From Midnight Melodies to a Midnight Wait for Silence

For decades, Assam stayed awake for Zubeen Garg. He was the reason Bihu nights stretched till dawn, the reason thousands stood in rain-soaked fields or crowded stadiums, refusing to leave because he was still singing. His concerts were not shows; they were moments stitched into our collective memory.

We remember those nights, the thump of the dhol, the hum of anticipation as the clock ticked past midnight, the roar of the crowd when he finally walked on stage. Zubeen knew we would wait. He knew we wanted him to take his time, to let the night belong to music. And he never disappointed.

But tonight, the wait feels unbearable.

Somewhere between 3:30 and 4:00 am, his mortal remains will arrive in Assam. For the first time, people will line up not for an autograph, not for a glimpse of him singing under the floodlights, but to witness his silent return. The same roads that carried him to countless concerts will now carry him home for the last time.

It’s cruel how life changes the script without warning. One April night, we stayed up because Zubeen was still singing Mayabini under a starry sky. Tonight, we are staying up because Zubeen asked us to sing Mayabini when he was gone.

There is something haunting about this late-night vigil. The hush over the streets, the gathering of strangers bound by grief, the realisation that we have outlived the voice that gave our youth its soundtrack. We didn’t even notice when our habit of waiting for Zubeen’s late-night melodies turned into waiting for his silence.

And when the hearse finally arrives, the crowd will not cheer. There will be no calls for one more song. Only a state holding its breath, watching the final homecoming of the man who once made every night feel alive.