Neelim Akash Kashyap
(neelimassam@gmail.com)
There was once a boy from Sarupathar who could move Zubeen Garg to tears. Especially during Rongali Bihu, the memory of that boy would, he often said, leave the beloved artist deeply shaken. Zubeen himself had shared this with us many times. I still remember vividly one such intimate conversation on the eve of Rongali Bihu. He had said, “As a child, I celebrated Bihu with all my heart. Because of my father’s job, my childhood and adolescence were scattered across different corners of Assam. So, the memories of singing Bihu and Husori in courtyards and open fields across the state still live on in me. I miss those carefree Bihus of my childhood dearly. Now, I hardly find the time to sing in courtyards; I remain busy with cultural programmes during Bihu. A few years ago, at a Bihu function in Silapathar, a young boy died in a stampede while coming to watch my performance. Whenever Bihu returns, along with the sweet memories of my childhood, the thought of that boy from Sarupathar brings an ache that shakes me to the core.”
That a memory like this could make Zubeen Garg weep at the arrival of Rongali Bihu reveals the depth of his humanity; it is a reflection of his tender heart, almost like a mirror of his soul. Today, that very Zubeen is no longer physically among us. In the season of colours, the same Bihu that once stirred his emotions has now left Assam grieving for him. His untimely passing, far away in Singapore on September 19, 2025, has cast a shadow whose weight is still felt across the land. The atmosphere in Assam after his departure stands as a testament to the grief of a people who have lost one of their own.
With a part of our hearts torn away, this Rongali Bihu arrives as the first since Zubeen Garg left us. The first Bohag without the warmth of his presence. How can this festival bring colour when something so essential is missing?
Undeniably, Zubeen Garg, who lent his voice to thousands of songs, was also an unparalleled voice in modern Bihu music. By weaving contemporary elements into traditional Bihu melodies, he made the genre resonate with multiple generations. From the era of cassettes to compact discs and now to the vast reach of YouTube, he painted Rongali Bihu with his music. From “Janmoni Tumar Babe” and “O Nahor Phular Botor” to albums like “Janmoni” and “Anjana,” his songs added vibrant hues to the festival. In his time, even the arrival of Magh carried a hint of Bohag in the heart, such was the magic of his Bihu songs. His presence elevated Bihu cultural evenings to a whole new level.
This year, Zubeendaa is not here. Somehow, the spirit of Bihu feels incomplete. No new tune has yet captured the public imagination; no melody is being hummed from one lip to another. And yet, the call of the season cannot be denied—Bihu has arrived at our doorsteps. We will celebrate Bihu. We must celebrate Bihu. Because Rongali Bihu is our soul. It is the mirror of our identity. It is our cherished inheritance. It is our New Year. And yet, a Bohag without that familiar warmth feels strangely hollow. Even as the Nahor, Togor, and Kopou flowers bloom, even as the cuckoo and keteki call out, and even as the rhythms of the dhol and pepa beckon us, this year’s Rongali seems drained of its colours. How can it be otherwise without Zubeen Garg?
Let this year’s Bihu, then, be one of quiet observance—of tradition upheld in its purest form. Let it be a Bihu where the beats of the dhol and the notes of the pepa do not urge the dancer into wild abandon. Let it be a Bohag that remembers through silence as much as through celebration. In the absence of the vibrant musical evenings he once filled, let us allow Rongali Bihu to pass this year with restraint, honouring the man who gave new life and new rhythm to Bihu songs—just as some Bihu committees in places like Chepan, Guwahati, Mangaldoi, and Nalbari’s Helacha have resolved to do.
Or what do you say?