Zubeen Garg's Solemn Belonging: The Bard of the Luit Who Could Not Be Contained

A month has passed since the catastrophic news struck, people of Assam continue to grapple with an immeasurable loss. The grief is too profound to subdue, leaving people feeling utterly helpless, suspended between disbelief and devastating reality. As they struggle to find their footing in a world that no longer feels whole, across the state, cries to uncover the real truth behind his death have grown louder than ever.

To confront his absence is to face an enigma: how does one make sense of such a loss of! He was a presence of such towering, quiet strength that his sudden departure feels not like an ending, but an abrupt vacuum, agony too intense for our common language to hold. His passing, an entire state brought to a solemn halt, a funeral drawing fifteen lakh mourners, are echoes of his warmth, a longing for his voice. The true understanding might lie in the unspoken covenant he shared with his people, how his being was intertwined with the essence of a land.

Zubeen Garg passed away in a tragic accident in Singapore on September 19, 2025, and what followed transcended every conventional understanding of grief, celebrity, and collective mourning. What unfolded was something perhaps only Zubeen da himself could have envisaged, though even he might have been astonished by its magnitude.

Born in 1972, Zubeen Garg's career as a singer began in 1992, and for over thirty years, he remained not merely the indispensable voice of Assam, but its living conscience. He was their heartthrob, the one every Assamese could find solace in having as the eternal soundtrack to their existence. He was, in a very revered sense, their darling ghoror lora, the son belonging to every household, claimed by an entire people.

Omaanixa Xaare Ase, Aru Xaare Asu Moi ( The night is wide awake and sleep escapes me)

To try and fathom the seismic response that followed September 19th, to understand how love became visible, how grief assumed the form of an entire civilization bidding farewell to its heart, let us traverse those four cataclysmic days when Assam redefined what collective mourning could look like.

At 3 PM on September 19th, news struck like cosmic lightning: Zubeen Garg met with a fatal accident in Singapore, where he had gone to perform at the Northeast Festival. Time didn't just stop, it shattered. People clutched desperately to hope, waiting agonizing hours for the news to prove false. But by evening, confirmation arrived like a funeral bell, and with it came collective disintegration. People crumbled wherever they stood, in offices, on streets, in their homes. They surged toward Zubeen's residence, lighting earthen lamps with trembling hands, congregating at street corners.
City bus drivers declared they couldn't work anymore that night, the pain was unbearable. No one slept that night. Across the state, his songs played in endless loops as people tried to conjure his presence.

The entire state awakened on September 20th to an eerie, unprecedented quiet. Streets lay barren, not because anyone had declared a shutdown, but because three crore people simply couldn't summon the will for ordinary existence. Everything except medical facilities remained closed. A people mourned in perfect unison, paralyzed by anguish so acute it defied articulation.

Every kilometre revealed his garlanded photographs appearing like prayers made manifest. In courtyards across Assam, earthen lamps flickered, as for departed family members, because that's precisely what he was. Street corners transformed into spontaneous memorials where people assembled, singing his compositions through sobs. Youth gathered everywhere, voices shattered yet determined, harmonising despite heartbreak because silence would have been unendurable.

It was about time, the song he had requested his admirers play upon his death, 'Mayabini Ratir Bukut' now becoming the lullaby of an entire state's lamentation. Word came that his body would arrive the following morning, reaching Guwahati by 4 AM. People from across the state had already begun their journey to the city. Thousands streamed toward the airport to welcome their cherished son home one final time. The government announced his body would be brought to Sarusajai Stadium for public homage, and people began their vigil there through the darkness.

Those who arrived early slept on roads and pavements around Sarusajai, maintaining their vigil through the night of September 20th. Tens of thousands congregated at the airport. What materialized the following morning was perhaps something Zubeen Garg himself had prophesied, the fulfillment of his confident prediction: "When I die, people of Assam will shut down the state for a week." Along the entire highway to Sarusajai Stadium and his residence, people assembled in numbers reaching into the lakhs. An ocean of humanity emerged onto the streets, shattered souls howling, stretching desperate hands skyward as if summoning him back to life through the sheer force of their anguish. As far as vision could reach, there existed only people, a sea of love, devotion and despair.

