jewelry borrowed from mothers, and sisters, and their language steeped in village idiom.
They perform the same bolis sung by women for generations, adding new ones about the farmers’ protest, the cost of dowry, and the silence around gender.
He believes that if art is identity, then identity must be performed with honesty. Their performances are acts of pride, defiance, and hope. The joy in their dance is contagious, but it is the dignity with which they dance that makes people pause.
Noor’s fight isn’t just for inclusion in folk spaces. It’s for visibility, for healing, and for breaking the shame that follows queer expression in rural homes.
Noor Zora (The Voice Of Fashion)
The Reach of a Rebel
Over the years, Lok Rang Noor Art has performed at over 2,000 events. Like weddings, festivals, universities, even international stages in Canada, the UK, and Australia. Their fanbase is vast, stretching across Punjabi diaspora communities, and beyond. On social media, they have hundreds of thousands of followers. Some cheer, some critique, but all take notice.
They are booked for multiple lakhs per show. But money was never the point.
Noor Zora at a wedding. (The Voice Of Fashion)
Why He Dances
In interviews and public talks, Noor often reflects on how folk traditions are fading, consumed by a Punjabi music industry obsessed with bravado, hypermasculinity, and digital beats.“Folk isn’t just nostalgia,” he says,“it’s a form of memory. And memory must be performed.”
He dances to keep giddha alive. Because he never got to, as a child. For the boys in the back of the classroom who wear their mother’s bangles in secret. He dances because someone has to. And in doing so, he has turned giddha into something more. A symbol of how art can liberate not just the artist, but entire communities.
The Show Must Go On
Noor Zora didn’t just dance into the spotlight. He danced into history. In the flick of his parandi, in the rhythm of his claps, in the unwavering femininity of his stance. He built a bridge between resistance, and art. He reminds us that culture is not frozen. It breathes, adapts, and, if we’re lucky, it heals. And somewhere in rural Punjab, when a young boy claps to the beat of a giddha, maybe he won’t hide.
