Ashfaq Choudhury
(ashfaq.writes9876@gmail.com)
In the heart of Assam, music is more than entertainment; it is a lifeline, a pulse that connects generations. And for decades, that lifeline had one irreplaceable voice: Zubeen Garg. He was never just a singer; he was a phenomenon, a movement. He often said, “Mur kunu jati nai, mur kunu dhormo nai, moi mukto,” which translates to, “I have no caste, I have no religion, I am free.” Zubeen lived life on his own terms — unbound, unafraid, unfiltered.
He proudly described himself as an atheist, a man who believed more in art and humanity than in rituals and deities. And yet, in death, he became what he never sought to be: a god, immortalised in the hearts of millions who now speak his name with reverence. This is not merely an obituary. It is an attempt to understand how an artist’s refusal to conform made him eternal.
The Man Who Refused to Bow
Born in Tura in 1972, Zubeen grew up in a family where music wasn’t just a hobby; it was a way of life. From the very beginning, he was never one to walk the beaten path. He defied trends, refused to be boxed into one genre, and constantly reinvented himself. He could be crooning a soulful Assamese ballad one day and belting out a Bollywood chartbuster the next. He had the voice of a rebel but the heart of a poet.
Zubeen openly rejected organized religion. For him, divinity was in music, in nature, and in the connections people share. His concerts felt like spiritual gatherings, not because he invoked the name of God, but because he made people feel alive. He stood wherever he believed there was injustice, from the anti-CAA protests to environmental demonstrations at Dighalipukhuri, where he stood shoulder to shoulder with students and fearlessly criticized authority.
From Atheist to Godlike
It is perhaps the greatest irony that a man who distanced himself from religious symbolism is now revered almost as a deity. People have begun calling him the “heartbeat of Assam”, the “voice of a generation”, and the “soul of the Northeast”. After his death, candles were lit and flowers offered. For his admirers, Zubeen’s atheism never mattered — what mattered was that he gave them something stronger than ritual: faith. Faith in music, in belonging, in identity. His passing did not just sadden people; it united them. People who never agreed on politics, language, or culture stood shoulder to shoulder, mourning the man who taught them how to feel.
I saw Muslims reciting the Quran Sharif in front of his photograph, Hindus lighting diyas, and people from every community praying in their own way. It was deeply symbolic, a moment where grief transcended religion.
Some Muslims even said Zubeen’s cremation felt like a janaza, a funeral prayer, of their own brother. There was no “us” and “them.” Just one collective heart, shattered. His loss was not just a public tragedy; it was personal for every household in Assam.
The Voice of an Era
For millions, Zubeen was not just a singer; he was the soundtrack of their lives. For the Assamese diaspora scattered across India and the world, his music was home away from home. Whether in Delhi, Mumbai, Bangalore, London, or New York, his concerts became emotional havens for students and professionals longing for a piece of Assam. He sang about love, heartbreak, rebellion, nostalgia, and the bittersweet beauty of existence. His song “Mayabini”, now eerily prophetic, became more than just a melody; it became a collective memory. It played in tea stalls, in wedding ceremonies, and in college hostels, and now, after his passing, it plays at vigils, as though keeping him alive.
For many, Zubeen was a friend they had never met. His songs held their hands through heartbreak, celebrated their small victories, and soothed them on nights of unbearable loneliness.
The Contradiction of Zubeen
Zubeen was no saint. He was fiery, impulsive, and sometimes controversial. His candid interviews, political remarks, and raw honesty often stirred debates. Fans worried about his health, his stress, and his struggles.
But perhaps that is what made him so beloved — he was unapologetically human. He never pretended to be perfect. And yet, the very people who once saw him as flawed now elevate him to divine status.
When news of his death broke, the streets of Assam fell eerily silent. It was as if the entire state had stopped breathing. Thousands gathered at his home, singing his songs through tears. Murals of Zubeen appeared overnight. His face adorned every shopfront, every banner, every newspaper.
The Cultural Impact
Assam has given India many artists, but few had the power to transcend generations as Zubeen did. He was not just a musician but also a filmmaker, actor, composer, and philanthropist. He gave a platform to countless young artists and used his influence to speak fearlessly on issues that mattered.
He became a bridge between rural and urban, tradition and modernity. He showed that Assamese music wasn’t confined to Assam; it belonged to the world. His contribution to Indian cinema, especially Bollywood, opened doors for many to dream bigger.
A Future Without Him
Perhaps the most haunting part of Zubeen’s passing is the realisation that an era has ended. For today’s youth, who grew up believing Zubeen was invincible, the loss feels unbearable. “We are too young to handle this,” many wrote online. But perhaps this is what immortality looks like. His voice will never fade. His songs will continue to play on FM radios, on YouTube, and on Bluetooth speakers at picnics. Children yet unborn will hum “Ya Ali” and “Mayabini” without ever knowing the man, yet feeling the same magic.
The Day Mayabini
Became a Prayer
After his death, Mayabini became more than a song; it became a prayer. Zubeen himself had once said it should be played the day he dies. And so Assam obliged. The song echoed through the streets, through radio stations, and through social media, turning mourning into a shared ritual, as though the entire state were singing him to eternal peace.
Lived as an atheist, died as a god
Zubeen Garg never sought worship and never wanted followers. And yet, that is what he became: a figure of comfort, guidance, and inspiration.
He lived as an atheist, refusing to bow before any idol, but died becoming one. And maybe that is the true measure of an artist: to live for oneself but die for everyone. Zubeen may be gone, but he is never forgotten. In every Bihu festival, every hostel jam session, every wedding, every lonely night when someone presses play — Zubeen lives again.