Remember the thrill of standing on a stage under the bright lights of Bangladesh Television, your heart pounding like a tabla solo, your voice cracking mid-note, but the audience clapping anyway?
For several generations of Bangladeshi artistes, that moment began with ‘Natun Kuri’ – the beloved children’s talent show that was less of a competition and more of a national rite of passage.
And now, after 19 long years, the curtains are parting once more.
On Sunday, Information and Broadcasting Adviser Md Mahfuj Alam officially launched the registration for 2025 edition of Natun Kuri – a revival that feels less like a TV comeback and more like a cultural homecoming.
From Zia’s vision to political victim
Launched in 1976 under the creative direction of the legendary Mustafa Monowar, Natun Kuri, meaning “New Bud”, wasn’t just a show. It was a dream factory for kids who once imagined stardom only through grainy TV screens.
“It was started during the time of Shaheed Ziaur Rahman,” said Adviser Mahfuj Alam. “Later, it was shut down by the Awami League government – not for lack of talent, but for lack of tolerance. We’re bringing it back not for politics, but for the children.”
A bold statement? Maybe. But for millions who grew up with Natun Kuri, it rings true. The show didn’t just disappear, it was cancelled, a casualty of shifting political winds and bureaucratic neglect.
There were whispers of revival in 2020. Then came Covid-19, and the dream wilted again.
Now, it’s back, and this time, it feels personal.
How ‘Natun Kuri’ made legends
Scroll through the list of Natun Kuri alumni, and you’re scrolling through Bangladesh’s cultural hall of fame: from Tarana Halim, who blossomed from a child reciter into a silver-screen star, to Tarin Jahan, the reigning queen of theatre; from Meher Afroz Shaon, a beloved actress and enduring cultural icon, to Nusrat Imroz Tisha, a trailblazer in fashion, film, and fearless expression; from Samina Chowdhury, whose soulful voice still echoes in every palligiti, to Hemanti Rakshit Das, who carries Tagore’s legacy into the 21st century; and Tamalika Karmakar, a name that defined a generation of television. Each of them began as a young bud on that small screen, nurtured by a show that believed in talent, tradition, and the transformative power of a standing ovation.
They all started here, on a stage too big for their tiny shoes, singing, dancing, reciting, painting, believing.
“Back then,” says veteran actress Rumana Rashid Ishita, who once won a ribbon on Natun Kuri, “there was no YouTube, no TikTok. BTV was the only window to the world. If you were on Natun Kuri, your mama would tell the whole village.”
The rules of the game and the joy of playing
Registration for Natun Kuri 2025 is now open online until September 5. The country has been divided into 19 regions, and from the qualifying rounds, the best will advance to the national stage.
Categories? Everything a young artist could dream of: Solo and group acting; dancing (folk, modern, classical); singing; recitation; storytelling; and even painting — because talent isn’t just performed, it’s painted.
Age groups:
Section A: 6–10 years (the tiny buds)
Section B: 11–15 years (the ones who think they’re already stars)
No judging by influencers. No viral edits. Just raw talent, a studio audience, and the hope that maybe, just maybe, your performance will be the one your parents replay for the next 20 years.
Why we needed this back
Let’s be honest, children’s programming on TV today is either overproduced or underfunded. TikTok has replaced talent shows. Algorithms have replaced applause.
But Natun Kuri was different. It was earnest. It was inclusive. It didn’t matter if you were from Dhaka or Dinajpur — if you could recite “Shankhachil” with tears in your eyes, you belonged.
And in a country where culture is often weaponised, this revival feels like a quiet rebellion, not against politics, but for possibility.
“We hope,” said Adviser Mahfuj, “to create new artists who will play a big role in nation-building.”
Maybe. But more importantly, we’ll create children who believe in themselves.
The stage is set, the lights are on.
For the first time in nearly two decades, a 7-year-old in Sylhet can practice her jatra monologue, a 12-year-old in Khulna can rehearse his Bhatiali, and a 14-year-old in Cox’s Bazar can paint a dream — all with the same hope: “Maybe I’ll be on Natun Kuri.”
And when that moment comes, shaky voice, trembling hands, bright lights, someone, somewhere, will be watching, whispering: “That could’ve been me.”
Welcome back, Natun Kuri. The nation’s children were waiting.