Puja Mahanta
(pujamahanta398@gmail.com)
Assam feels quieter every day. A silence hangs in the air heavy, suffocating, impossible to ignore. The voice that once carried our laughter, our heartbreaks, our dreams, and our longings is gone. Zubeen Garg is no more, and yet everywhere, he is still here.
For every Assamese heart, there is a memory wrapped around his songs. For some, it is the scratchy cassette in a crowded school van, playing Monole Ubhoti Aahe on loop. For others, it is the comfort of Mayabini drifting through car speakers while braving evening traffic. Generations have grown up, fallen in love, celebrated, and cried with Zubeen’s voice as the soundtrack to their lives. He was not just a singer — he was an inseparable part of our most intimate stories. At weddings, in moments of solitude, under starry skies, or in the haze of a drunken night with friends — Zubeen was always there. His songs didn’t just play in the background; they stitched our memories together.
“Proti Xorotor Probhati Phule
Kobo Tumakei Mor Kotha”
(Every evening’s morning blooms, I will tell only you my story.)
And today, Assam woke up to silence, a silence deeper than grief. A silence we were never taught to endure. Born Zubeen Borthakur on 18 November 1972 in Tura, Meghalaya, he inherited music as a birthright. His father, Mohini Mohon Borthakur — the poet Kapil Thakur — gave him words. His mother, Ily Borthakur, gave him melody. Zubeen wove these gifts into a voice that became the heartbeat of Assam.
“Proti Meghali Nixa Jone
Kobo Tumakei Mor Baitha”
(Every cloudy night, I will tell only you my pain.)
He began with Assamese albums like Anamika, Xapunor Xur, and Junaki Mon before carrying his dreams to Mumbai in 1995. He lent his voice to Bollywood films like Dil Se, Fiza, and Kaante. But in 2006, Ya Ali from Gangster changed everything. Overnight, he wasn’t just Assam’s Zubeen — he was India’s Zubeen. Awards followed, fame followed, but his heart never left home.
Because for Zubeen, Assam was always the truest stage. His Bihu songs, his soul-stirring Assamese ballads, his playful, aching, rebellious voice — they weren’t just music. They were identity. They were love letters to his land and people.
“Dhumuhar Xote Mor
Bahu Jugore Nason”
(In the smoke’s shadow, my arms drown in desire for ages.)
He sang in over 40 languages, but when he sang in Assamese, it felt like he was singing directly to us. As if every word, every note, every sigh belonged to the listener alone. That was his gift — to make millions feel like his only companion.
For me, Zubeen da was not just a singer. He was a presence that lingered in the background of my life — as familiar as rain on a tin roof, as personal as the pages of a diary. His voice taught me how to love, how to dream, and how to heal. But it never taught me how to grieve. And today, I don’t know how to.
“Endharoon Xosa Mor
Bahu Dinore Apon”
(In the dark nights, my arms find comfort in you.)
What makes it crueller is how alive his story still felt. Just months ago, talks of his biography filled the air. Bhaimon da’ gave him a tribute that felt like a new beginning, not an ending. We dreamed of documentaries that would capture his art in its fullest glory. And now, the unthinkable: the song has ended too soon. His story remains unfinished — yet eternal.
“Nijanor Gaan Mor
Xekh Hobo Bhabo Tumar Bukut”
(My own song will learn to live in your heart.)
Zubeen Garg is gone. But he will never be just another singer lost to time. He is the rhythm of Assam’s heartbeat, the voice that lives in our tears and laughter. His music will continue to teach us how to love, how to dream, and perhaps, one day, how to grieve.