His body arrived at Sarusajai Stadium in the afternoon of September 21st. Nearly fifteen lakh people from across the state had gathered, not merely to see him one final time, but to achieve closure and, fundamentally, because they loved him with overwhelming intensity as their own.

It was remarkable that despite lakhs of people congregating in such grief-stricken chaos, not a single stampede occurred, no commotion erupted, no serious injuries were reported. Perhaps the only way to comprehend this collective composure is to have been present in those moments, to have witnessed how love itself became an organizing force.

People had journeyed from as distant as Sadiya. In those interminable queues lasting five to six hours, heartening conversations were overheard: "Calm down and make way for each other, he'll be hurt if we get agitated.""It's ok to wait longer hours. It's for Zubeen da, we can wait all night." When a very heavy downpour suddenly unleashed, not a single person among those lakhs attempted escape. They waited with infinite patience, declaring lovingly, "It's just rain, not fire. He gave us so much, getting drenched is inconsequential." Elders moved through the crowds, maintaining serenity: "We are all mourning. We cannot afford harshness toward each other today. Everyone, stay calm." Middle-aged and older women wept intensely, many calling him their son, lamenting that he shouldn't have departed so prematurely.

Around evening, a rainbow appeared, one complete arc across the Sarusajai sky. People observed it with unexpected joy, remembering him, imagining how he must be serenading everyone in celestial realms above. The queues continued through the night.

The shutdown persisted organically on September 22nd. Desolate roads, inexplicable silence enveloping every city, town, and village across Assam. Some flew from foreign countries, others from distant Indian states, to reach Guwahati for one final farewell. Those unable to attend organized condolence gatherings across the state and beyond. Delivery services and transportation remained paralyzed, not from organized strikes but from collective inability to function normally. As night approached, anxiety intensified. The decision had been finalized: he would be laid to rest on September 23rd in a Karbi community crematorium ground near Sonapur. In mere hours, they would never see him again. The night stretched endlessly, with people praying for its extension because dawn demanded something they weren't prepared to surrender. It was, seemingly, the mystical night Zubeen had described in "Mayabini."

From the previous night, thousands had made their way to Sonapur. People converged from vast distances, walking six kilometers to the site as roads became impassable. Those unable to attend remained transfixed by screens worldwide, weeping, shattered, powerless. He was laid to rest with full state honors, twenty-one gun salutes fired in tribute. He had always proclaimed he wanted to live and die like a king of his people, and he was honored that wish. As the funeral commenced, lakhs of people present at the site sang "Mayabini" one ultimate time. It turned into a loving prayer of longing. Someone cried out, "Don't commit him to fire, he'll be hurt." He had once confessed he despised loneliness. It was the living moment of his song, "tez mongohore prithibi neusi, joli joli rol mathu sai". His people ensured he never experienced it, they didn't abandon him for a single moment since, singing and accompanying him through his final journey and after.

Monole Ubhoti Aahe Lorali (Reminiscing the good old days) 

But why this outpouring? How did a state spontaneously halt and a population hasn't slept well since that day? The questions linger because numbers alone cannot capture what was lost.

Perhaps the answer lies in what he himself and his music meant to those who grew up listening to him. Through conflict-torn Assam, from the wearisome eighties to the violent nineties, Zubeen's music arrived like rain upon scorched earth, a calm to hearts ablaze with uncertainty and longing. For a musician, his voice carried an ethereal power that transcended the ordinary, his lyrics laid bare the deepest human emotions, his compositions stood as timeless treasures for the Assamese people.

His melodies could paint the entire landscape of Assam, the aspirations simmering beneath everyday existence. For generations of Assamese youth, his voice accompanied every emotion they possibly experienced. Those masterpiece albums from the 90s and early 2000s weren't just entertainment, they explored love, living visuals of the homeland, the daily struggles of the Assamese working class people, class exploitation penned in pain and sung in grief, dreams of a better word. 

