Zubeen’s Last Lesson

For the past three days, Assam has been weeping. Yet within those tears, an extraordinary revelation has emerged. As the state mourned the untimely death of Zubeen Garg, the most remarkable truth was not just about the loss of a beloved artist—it was about the rediscovery of something we had long forgotten, or perhaps were forced to forget.

For three days, the words “Hindu” and “Muslim” disappeared from public memory. There was only one identity that echoed across the valleys and towns, in homes and streets, in digital tributes and candlelight vigils—the identity of being Assamese.

And so the haunting question arises: if we could live like this in death, why can’t we live like this in life?

Assam has always been a land of multiple identities—religious, ethnic, and linguistic. Too often, political calculations, bureaucratic rhetoric, and cynical cacophony have used these lines of difference to divide us. We have been conditioned to look at one another through lenses of suspicion, measuring belonging through surnames, rituals, and languages. But the last three days proved that when grief is collective, when love for one person becomes larger than life, all these borders dissolve.

The funeral procession that wound its way through Guwahati was not a crowd of Hindus, Muslims, or Christians. It was a sea of humanity moving as one body. The small villages where people placed garlands of wildflowers on makeshift memorials did not ask which god the neighbour prayed to before joining in mourning.

Even the Assamese diaspora abroad, scattered across continents, posted tributes in unison, their voices carrying the same timbre of loss and pride.

Zubeen was more than a singer. He was a restless rebel, an uncompromising spirit, and in many ways the mirror of our own fractured society. His music spoke of longing and love, of alienation and protest. He embodied contradictions, but contradictions that never divided people—rather, they bound people together in a shared recognition of what it meant to be Assamese.

In his death, he achieved what decades of social engineering, political movements, and bureaucratic initiatives have failed to do: he reminded us that at the core of all our identities, there exists one deeper identity that transcends religion and community.

It is tempting to see this unity as a temporary surge of emotion, the kind that flares brightly in moments of crisis and fades soon after. And indeed, history warns us that unless nurtured, this unity will dissolve back into the familiar chaos of division. That is why Zubeen’s last lesson must be taken seriously. He did not just leave behind melodies; he left behind a question that should haunt us every day: Can we hold on to being Assamese above all else?

The choice is ours. If we reduce his death to only a personal tragedy, then this moment will fade into the usual cycle of forgetfulness. But if we embrace the truth that his passing revealed, then perhaps his death will not be meaningless. Perhaps, through him, Assam can learn once again that unity is not an impossible dream.

Assam has lost Zubeen Garg. Yet in losing him, Assam has been reminded of what it still has—the power to stand together. His final journey carved a message into our collective soul: our first and truest identity is not Hindu, not Muslim, not Christian, not tribal or non-tribal. Our first and truest identity is being Assamese.

If we can carry that truth beyond these three days of mourning, then Zubeen’s last lesson will not just be a memory. It will be the beginning of a new way of living.

Also Read: Frozen Body Makes Zubeen Garg’s Post-Mortem Difficult at GMCH