Letters to the EDITOR: The Song Must Go On: Remembering the legacy beyond life

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The Song Must Go On: Remembering the legacy beyond life

Assam stands still in silence. The rhythms have slowed, the microphones have gone quiet, and even the air feels heavier with grief. The name that once echoed through every lane, classroom, and celebration — Zubeen Garg — is now spoken with a tremor of disbelief. His sudden departure has left not just a void in our music but an ache deep within our collective soul.

For years, Zubeen was more than a singer. He was a heartbeat — the unifying pulse of a people bound by melody and memory. His voice crossed barriers of age, language, and region, touching the deepest chords of Assamese identity. Whether in the intimacy of “Anamika” or the rebellion of “Mayabini”, Zubeen’s songs were not just entertainment—they were declarations of freedom, emotion, and belonging.

Born in the quiet corners of Meghalaya and nurtured in the cultural soil of Assam, Zubeen’s journey was not one of privilege, but of persistence. Behind the flamboyant stage persona stood a boy who dreamt, stumbled, and soared — all on his own terms. From the day he picked up a harmonium, he lived for art, and perhaps, he lived through art.

He was a man of contradictions — deeply spiritual, yet profoundly restless; fiercely independent, yet bound to the roots of home. In his own words, “I am a river — I flow where my heart takes me.” And flow he did — from soulful Bihu ballads to experimental compositions in Bollywood and beyond. But no matter where he went, he carried Assam with him — like a rhythm that refused to fade.

Zubeen never confined himself within definitions. He was a singer, a composer, an actor, a director, a poet, and a painter — but above all, a believer. A believer in humanity, in justice, and in the beauty of chaos. He sang for love and for protest, for faith and for fury. He could stand on a crowded stage or sit quietly in a village courtyard and be the same man — raw, real, radiant. And yet, behind that radiance, there was restlessness. Zubeen carried within him both light and storm — the same contradiction that made his art so alive. He gave and gave, often forgetting to preserve himself. And perhaps, that is the price artists pay for giving too much of their soul to the world.

When the news of his passing broke, Assam wept — not just for the man, but for what he represented. The photographs, the videos, the stories flooding our screens — they were not mere tributes but attempts to hold onto something larger than loss.

It is here that our responsibility begins. We have mourned, but can we sustain?

Our older generations have stood by their promise. They never let their legends fade into silence. It is because of their steadfastness that we know the names and the arts of Jyotiprasad Agarwala, Bishnu Rabha, and Bhupen Hazarika—and many more. They carried their memories through songs and stories, classrooms and community gatherings. They treated these figures not as history, but as living inspiration. Through their care, those names became eternal.

Today, that sacred calling rests upon us. We cannot allow Zubeen to become a passing trend or a seasonal grief. His name must not fade into hashtags and archived playlists. Zubeen’s legacy deserves living guardians—people who will teach his songs, translate his dreams, and live his ideals. To keep him alive means to keep his vision alive: a vision of unity beyond borders, of love beyond language, of pride without arrogance.

Let us archive his works, document his journey, and introduce his music to the young — not as nostalgia, but as inspiration. Let schools speak of him, let stages echo his compositions, let filmmakers tell his story, and let artists across Assam carry forward his rebellion — with humility and heart. Zubeen’s art was not only melody — it was movement. He stood by causes, spoke for the voiceless, and reminded us that patriotism was not a slogan but a commitment. He loved his land fiercely — its rivers, forests, and people. “Love your roots,” he often said, “for without them, no song can exist.” And so, if we truly wish to honour him, we must protect what he loved — our language, our environment, our culture, and our conscience. To live like Zubeen is to live with empathy, courage, and purpose. We couldn’t save him. The weight of that truth will remain. But we can still preserve what he stood for.

The brightest stars often leave too soon — but they don’t disappear. They continue to glow in the songs we hum, the dreams we chase, and the stories we tell. Zubeen Garg is not gone. He has merely moved into a realm where legends reside — between silence and eternity. And now, it is our turn—to sing louder, to write braver and to live more kindly.

Because keeping Zubeen alive is not an obligation—it is a promise. And someone wrote proudly, "Ami Zubeen jugor manuh" (we belong to the era of Zubeen). And as long as Assam remembers, the song will never end.

Abihotry Bhardwaz

Gauhati University.

Tragedy in Chennai

This letter has a reference to a news item titled 'Tragedy In Chennai', which appeared in your esteemed daily, dated October 5, 2025. It is no doubt yet another most tragic incident where Asomiya youths lost their lives outside Assam in a most tragic way.

The regular exodus of unskilled Asomiya youths to outside the state must be stopped to avoid such tragic incidents in the future. We are made to understand that the country’s leading industrialists, namely Tata, Ambani, Adani, etc., are very keen to invest in Assam by establishing some heavy industries. Very unfortunately, the 3 Gogois (Lurinjyoti Gogoi, Akhil Gogoi and Gaurav Gogoi) are very vocal against such moves by the above-mentioned business houses due to reasons known to all Asom-loving bonafide Asomiyas. I strongly urge the present state government to help the above-mentioned business houses by allocating required lands freed from illegal encroachers to set up industries so that our youths do not have to go outside the state seeking their bread and butter.

Lanu Dutt Chowdhury

Guwahati.