When people thought they knew the breadth of his talent, his ability to write and perform pop, reggae or contemporary Assamese music, he revealed depths that defied categorization. He moved seamlessly across the entire spectrum of Assamese musical traditions: from the devotional heights of Borgeet to Tokari Geet, Rabha Sangeet, Jyoti Sangeet, from age-old Lok Geet to all the sapor and rhythm of Bihu. The 2000s marked a period when VCDs entered Assamese households, and through this medium, Bihu songs found new life in Zubeen's voice. Junbai, Jaanmoni, Anjana, Nahor, Togor, Moromjaan, Boroxa and the countless Bihu albums he gave life to almost defines an era for the people here. He composed innumerable Bihu songs weaving the landscape of age-old folklores and sang traditional Bihu naam very respectfully. His compositions captured the agrarian soul and rural heartbeat of Assam with such precision that listening to them felt like witnessing life unfold across the paddy fields and riverside villages of Assam, of young boys migrating to the city longing for their beloved home and lovers.

Hearing those songs as adults isn't merely nostalgic, it's a journey back to Assamese childhood and adolescence, to difficult yet simpler days. His music became the thread linking people to childhood memories of Assam, to how society existed then, or yearnings for 'nibhaaz' emotions, much less complicated and adulterated. For Assamese people living away from their motherland, his songs became bridges to home.

Gaane ki Aane (Music in our being)

Music isn't just part of life, in Assam, it's woven into the fabric of the society, much like in many indigenous cultures. There are different genres of music for daily chores, changing seasons, shifting weather, and every festival. And Zubeen Garg could imbibe all of that in his work. The recent funeral of Rajib Sadiya, a young singer from Sadiya, was testament to such love and respect a musician could earn. Lakhs came to bid farewell to the humble singer, with the public stepping in to organize the final rites and ceremonies. Anyone who'd seen the crowd at Zubeen's 'functions' (mostly during Bihu) wouldn't have been surprised by the overwhelming outpour of emotions. Here, some musicians aren't just performers, they carry the community's memories, emotions, and identity. When they leave, it feels like a part of the collective soul goes too. The mourning becomes more than grief, it's a remembrance of all the moments their music helped make meaningful.

Perhaps nowhere was his belonging to his homeland more evident than in his countless songs where he composed paeans to different districts, each reflecting the distinctive character of that place, from the tea gardens to the river islands. His voice would caress the names of towns and villages as if they were beloved family members. He invoked the rivers of Assam with love that bordered on worship. While the Brahmaputra, the Luit, is the most noticeable, he also sang lovingly of the Dihing, Disang, Dikhow, and countless other rivers that thread through Assam's landscape. In song after song, these rivers flowed through his lyrics like threads, connecting past to present, carrying the dreams and sorrows of his people. This geographical intimacy, this ability to sing the very soil and water of Assam into existence, created an unbreakable bond with listeners who recognized their own villages, their own rivers, their own childhood landscapes in his melodies. He maintained intimate connections with cultural icons, collaborating beautifully with Hiren Bhattacharyya creating amazingly beautiful work together, remaining close to Bhupen Hazarika while identifying with Bishnu Rabha's path toward social justice. When he left Bollywood after delivering hit numbers, it wasn't career suicide but necessity. When he was leaving Mumbai, he told them to come to Assam if they wanted him. "I don't like the chaos," he would say. This wasn't hollow provincialism but an understanding that an artist's truest power comes from the deepest roots.

It's remarkable how he could weave the rich folktales of Assam's diverse tribes into his musical narratives. Stories from Mising, Karbi, Bodo, Tiwa, Adivasi and countless other communities found voice in his songs, he could sing these languages as fluently as their own. The Oinitom in the beginning of "Majulir Ejoni Suwali", Pokhila Lethekpi's Karbi love folk song in "Ei mayar dhorat", the tragic Rabha folk song Pansuna Dalai in his composition "Pansuna" from the movie Kanchenjunga, these are just a few examples among countless others. He also had a gift for metaphor that allowed him to describe everything around him with poetic precision. Every season in Assam is marked by his music, songs played year after year, becoming an inseparable part of how people here experience the changing weather alongside music. He was, and still is, deeply woven into the fabric of life in this part of the country. Often wearing traditional headgear and scarves from various tribes with distinctive style, he made different languages and customs of Assam not just heard but proudly seen and celebrated.

Tumi Xubaax Axomire (You are the spirit of Assam)

To truly grasp Zubeen Garg, one needs some sense of the Assamese society, not the one that has bent beneath the weight of manufactured progress, but the indigenous community-centered world that once thrived and continues being in places. He embodied the unadulterated essence of Assamese indigenous life: instinctive, passionate, profoundly emotional, inherently defiant against imposed control, and capable of boundless love unmarred by the pretentious propriety that colonial paradigms demand. He rejected the performative civility that modernity equates with sophistication, choosing instead authenticity over acceptance. In him, people discovered a mirror reflecting their uncorrupted selves, the raw aspirations of youth navigating an emerging world that threatened to erase their roots even as it promised them futures.

