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“If music be the food of love, play on…” — the immortal opening line of Twelfth Night, penned by Shakespeare in the sixteenth century, seems almost written for Zubeen Garg. Guwahati has grown unnervingly quiet in recent days. An almost unbearable silence hangs over the Brahmaputra Valley, heavier than the darkest monsoon cloud. The news of Zubeen Garg’s sudden, tragic demise has not merely stunned Assam; it has torn a hole in the state’s cultural fabric. For a people whose identity is interwoven with music and cinema, Zubeen was never just an artist. He was a phenomenon, a cult figure who held an intimate, irreplaceable place in the hearts of millions.
Zubeen Borthakur, born in Tura, Meghalaya, but forever belonging to the soul of Assam, lived a life as tumultuous and vibrant as his music. From his early days in Delhi, where he began learning multiple musical instruments, to his meteoric rise in the Assamese music scene, his career was marked by relentless energy and a fierce individualism. His first Assamese album, Anamika, sold an astonishing 38,000 copies—a testament to the immediate, visceral connection he forged with his audience.
What elevated Zubeen from a popular singer to a maverick icon was his dual passion for music and the people. He didn’t just sing for listeners; he sang about them, for them, and sometimes even against the conventions that bound them. His music fused traditional Assamese melodies with modern, edgy arrangements, moving seamlessly from soulful devotional pieces to infectious, rhythm-heavy numbers that became indispensable at Bihu celebrations.
Zubeen was a cultural polyglot, both in music and language. Fluent in Assamese, Bengali, and Hindi, and mastering technical musical composition, he transcended regional boundaries to achieve national recognition. With over 38,000 songs to his credit and scores for more than 80 films, his Bollywood breakthrough in 2006 with Gangster—and enduring hits like “Ya Ali”—gave him a voice across India. Yet he never severed his bond with Assam, remaining fundamentally the Assamese star.
His extraordinary hold on his audience was captured perfectly in the words, “He never uttered an impersonal line.” His songs were raw, direct, and emotionally naked. He addressed Assam’s politics, culture, and social issues with a frankness that bordered on recklessness. Zubeen was the rebel who challenged authority, spoke the language of youth, and discarded the trappings of etiquette and political correctness.
Zubeen’s contribution went beyond music—it was socio-cultural. A melting pot of identities—Assamese, Bengali, Hindi—he embodied the syncretic spirit of the Northeast. His art became a bridge, fostering communal harmony in a region often fragmented by ethnic and political tensions. He gave a voice to the voiceless, rhythm to silent struggles, and words to the aspirations of the region’s youth.
His death is not just the silence of a talented vocalist; it is the premature closing of a chapter in Assamese cultural history. At 48, he had countless songs left unsung and innumerable battles yet to fight for his people. His work transcended entertainment, becoming an inseparable element of Assamese identity—a legacy that will endure across generations.
The grief today is raw and palpable, yet it is also a testament to the profound, almost spiritual connection a true artist can forge with his people. Zubeen Garg may have fallen silent, but his music—that eclectic, rebellious, and deeply loving voice of Assam—will echo through the hills and valleys for years to come. The man once called “a horrible headache” for his non-conformity is now remembered as a cultural torchbearer—a maverick who left too early, yet ensured the music was unforgettable.
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