A fading footprint along the riverbanks of Bengal tells a tougher story than the melodic Baul songs suggest. Urban migration has become a corporate rat race, luring younger generations away from village life and traditional itinerant performances. Bolstered by Bollywood beats and streaming playlists, folk music often feels like a drop in the ocean—overshadowed and under-appreciated.

Money matters loom large. Once supported by local landlords, Bauls now rely on meager income from street performances or tourism, which can be as unpredictable as monsoon floods. When Cyclone Amphan ravaged coastal hamlets in 2020, entire communities were displaced, making it a herculean task to keep oral lineages intact. Songs passed down by heart risk vanishing when elders can no longer reach receptive ears.

Digital platforms offer a double-edged sword. A viral Baul clip on social media brings momentary fame, yet snippets stripped of context can feel like cherry-picking verses, robbing the tradition of its deeper spiritual undercurrents. Meanwhile, mainstream religious groups sometimes brand Baul practices heretical, discouraging local support and pushing these mystics to the fringes.

Language itself is shifting. Regional dialects evolve, and poetic nuances embedded in ancient lyrics grow harder to grasp. At festivals, performances—even at UNESCO-recognized gatherings—often get repackaged into sanitized “world-music” acts, walking a tightrope between authenticity and marketability.

Yet pockets of hope remain. Cultural NGOs are digitizing extensive archives, and recent collaborations with universities—such as a 2024 documentary series—shine a spotlight on Baul philosophy as a counterpoint to divisive politics. Small schools in Khulna and Kolkata have begun offering workshops, inviting curiosity rather than criticism.

Preserving Baul tradition today means fusing old wisdom with new tools—holding water in the hands but refusing to let it slip away.