Tonight the Brahmaputra Carries Only One Song — "Zubeen Garg"

"মুকুতি আজি দেখো দিশহাৰা হৈ ৰয় 

দিশে দিশে চলে মাথো মৃত্যুৰ জয়

মৃত্যু এতিয়া সহজ"

Some days, writing feels like breathing. Today writing feels like suffocating.

Because howdo u write an obituary for the man who gave u you so much, from your first heartbreak song to your first bihu anthem?

Zubeen Da is gone. The words still don't sit right in my throat.

Its not that I've not written about deaths before, but this is different. This is like writing about the death of a river. You can put the date and time, but how do u measure the flood of memory it leaves behind?

Growing Up with Zubeen

When Anamika dropped in 1992, I was just another schoolkid who didn't yet know what falling in love was, or heartbreak. But I still remeber the first listen. The cassette cover had a shy young man, hair falling on his forehead, as if unsure whether he was allowed to look at the camera. And then I pressed play.

"হিয়া দহে বুকু ভাগে"- A secret whispered through the speaker, thats how the first line hit me. And all of a sudden, I was no longer in my small town room- I was somewhere bigger, somewhere more beautiful, where music wasn't just music but a conversation.

That's what Zubeen Da did- he made us feel like every song was written for us. Not for the crowd, not for the charts- but for us.

 When i failed any exams, It was Zubeen Da who consoled me through "মায়া মাঁথো মায়া." When i fell in love for the first time, it was "পাখি পাখি এই মন" playing on my phone on loop. When i had my first heartbreak it was "নায়ক হব খুজি", and many more.

You see, for us Assamese kids of the 90's and 2000's, Zubeen Da wasn't just a singer. He was the background score of our growing up.

The Moment Assam Became The World

Then came 2006. Gangster was released and “Ya Ali” exploded. Suddenly every auto, every FM station from Delhi to Dubai was playing Zubeen da. I still remember my father saying, “Deh, this is our Zubeen.”

For us, it wasn’t just pride — it was proof. Proof that an Assamese voice could carry over the Brahmaputra and across oceans. Proof that we, a small state forever fighting to be heard, had someone who could sing in our language one night and take over Bollywood the next morning.

But fame never took him away from us. He kept coming back — to Latasil fields, to Nehru Park concerts, to village naamghars — singing, laughing, fighting.

The Singer Who Became a Slogan

I covered the anti-CAA protests as a journalist. But the day Zubeen da walked into the field with a gamosa around his neck, the journalist in me disappeared. I became a protester again.

He stood there, mic in hand, and said: “Politics nokoriba bondhu…”

The crowd turned into thunder. That day, he was no longer just our favourite singer — he was our leader, our conscience, our roar.

I watched men twice his age cry. I watched teenagers who had never attended a rally raise their fists. Zubeen da’s voice did what no politician’s speech could do — it turned fear into fire.

And he didn’t just sing. He returned the BJP’s campaign money, stood against the government, risked boycotts. He reminded us that music is not just for entertainment — it is for resistance.

The Man Who Always Gave More

Long before hashtags and selfies, Zubeen da was doing charity concerts for flood victims. He was handing over cheques quietly, showing up to hospitals, offering his own home for Covid care.

I have seen him after shows, sweaty, exhausted, sitting on a low stool and still meeting every last fan, signing autographs until midnight. He was a superstar, yes, but he never behaved like one.

He was not perfect — and we loved him for that too. The impulsive outbursts, the sudden disappearances, the controversies — they made him human, not marble.

Assam Tonight

As I write this, Guwahati feels unusually quiet. Somewhere in Bharalumukh, I hear someone playing “Mayabini” softly. The shops are shuttered, the tea stalls are half-empty, even the Brahmaputra seems to flow slower tonight.

Tomorrow, when his body comes home, we will drape him in gamosa. We will cry, we will sing, we will light lamps. But in truth, Zubeen da is already immortal. He is in our voices every time we sing “Hiya dohe.” He is in every picnic where “Mon Jai” plays too loud. He is in every protest where a gamosa flutters against the wind.

The Crown Never Truly Falls

He once sang: “মনৰ নিজানত জোনাক আছিলে…”

Tonight, I imagine him doing exactly that — handing his dreams to the stars. And maybe, if you stand by the Brahmaputra tonight and listen closely, you will hear the stars singing them back.

Zubeen da is gone, yes. But he will never really leave. Because as long as Assam sings, he sings.

ALSO READ: Zubeen Garg: A Journey of Music, Love, and Legacy