Zubeen Garg and the Metaphor of Kanchanjunga: Why the Mountain Sang Through Him

On a misty morning in the Himalayas, when the first rays of the sun fall on Kanchanjunga, the mountain begins to look less like stone and ice and more like a living myth. It towers, but it does not suffocate. It dazzles, but it does not blind. For those who have stood at dawn in Darjeeling or Sikkim and watched the mountain breathe light, the experience is unforgettable.

Assam’s most beloved cultural figure, Zubeen Garg, wanted to be remembered in just such a way. When he called himself Kanchanjunga, it was not a casual metaphor tossed out by a restless artist. It was a deliberate choice, a declaration of permanence and presence. He knew he was no ordinary singer; he was a mountain in the imagination of his people.

In the weeks since his passing, the word Kanchanjunga has been repeated across Assam with almost ritual insistence. Tributes, condolence meetings, and social media posts all return to the metaphor as if it were the only language adequate to the grief. To understand why Zubeen chose to call himself Kanchanjunga is to understand how mountains, myths, and memory shape Assamese identity itself.

The Five Treasures of Snow

The word Kanchanjunga means “Five Treasures of Snow.” Himalayan belief systems describe these as gold, silver, gems, grain, and sacred scriptures. But the treasures are not simply material; they represent life, wisdom, and continuity.

When Zubeen invoked Kanchanjunga, he was aligning his life with this symbolic richness. His treasures were not coins or jewels but music, rebellion, activism, love for his people, and an unmistakable spirituality. For the ordinary Assamese listener, the meaning was instant and intuitive: Zubeen was not merely a performer; he was a mountain always visible in the cultural skyline.

This is why his songs often felt less like entertainment and more like sustenance. People played his voice at Bihu gatherings, at weddings, at protest marches, and even in private moments of despair. His music was a resource as essential as grain, as enduring as scripture.

Inspiration from the Himalayas

Zubeen’s fascination with mountains was well known. He often spoke of nature as if it were part of his own body. The Brahmaputra, he said, was his blood; the forests were his lungs; the mountains were his bones.
Kanchanjunga, towering above Sikkim and visible on clear days from Darjeeling, symbolised resilience to him.

However, metaphor also has literary and cinematic roots. Rabindranath Tagore wrote of Kanchanjunga as moral grandeur incarnate. Satyajit Ray’s 1962 film Kanchenjungha cast the mountain as a silent witness to human dilemmas.

Zubeen, a voracious reader and cinephile, could hardly have missed these resonances. His claim to the metaphor was less about geography and more about symbolism. He was not trying to plant a flag on a peak; he was positioning himself as a moral and cultural force, eternal and unyielding.

Standing Tall in Assam’s Imagination

For Assam, caught between neglect from the national mainstream and the wounds of its own internal conflicts, Zubeen became something larger than an artist. He was an embodiment of collective hope.

Like Kanchanjunga rising above the mist, Zubeen rose above the political cacophony of corruption, violence, and cynicism. He was present everywhere: at Bihu functions, at protests, at fundraisers for the sick and dispossessed. His ability to stand tall while staying close to the ground gave him a rare legitimacy.

This is why the metaphor resonated. In a region struggling for recognition, metaphors matter. To call oneself Kanchanjunga was to reassure his people that he would not vanish like a pop star chasing fame. He was there to stay, immovable, like the mountain itself.

The Mountain as Rebel

Kanchanjunga is also almost unclimbable. Though mountaineers have reached its summit, local traditions in Sikkim discourage it, considering the peak sacred. The mountain resists conquest.
So did Zubeen. He refused to be caged by record labels.

He confronted governments that ignored Assam’s needs. He clashed with cultural establishments that demanded he tone himself down. He was unpredictable, difficult, sometimes abrasive, but like the mountain, majestic in his resistance.

Critics often call this arrogance. However, one could argue that in a society quick to diminish its icons, such arrogance was necessary for survival. A mountain cannot be timid.

Ecological Resonance

There is another layer to the metaphor, an ecological one. Kanchanjunga’s glaciers feed rivers that sustain millions across the region. Zubeen’s music played a similar role in nourishing the emotional and cultural life of Assam.

His songs were lifelines in times of unrest and despair. His activism in protecting forests or speaking for the Brahmaputra river was not accidental; it was consistent with the mountain identity he embraced. He wanted to be remembered not just as a singer but as a force of nature, inseparable from the land and waters of Assam.

Between Myth and Memory

Yet a critical question lingers: did Zubeen risk mythologising himself into distance? Mountains can be awe-inspiring but also remote. By likening himself to Kanchanjunga, did he place himself too high above ordinary people?

Here lies the paradox of cultural icons. They must be larger than life to inspire, yet intimate enough to be loved. Zubeen managed both. He was the towering mountain, but also the friend who could sit in a tea shop in Guwahati, chatting casually with strangers.

This duality, part myth, part human, is what allowed him to resonate so deeply. People could look up to him as a legend and yet feel that he was one of their own.

Why It Resonates Today

In the aftermath of his passing, the mountain metaphor has become even more potent. People describe their grief as if a mountain had collapsed. In condolence meetings, the name Kanchanjunga surfaces again and again, as if no other word could capture the immensity of the loss.

This was Zubeen’s genius of self-fashioning. By identifying with Kanchanjunga, he ensured his memory would not fade with passing fads. The mountain does not die; it only changes with season and light. So too, Zubeen does not vanish. He shifts from being a living performer to an eternal presence in the cultural horizon of Assam.

The Mountain Still Stands

To understand why Zubeen called himself Kanchanjunga is to understand how art, geography, and identity intertwine in Assam. His metaphor was not about ego but about vision. He wanted to be remembered not as fragile flesh but as something enduring that his people could always look up to.

The image is now part of Assam’s cultural memory: Zubeen as Kanchanjunga, the five treasures of snow translated into music, love, rebellion, courage, and memory.

The mountain still stands. And so does Zubeen in the songs that continue to echo in city streets, and in the collective imagination of the people who now carry him as their mountain.

Alankar Kaushik teaches Media Studies at the English and Foreign Languages University, Shillong 

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