He was fundamentally someone who could not tolerate authority, a trait that wasn't merely personal temperament but a reflection of the times and society that shaped his career. He emerged during an era when Assam was wrestling with identity, autonomy, and resistance against forces that sought to control and define it from outside. The movements, struggles, and collective defiance of that period seeped into his consciousness, forging an artist who would never bow to any establishment, never compromise his voice for comfort or acceptance. This intolerance for authority wasn't destructive rebellion but a principled stance born from witnessing his land's fight for dignity and self-determination. It made him the voice of a generation that refused to be subdued, that demanded to be heard on their own terms. He consistently advocated for a world liberated from marginalized oppression, communal division, and terror. He sought peace perpetually, for his land, his people, and himself. Perhaps it lay in his effortless, carefree persona, how young people aspired to embody that loving, rebellious, anti-authoritarian spirit while possessing such a magical voice capable of carrying love, pain, social transformation, dreams for a beautiful childhood, and infinite emotions.

Zubeen was invested in bringing about an economic revolution in Assam in his own ways, advocating passionately that the market, resources, and means of livelihood should belong to Assamese people. His support for local initiatives like the Sitarjokhola cooperative project reflected this conviction, a belief that economic self-determination was as crucial as cultural identity. He lived authentically, the Assamese working class proudly forming his most faithful following.

What's striking is how accessible he remained all throughout, obliterating every convention of stardom. People could, and did, approach his door or just across the street. No one had to leave his presence distressed. He became a quiet savior who would help someone launch a restaurant, settle their medical bills, or ensure a child's education continued uninterrupted. Yet it would be a misunderstanding to believe his charity alone won him such devotion. Rather, it was his accessibility, the way he treated everyone as his own, the genuine warmth with which he met each soul that touched hearts and transformed him into the beloved. Every crowd contains someone with a personal Zubeen story, a moment when he helped, listened, or simply was present.

Jaatir Maatir Gaan Gungunau, Politics Nokoriba Bondhu (I sing songs of our land and our people, don’t use politics to tear apart the society, my friend)

A non-believer, he proudly and repeatedly declared this. He belonged to nature, finding his spirit amidst the greens and blues of the earth, amidst chirps and tails and everything that screamed of the natural world. He would join and fight alongside people's movements to save trees and protect ecological balance, against animal sacrifice, earning PETA recognition for his animal rights advocacy. The last such moment came at Dighalipukhuri when he sat with young protesters defending century-old trees from governmental destruction, declaring he didn't care who the PM or CM was, when they do wrong, it has to be stopped.

He wasn't a seasoned political activist as many would have wanted him to be, but he never abandoned his people or his land in times of crisis. He advocated for peace, powerfully and consistently, for a self-reliant and united Assamese people. Whatever government held power, he stood up for his people as a strong people's voice. And people knew that. No political force could appropriate him. And people trusted that. His song "Politics Nokoriba Bondhu" warned against letting political ideologies divide people while those in power made fools of citizens fighting amongst themselves. He called the politicians crunchy papad, looks like food but is nothing but noise. The song said everything he stood for and against. He could speak truth to power, no matter what. Critics sometimes faulted him for not being politically active enough, for not vociferously denouncing every anti-people policy of the ruling government. Yet he remained steadfast in what he did best, rejecting performative activism in favor of genuine commitment which couldn't be measured in public declarations but in the consistent embodiment of his beliefs and ideals.

This was someone who personified rebellion against establishment, living with a style no political force could contain or appropriate. Until the end, he proudly proclaimed himself a socialist, declaring on stage and in interviews that people should embrace socialism. He revered Bishnu Rabha, Che Guevara, and Chaplin, aspiring to die as he lived, a socialist to his core. At times, he would speak longingly of living like a radical hermit amongst the people, as Rabha and Che had done, to forge genuine transformation in the suffocating socio-political system. For a people's revolutionary like him, such freedom from constraining structures wasn't merely aspiration but necessity, a yearning to breathe freely, creating more art while fighting for those who could not.

