The Commodification of Grief: Has Zubeen Garg Become Just Another Social Media Tool?

When Zubeen Garg, the undisputed heartthrob and cultural colossus of Assam, passed away on September 19th in Singapore, the state did not just grieve; it came to a standstill. The silence that descended upon the Brahmaputra Valley was heavy, laden with the shock of a loss that felt impossible to comprehend. When the people of Assam finally bade him a tearful farewell on September 23rd at the Sonapur funeral ground, it was a moment of rare, unified sorrow. Following the tragedy, Chief Minister Dr. Himanta Biswa Sarma promptly declared a Special Investigation Team (SIT) probe, leading to arrests and intense interrogations. These procedural developments are now public knowledge, endlessly cycled through the news feeds of the state.

But as the initial shockwave settles, a more unsettling narrative has begun to emerge from the debris of this tragedy.

To understand the gravity of what is happening, one must first understand what Zubeen meant to this land. For Assam, he was never merely an artist or a playback singer. He was a distinct cultural consciousness—a brother, a rebel, a son, and an unapologetic voice for the people. The collective mourning was, and remains, valid. However, beneath the veil of this collective sorrow, we failed to notice how slyly the narrative shifted. The mourning for Zubeen Garg has been hijacked, transformed by certain actors into a calculated tool for popularity, social media engagement, and political relevance.

It is an act that borders on the vulgar: seeking profit—whether social capital or political leverage; from the silence of a man who can no longer speak for himself. In the digital age, grief is no longer a private emotion; it is content. And in the case of Zubeen Garg, this content is high-value. From the ruling dispensation to the opposition, and from established influencers to freelance opportunists, everyone seems to have jumped into this utter madness to extract their pound of flesh from the tragedy.

The political spectacle has been particularly jarring. The ruling party, in a display of baffling irony, organized roadshows across several districts demanding "justice" for Zubeen’s mysterious death. This theater of protest conveniently ignores a fundamental reality: they are the government. They control the Home Department; they control the police. When the state apparatus organizes protests demanding justice, one must ask: who are they protesting against? Themselves? It creates a paradox where the government masquerades as the opposition to tap into public sentiment, turning a criminal investigation into a populist campaign.

Simultaneously, the digital ecosystem has swarmed the issue. Individual influencers and self-styled "freelance journalists"; armed with smartphones and a lack of editorial oversight, viewed this tragedy not as a loss, but as a "trending topic." They seized this as the perfect moment to gain maximum traction, launching their own speculative "investigations" and conspiracy theories to capture eyeballs.

This commodification extended even to art. When Zubeen’s final film hit the theatre halls, the discourse shifted overnight. Suddenly, social media was flooded with aggressive anti-piracy campaigns. While piracy is indeed a crime, the messaging felt manipulative. It wasn't just about protecting intellectual property; it was framed as a moral obligation to the departed soul. The guilt-tripping of the audience, implying that not watching the film was a betrayal of Zubeen’s legacy—was a marketing masterstroke disguised as homage.

Perhaps this is understandable if we accept that society has devolved into a circus where attention is the only currency. Anthropologists note that some tribes mourn their loved ones for a year and a day. As a society that adored Zubeen, we are more than willing to mourn him for a lifetime. But what we should not accept is the competition to farm engagement hiding behind this façade of grief.

Recent examples of this "performative empathy" are glaring and uncomfortable. Sivsagar MLA Akhil Gogoi recently shared a photograph of himself with Zubeen, alongside a separate image of a grieving Garima Saikia Garg. The caption read, “Zubeen da loi bor monot porise, Bou” (Missing Zubeen da terribly, Bou). By addressing Garima Saikia Garg publicly as "Bou" (Sister-in-law) on his page, the post performs an intimacy that feels designed for public consumption rather than private consolation. It humanizes the politician, using Garima Garg's mourning picture as a backdrop.

Even more explicit was the instance involving artist Manas Robin. He shared a picture of the Sonapur funeral ground; a site of solemn finality—with a caption that originally stated, “12th December, SIT r pratibedan dakhilor dintut moi dadar kaxot thakim. Aru Apuni?” (On Dec 12th, the day of the SIT report submission, I will be by Dada’s side. Will you?).

Although Robin later edited the post to remove the final question, the original intent lays bare the problem. The question "Aru Apuni?" (And you?) is a Call to Action (CTA)—a marketing term used to drive engagement. It gamifies the submission of a police report. It turns a solemn legal procedure into a participatory event, asking the audience to "tune in" as if it were a season finale of a reality show.

These are not isolated incidents; they are symptoms of a rotting social fabric. Zubeen Garg is no longer being treated as a soul for whom we seek justice; he is being treated as a hashtag to be exploited to stay in the trend.

The SIT will do its job. The courts will do theirs. But we, the people of Assam, must do ours by distinguishing between genuine sorrow and digital noise. We need to stop rewarding this behavior with our likes, shares, and comments.

Zubeen Garg gave his life to the people of Assam. The least we can give him in return is the dignity of being remembered for his art and his humanity, not as a tool for someone else’s social media reach. This collective madness must end. We must learn to mourn in silence, for sometimes, silence is the loudest form of respect.