Every voice was a mother's, every tear a note, Assam is singing her child back into her heart

For two decades my phone rang out with the same greeting: the opening strains of Zubeen’s “Maya.” It wasn’t just a caller tune—it was the soundtrack of my everyday life, a gentle reminder that beauty could slip into the most mundane of moments. When my mobile service provider quietly removed the song from its library, I switched networks—not for better coverage, but because I couldn’t imagine my calls beginning with any voice other than his, the voice that had become my signature, my anchor, my unseen introduction to the world. That’s how deeply Zubeen Garg ’s voice stitched itself into my existence.

It is impossible to separate my memories from his music. My adolescence was painted with the restless fire of Anamika, my youth carried the burning pulse of Bihu, and my grown years still lean on his tender romantic ballads. Zubeen wasn’t just an artist—he was the monsoon, the river, the changing sky of Assam itself. We always knew he was a genius, but it never truly dawned on us—because he was forever there: chatting with a vegetable vendor, laughing with a rickshaw puller, quietly helping the needy, a free spirit among us in daily life. And when he suddenly left, the void he left behind was unbearable.

That afternoon (19 September 2025), as headlines turned to whispers of disbelief, my seventy-two-year-old mother rang me at the office. She, who begins each dawn with one of his borgeets as her daily prayer, asked in a voice quivering with disbelief if it was true. Her question, soaked in hidden tears, pierced deeper than the news itself. It showed me how his music had been not just a companion to restless schoolboys and college drifters, but also a morning lamp for elders, a bridge across generations. He had been with us for over thirty years—through school days and hostel nights, first jobs and middle age. I remember him jamming at his father’s accommodation in Dispur while we played cricket at the post office field, or strumming a guitar as we sat for adda on the verandah. There I understood with clarity how Zubeen’s universe stretched from the wrinkled hands of the old who clung to his devotional offerings, to the fevered hearts of fifteen-year-olds who found rebellion and romance in his modern and revolutionary songs. His appeal spanned decades, his voice both an incantation and a battle cry.

He recorded tens of thousands of songs in more than forty tongues, sometimes humming like a bird, sometimes roaring like thunder. He touched every shade of sound—Bihu rooted in the red earth, devotional hymns that trembled with faith, romantic ballads that bruised the heart, modern experiments that flirted with rock and rap, and fiery anthems that dared the young to dream and resist. From Maya (my favourite) to Ya Ali, from Bishnupriya Manipuri’s Jibone Morone to Nepali’s Jhajhalko Timro Maya Ko, from Tamil’s Kangal Enkangalo to his evergreen Assamese and Hindi tracks, his voice roamed languages like familiar rivers—devotional at dawn, romantic by dusk, modern and rebellious by midnight. Zubeen could be the hush of prayer, the pulse of youth, the ache of longing, and the rage of resistance—all in a single lifetime of song.

We, his fans, also grew up with his courage. He defied insurgent diktats that banned Hindi songs during Bihu celebrations; became a fierce, unbending voice in the anti-CAA movement; and used his Kalaguru Artiste Foundation to raise funds and supplies whenever floods devastated Assam. He even played charity football matches to buy food and clothes for flood-affected families. Zubeen reminded us that music was not just an echo of life—it was life’s own instrument of healing.

I did not stand in line for his final journey, but I mourned with thousands from afar, watching through tear-blurred screens as petals rained on his coffin and gamosas wrapped his body. Guwahati’s streets heaved with humanity, the air heavy with his songs. Some may call it one of the largest gatherings in history, but what I saw was simpler: a family called Assam singing back to her son one last time.

Now, as the Brahmaputra keeps flowing—indifferent yet eternal—I hear a hum rising from its waters. It is neither dirge nor lullaby, but something in between: the murmur of a voice that has carried us from school days into middle age, from prayer mats to protest marches. Zubeen is gone, and with his pyre a piece of Assam was lost to flames. Yet his songs—from devotional chants to ballads, from Hunere hojua poja johi khohi jai kune aji hajibohi paribo duna to Mayabini, from whispered devotion to rebellious fire—still ripple across this land. They will keep playing, long after our own voices fade.