The rebel falls silent, but his music goes on
Zubeen Garg was a star who never abandoned his roots, never compromised on his native language, and never stopped loving his people. His death reminds us that the power of love, expressed through music, can outlast even mortality
The grief that swept Assam at Zubeen Garg's passing was unlike anything the state had witnessed in generations. From Guwahati's Lokpriya Gopinath Bordoloi International Airport to the Sarusajai Stadium, National Highway 37 turned into a river of sorrow. His hearse, veiled in the Assamese gamosa and Bodo aronai, drifted slowly through the crowd. Tens of thousands moved as one, their footsteps heavy, their eyes searching—for one final glimpse of Assam's favourite son.
Zubeen Garg, the singer and multi-instrumentalist who became a household name in India with the Bollywood hit "Ya Ali", died on 19 September 2025 in Singapore. He was 52. Garg's music blended the folk traditions of Assam with pop and rock. Possessed of a powerful voice, he sang romantic ballads as easily as mournful ones. He performed in dozens of languages and dialects, played multiple instruments, acted in films, composed film scores and filled concert venues.
Zubeen's story began far from this grand farewell. Famously recalling his arrival in Guwahati from Jorhat in the 1990s as "the boy on a bicycle with a keyboard strapped to his back," he grew in three short decades from an eccentric newcomer in psychedelic clothes into Assam's most beloved rockstar. His handsome face, rakish smile and restless energy embodied a new cultural confidence as the state searched for its voice in an uncertain future.
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If Assamese music was his first home, cinema expanded his reach. Garg had a significant contribution to Bangla music. In 2003, Zubeen made his mark in Bangla cinema through Mon, before gaining fame as both a playback singer and composer in films such as 'Shudhu Tumi', 'Premi', and 'Chirodini Tumi Je Amar'. Songs like 'Mon Mane Na' and 'Ayana Mon Bhanga Ayana' became anthems for a generation. His voice also powered commercial blockbusters like Rangbaaz, Khiladi, and Khoka 420, making him a household name among the Bangla speakers around the globe.
But Zubeen was never content to be just a playback singer. He asserted Assamese regional pride with an intensity previously unknown, composing across languages and weaving together the folkways, ecologies, and idioms of the northeast with cosmopolitan styles drawn from rock, pop, and Bollywood. His music was unashamedly local yet spoke to the wider world, allowing Assam to stand tall in its own idiom.
A man beyond race, religion or creed, Zubeen wrote and sang in the language of love. Over time, he became a cultural giant whom even the powerful hesitated to confront. He gave his energy to causes as wide-ranging as education, environmental protection, animal rescue, and citizenship rights for the marginalised. Always generous, he often gave away much of what he earned to those in need, earning him the affectionate title of "Jonotar pranor Zubeen" — the people's heartbeat.
In his later years, the swagger of youth mellowed into a kind of philosophical ease. To Generation Z, he remained the cool elder who still spoke their language. His music created a free space, untainted by prejudice or class arrogance, embodying a liberty rare in today's world.
Zubeen's political courage came to the fore during the anti-CAA protests, where he stood shoulder to shoulder with student organisations such as AASU. He lent his voice, presence, and charisma to the movement, but always with the call for peace. "Protests against CAA should continue … wherever, however I can," he said in 2024, insisting that no more lives be lost to violence. In that stance lay the essence of his politics — fierce, uncompromising, but never cruel.
His sudden death on foreign soil has left Assam feeling orphaned. The haunting strains of "Mayabini," the song he once chose as his legacy, now float like a requiem across the hills and plains. Fans describe it as though the state has lost its loveliest child, and his music — shimmering in college campuses, small-town parks, village Bihutolis, and stadiums alike — has taken on a new poignancy.
Zubeen Garg was a rebel-artist, a romantic, a neighbour, and a modern-day Robin Hood rolled into one. He was a star who never abandoned his roots, never compromised on his native language, and never stopped loving his people. His death reminds us that the power of love, expressed through music, can outlast even mortality.
