For the people of Assam, Zubeen Da was never just a man. He was the song that drifted with the morning breeze, the laughter that echoed through rice fields, the prayer that lingered beneath starlit skies. To imagine this land without him is to imagine a forest without birds, a river without currents, a sky without its moon. His absence has left a hollow so vast that even silence trembles in it.
The voice that walked beside us did not merely sing; it lived with us, breathed with us. His music was not background sound, it was the pulse of our days. Songs slipped into the hum of early mornings when mothers brewed tea, lingered in afternoons of lovers scribbling secret letters, burst into evenings where friends strummed guitars under dim candlelight, and whispered into lonely nights when sleep refused to arrive. He was not distant, not a star to be admired from afar. He was family, the warmth of home itself.
Memories of youth are drenched in his songs. Love letters were incomplete without the echo of his melodies. “Anamika” was not simply a tune, but the diary of a first heartbreak, the ache that sat quietly in the chest while the world knew nothing of it. His voice did not merely describe sorrow; it carried it gently, softened its sharpness, and cradled its weight. Each note felt like a hand on the shoulder in the dark, whispering, I too have known pain, you are not alone.
Then came “Pakhi,Pakhi Aei Mon” a song that felt like wings stitched to weary backs. “Pakhipakhi aei mon, pakhiloga mor mon, pakhi meli zaai uri.” It was sung on grey afternoons when the world seemed too heavy, and in that moment a fragile belief stirred that perhaps we too could rise above our cages. Now, listening again, the song feels different. The lines no longer speak for us—they speak for him. It feels like his own farewell, as though his soul spread its wings and soared into a horizon beyond our reach, leaving behind only the echo of fluttering wings for us to remember.
And then “Dehor Bhoroxa Nai.”Once a tune hummed absentmindedly, now it carries unbearable weight. “This body is not permanent, this life is not permanent.” What once was poetry now resounds like prophecy. The words return to us like the sting of truth, reminding that even the brightest flame is fragile against the winds of time. Perhaps he knew, perhaps he always knew, that life is a fleeting candle, and that is why he poured himself so fiercely into every song, every note, every heartbeat.
There was that unforgettable concert, a night when the music paused for a breath and he, with that smile that danced between mischief and melancholy, said, “When I am no more, sing ‘Mayabini’ for me.”
The crowd erupted in laughter, applause, thinking it one of his whimsical musings. None believed those words could turn real. Yet today the prophecy has unfolded. Today, all of Assam sings “Mayabini” for him. But the voices tremble, the eyes brim with tears, and each note cracks under the weight of grief. The song he wished as memory has become a hymn of farewell, sung through sobs we never imagined.
And who can forget the joy of his Bihu songs, the lifeblood of Bohag? They were not simply music; they were the pulse of the season itself. Every dhol beat, every pepa call, every courtyard carried his voice like sunlight. During Rongali Bihu it was impossible to walk through a village without his songs spilling from homes and fields. Those melodies made strangers embrace as though they were family, made sorrows dissolve into dance. When Bohag arrives again, the fields will bloom, the dhols will thunder, but his absence will echo louder than the drums.
What made him extraordinary was not only genius but love. No ivory towers, no unreachable stardom, he remained son of the soil, brother of the people. In one interview, with disarming simplicity, he said, “All that I have earned, my wealth, my houses, I will leave for the people. I will take nothing with me, except the ‘chita’ in which I will be cremated.”
Those words were not performance, they were his truth. Such was his devotion. Such was his surrender. His life, his soul, his very breath were sacrificed for Assam. Every note he sang, every tear he shed, every joy he gave, he returned it all to his people. That is why his passing is not the loss of an artist, but the loss of our own blood.
To the elders of this land, he was the bridge between Bhupen Hazarika’s golden voice and the restless spirit of today. In him, tradition and transformation held hands. For our own generation, he was rebellion and romance, an untamed river refusing every chain. His boldness, his tenderness, his raw vulnerability, these were the qualities that made him the anthem of our youth. For children, he was joy, playfulness, the hero who turned music into a game and life into a song. Rare are those who belong so fully to every age, but he did.
In concerts, he never stood apart on stage. His arms stretched to fold us into his world, his voice spilling across the night until it felt as though a thousand hearts merged into one great rhythm. There was no distance between singer and listener, no wall between artist and crowd. He sang to us, for us, with us. He called us brothers and sisters, and he meant it. That intimacy was his magic. That intimacy is why this silence now cuts so unbearably deep. It is not only the silence of a stage without music. It is the silence of a hearth without flame.
He once said, “Assam has three treasures – the one-horned rhino,the gamusa, and the Zubeen Garg.” Today, one of these treasures has slipped beyond our grasp. The rhino still roams, the gamusa still rests on our shoulders, but the voice that guarded our spirit has dissolved into eternity. And yet, in that very dissolution, he has become more than mere flesh – but the river, sky, the evergreen song itself.
Listen closely now, and his spirit lingers in the Brahmaputra at dawn, in monsoon rain tapping on tin roofs, in the bloom of kopou flowers, in the laughter of children chasing kites. He has become the mother humming in the kitchen, the hostel boy strumming a guitar in the dark, the echo of a dhol across a village square. He has not gone away; he has only changed his form, becoming everywhere, always.
From this moment, his songs will carry new meanings. “Dehor Bhoroxa Nai” will whisper to us of life’s fragile impermanence. “Anamika” will cradle tenderness in sorrow. “Pakhi” will remind us of his soul’s flight into eternity. “Mayabini” will echo with his wish, now fulfilled in grief. His Bihu songs will still lift us, even as tears blur our vision. Though the absence feels unbearable, the presence has become infinite. As long as Assam sings, as long as one heart remembers him in silence, as long as the Brahmaputra flows, his voice will not vanish.
Goodbye, Zubeen Da. Not only a singer, but the very song of this land. And songs do not die. They travel across generations, echo through unborn voices, drift like rivers without end.
Though there are a thousand words left unwritten, my hands falter, my heart trembles. For now, strength is still gathering to accept this loss. The ink will flow again, but only when silence is bearable. Until then, I carry you in every breath, in every tear, in every note of the endless melody you left behind.
19-09-2025
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