Baul lyrics unfold in a vibrant tapestry of Bengali’s many voices—both formal and colloquial—spiced up with words borrowed from Sanskrit, Persian, Arabic and neighbouring tongues. At their core lies Chôlit Bhâsha, the everyday spoken Bengali, but wander a bit farther and dialectal inflections take over.

In Kushtia or Nadia, Bauls tend to slip between Sâdhûbhâsha’s elevated Sanskritisms (hridoy, mala) and the homey Chôlit forms (hriday, gôrô). Head north to Dinajpur or Rangpur and Rangpuri’s “majo” (mother) or “dada” (brother) pepper the lines; Sylheti singers—spotlighted at the 2024 Dhaka Baul Mela—turn “khaowa” into “khaoya” and “kono” into “koni,” giving their verses a gentle undulating rhythm.

The Rarh region around Bankura adds its own twang, while Varendri dialect from Rajshahi slips in words like “gachh” (tree) pronounced with a softer guttural. Even the Cooch Behar Bauls pull in snippets of local speech, melting it seamlessly into their mantric refrains.

Beyond Bengali’s borders, it isn’t unusual to catch a stray Hindi or Urdu couplet—“Pir” standing alongside “guru,” “ishq” nestling with “prem”—a testament to centuries of Sufi-Vaishnava cross-pollination. Occasionally, tribal tongues such as Santali surface, or Magahi phrases drift in from the old trade routes.

This linguistic patchwork feels less like a collage and more like a living river, where each tributary enriches the flow. Recent Gurudev festivals in Kolkata highlight how newcomers hum along without even realizing they’re absorbing Varendri or Sylheti turns of phrase. Whether singing of bamboo groves, deer, or the inner self, Bauls choose whatever dialect or borrowed term best sparks that moment of mystical clarity. The result? A folk-poetic language all its own—at once local and universal.