The memory of him declaring on stage with characteristic audacity stays with people: "Mur kunu jati nai, dhormo nai, moi mukto", I possess no caste, no religion, I am liberated. Born into a Brahmin family, he had torn off his "logun" sacred thread in defiance of brahmanism. When Bihu organizers attempted to dictate his repertoire, he would declare he'd return their money but perform on his own terms. He never fell into the trap of becoming a bhadralok, the respectable gentleman that society expected, nor did he feel any obligation to appease any section of society. His authenticity was uncompromising. When Bhupen Hazarika was posthumously given the Bharat Ratna in 2019, he publicly opposed the award, declaring the current government was exploiting popularity while showing no genuine intention to protect Hazarika's legacy.

Yet to reduce Zubeen Garg to any single aspect of his personality would be to misunderstand him entirely. He had flaws, he was not always politically correct, he was impulsive and often unforeseeable. But these were not weaknesses to be overlooked, they were integral to his authenticity, the very rawness that made him real. He never performed perfection or pretended to be a sanitized icon. His people loved him not despite his imperfections but because of his wholeness, his refusal to present a curated version of himself. The love he poured into his people was mirrored back with equal intensity by Assamese society, and this reciprocal devotion made him irreplaceably dear to everyone.

When one listens to compositions like "Mukti" with its poetic protest against tyranny, "Ondho Xaxon, bhondo xaxok, ortho lubhor nogno jujot" (Blind governance, foolish rulers, in the naked battle of greed and wealth), or his tribute "Tumi Xubax Axomire" honoring Bishnu Rabha's vision of a thriving Assam, or "Kar Porox" awakening dreams of transformation, one begins to understand the revolutionary spirit he carried, the dreams of an Assam he gave life to in his songs.

His song "Xunere Xojuwa Poja" painted a devastating portrait of a land broken by conflict: "Grandmother's weeping eyes have run dry, grieving father awaits someone (the son) in the courtyard, years have passed they haven't seen their youngest son... At night, we hear deafening noise of bullets... A hundred years have passed since independence was realized, the dreams of stars and progress for the land that Bishnu-Jyoti dreamt of remain unfulfilled... Was this the world envisioned by our freedom fighters for the twentieth century? We are left with just questions, irregularities and injustice." Through such verses, he captured the anguish of a people caught between dreams of freedom and the reality of endless strife, a picture of the then Assam.

Ei Mayar Dhorat, Dudin Mathu Thakiba Tumi (In this enchanting world, your days are numbered)

Yet beneath this revolutionary fervor lay a soul too deep and philosophical for anyone to have fully understood. His poetry reflected a melancholy that few could penetrate. Many of his compositions carried an undercurrent of nihilism, questioning the very foundations of existence. Since his death, the songs played continuously across Assam reveal this prescient darkness, each one seeming to reference loss, mortality, as if he had always been preparing himself and his people for this final goodbye. Until the very end, he spoke obsessively about his love for the sea, how the depth of the ocean and vastness of the sky captivated his restless spirit. He seemed perpetually lonely and tired at times, seeking some escape from the weight of existence, pursuing it with the hunger of someone carrying invisible burdens.

He was incomprehensible in his invincibility, a paradox of vulnerability wrapped in unshakeable strength. He indeed carried the depth of the sea within him, and it required tremendous maturity and philosophical depth to perceive him fully, not merely as an artist but as the individual Zubeen Garg, a being whose complexity mirrored the very mysteries of existence he sang about.

And so he was and remained, the people's musician, the artist whose belonging was to the land and every heart that loved it.

Ki Hobo Ei Jeebon Tumi Nohole (What will become of this life without you?)

When people mourned him, they could claim him completely as their own. In those endless queues, at Sarusajai, voices declared: "VIP culture down down, Zubeen da amar hoi", Down with VIP culture, Zubeen da belongs to us. For a month since, people have held on to the strength as the common man fighting against tyranny and authoritarianism. The unity of the Assamese community during those days modelled the Assam he had always envisioned, one where people came together transcending divisions, empowered by collective love.

What transpired in Assam since September 19th 2025, transcended mourning, it was a civilization recognizing the loss of its finest expression. He wasn't merely beloved; he was living proof that authenticity and success could coexist even for someone of his stature, that one could achieve greatness without betraying one's people or principles. In those days of collective grief, the Assamese demonstrated to the world what love looks like when it transcends individual loss and becomes cultural expression. Fifteen lakh people didn't gather in a funeral procession for a celebrity, they congregated for family. And in that gathering, in that patient endurance through heavy rain and heat, in that harmony of voices singing "Mayabini" through tears, they became precisely who he had always believed they could be: a united Assam where communities, classes, and faiths dissolved into bonds of solidarity and love, people coming together not in grief alone but in the shared dream of making their land worthy of his vision.

Dia Ghurae Dia Prithibi Amar Amak (Bring us back the world we believed in)

At his cremation site in Sonapur, the Assamese people have created a sacred, harmonious space of true unity. Hindus, Muslims, Buddhists, Sikhs, and followers of indigenous faiths gather voluntarily to offer prayers and songs for their beloved musician. Across the state, people have consciously rejected the communally divisive politics of hate, rising instead to uphold the inclusive spirit that Zubeen da represented. There have been heartwarming moments of awakening: a young boy tearing off his logun, his sacred thread, at the cremation site, promising to live as a true human being, refusing to let communal differences poison Assamese society as they had threatened to do in recent years. 

Yet the entire state remains on edge, awaiting the truth about the circumstances of his death. The people he touched so poignantly, whose hearts remain shattered since that September day, deserve to know what truly transpired in Singapore, what took their beloved away from them. This simple demand for truth has united people, transcending every other concern. People calling themselves "xoru manuh, xadharon manuh" (small people, ordinary people), are leading a collective movement to unveil the truth and get answers to the questions surrounding the tragic accident. The raij have become a driving force, compelling an authoritarian government to bend to their demands, resolved to force the truth bare while advocating for the better Assam he envisioned.

The phenomenon of Zubeen Garg cannot be understood through conventional frameworks of fame or artistry. It can only be comprehended as the story of what occurs when an artist becomes the living exemplar of a people's highest values, and what those people become when they lose that figure, yet refuse to let his spirit die.

Baatore Xekhote Baat Sau Tumale (After everything, our longing for you remains)

The responsibility now rests with the people of Assam, particularly the younger generation ("Ami nobo projonmo, ami sorkar bonabou paru, bhangibou paru", as he would say), to carry forward his legacy as a solemn trust. This means building the thriving, united Assam he wished for, where people work together, celebrate collectively, and protect both the land's essence and cultural soul. He believed deeply in Assamese economic self-determination, in his people taking control of local markets and resources to achieve genuine self-reliance. Above all, he dreamed of safer, healthier childhoods for Assam's children. To build that Assam remains the defining task ahead, demanding not just remembrance but active commitment to the ideals he lived and died upholding.

Throughout his work, there lived a tenderness for children that was unmistakable, a recurring concern for the world they would inherit. His album Sishu stands as perhaps the most intimate expression of this aspiration, songs that spoke directly to and for the youngest generation with a gentleness that revealed another dimension of his soul. In "Xanti Diya," he sings of new paths for the victorious, of rights to be proud and to build anew, of bringing joy without fear, of wiping away the tears of innocent children, and of homes free from death's shadow. His plea for peace and liberation, for a golden Assam to be nurtured, for the green future to blossom, wasn't merely poetic aspiration but the deepest longing of someone who had witnessed too much pain and yearned desperately for his people, especially the children, to inherit something better. In the end, above all else, we remember his boundless love for this land, for its people, for peace, and for the warm, safe childhoods he dreamed every child of Assam deserved. These lines of Xanti Diya live his ultimate dream, and perhaps in remembering them, his people find renewed purpose to build the Assam he so passionately imagined.

xojag howar poth sironotun
xojag howar mon sirotorun
sintar majerei aahe jowar!
xosa kowar odhikar aamar
nijok sowar odhikar aamar  
tejor nodi bowai kinu lom!
notun gorhar odhikar aamar
aanok sowar odhikar aamar
soku thakiu kona kio hom!
xanti diya mukti diya
xunor axom rosibole
xeuj diya xoisyo diya
sirokal phulibole

About the author

Bidisha Barman

bidisha.barman.5@gmail.com

Also Read: Zubeen Garg and the Omelas Paradox of Music, Freedom, and Sacrifice