Roi Roi Binale Review: Zubeen Garg’s goodbye that Assam will never forget

Few films arrive bearing the weight of both expectation and elegy quite like Roi Roi Binale. Directed by Rajesh Bhuyan from a story by Zubeen Garg, with screenplay and dialogue by Rahul Gautam Sharma, this Assamese musical drama transcends its narrative constraints to become something more profound…a cultural artefact, a final love letter from an artist to his people, and a mirror reflecting both the aspirations and limitations of contemporary Assamese cinema.

The film opens with Raul (Zubeen Garg) arriving at a studio where patriotic songs are being recorded. When the organiser casually asks, “Where’s the blind guy?” because they need him for TRP ratings, Raul walks out. He came to Guwahati from his village in Borgang, Sonitpur district, to become an artist, not a spectacle. What follows is Raul's journey through Guwahati's music scene, where he finds both exploitation and genuine connection. He meets Debu (Saurabh Hazarika), a lodge owner who becomes his first believer, offering him shelter and faith when no one else will. Through Debu, Raul's path intersects with Neer (Joy Kashyap), an established musician who sees potential in Raul, though perhaps not quite in the way one would hope. What begins as mentorship carries its own complications, as Neer offers Raul a platform while harbouring motives that aren't entirely altruistic. Enter Mou (Mousumi Alifa), CEO of a talent management company, whose professional interest in Raul gradually becomes something more complicated, something neither of them quite expected.

At its core, Roi Roi Binale is a musical love story, though not in any conventional sense. It's a love story between an artist and his art, between a man and the music that gives him sight. But it's also about the other kinds of love that bloom in unexpected places: admiration that shifts into something deeper, partnerships that blur the lines between professional and personal, and the quiet loyalty of those who believe in you before the world does.

The narrative structure recalls classics of Indian parallel cinema, particularly Satyajit Ray’s Nayak, where the journey of self-discovery and the burden of public perception take centre stage. Like Nayak’s introspective examination of an artist’s relationship with fame and identity, Roi Roi Binale explores how society perceives and often patronises those with disabilities, even as it exploits them.

Zubeen Garg’s portrayal of Raul is a masterclass in restraint. There’s no melodrama, no over-the-top gestures that often plague portrayals of disability in Indian cinema. Instead, there’s an authenticity to his movements, a naturalness that never once feels performed. His real-life persona, that of an outspoken artist who refused political alignment, bleeds seamlessly into Raul’s character, creating an almost meta-textual experience. When Raul declares that “artists should always side with the common people, and not the ruler,” or dismisses an MLA with “If you can’t learn something from someone, don’t call them sir,” these aren’t merely character moments; they’re echoes of Garg’s own philosophy, delivered with conviction that never wavers into preachiness.

The cast of the film elevates every scene they inhabit. Victor Banerjee, as Raul’s teacher, brings gravitas and warmth to his limited screen time. In a delightful fourth-wall-breaking moment where he jokes about his “foreign tongue,” Banerjee’s playfulness shines through. His character catalyses Raul’s musical awakening, particularly in the poignant flashback where freshly-blinded young Raul receives a guitar and discovers that “music has no sight.” Banerjee’s gentle guidance in this scene establishes music as Raul’s visual language.

All the actors in Roi Roi Binale deliver commendable performances that feel authentic and deeply engaging. Mousumi Alifa brings grace and conviction to her role as Mou, effortlessly capturing the nuances of a modern woman torn between ambition and emotion. Joy Kashyap’s portrayal of Neer is equally impressive—sincere, layered, and refreshingly real. Achurjya Borpatra shines as Jimmy, his effortless humour adding warmth without ever feeling forced.

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Roi Roi Binale is promoted as the first Assamese musical movie shot with an anamorphic lens, representing a technical leap forward for the industry. The cinematography captures Assam’s natural beauty, the Brahmaputra’s expanse, and the city’s urban-rural contrasts, with genuine affection. These visual achievements signal an industry coming into its own, confident enough to compete on technical grounds with larger film industries.

The picture quality is impressive, with crisp visuals that showcase the anamorphic format’s wide, cinematic scope. The colour grading deserves particular praise—warm, golden tones bathe the village sequences in nostalgia, while the urban Guwahati scenes adopt cooler, more muted palettes that reflect the city’s impersonal nature. The Sri Lanka beach sequences explode with vibrant blues and whites. In theatres, the sound design truly comes alive. The musical sequences benefit from rich, layered audio that lets every instrument breathe, while the background score envelops the audience without overwhelming dialogue.

However, despite its technical ambition, the film struggles with some fundamental storytelling flaws. The pacing often feels uneven, moving abruptly from one moment to the next without smooth transitions, which disrupts the narrative flow. At times, scenes, including one particularly crucial moment, feel unfinished or underdeveloped, leaving the audience wanting more clarity and cohesion. It’s the kind of editing that leaves viewers disoriented, wondering how we moved from one location or emotional state to another. Character backstories in the film feel somewhat underexplored—figures like Debu, and Jimmy clearly have depth and potential that deserved more screen time. Questions linger about what happens to the politician, or how certain characters experience sudden changes of heart, leaving parts of the narrative feeling unfinished.  Even Raul’s own backstory, with all its emotional weight, feels sketched rather than fully realised. With more time in post-production and tighter editing, this could have been genuinely great rather than deeply moving but flawed.

If the narrative structure falters, the music holds the film together like invisible threads. The film features 11 songs, all composed by Zubeen Garg (who also served as music producer and theme music composer), with background music by Poran Borkatoky. The titular track “Roi Roi Binale” (from Garg’s earlier Golden Collection) carries the film’s melancholic undercurrent, while “Mur Mon” serves as Raul’s breakout moment, establishing his artistic legitimacy. The background score is evocative and well-integrated, though it occasionally veers into excessive dramatic emphasis (those “Ekta Kapoor-ish” sound effects that unnecessarily underscore emotional beats). Yet when the music works—and it does, often—it truly soars. The sequence featuring Italian opera singer Gioconda Vessichelli in “Roi Roi Binale” represents both musical ambition and cultural cross-pollination, suggesting possibilities for Assamese cinema’s global resonance. The film’s most striking visual musical moment occurs during Raul’s performance on three keyboards simultaneously—a showcase not just of Garg’s musical virtuosity but of his character’s transcendent relationship with sound.

The film attempts to address multiple weighty issues: the exploitation of disability for commercial gain, the commodification of art, political manipulation of artists, terrorism and militancy’s impact on ordinary lives, and patriarchal oppression. The film critiques both the violence unleashed by ULFA, with a reference to the 2004 Dhemaji district bombing that killed 13 school children, and the misuse of AFSPA. These are serious topics, and the film’s willingness to engage with them is commendable. Yet the attempt to juggle these multiple themes results in none receiving adequate exploration.

What works better are the intimate details. The film explores Raul’s other heightened senses, particularly his sense of smell—he can detect relationships and connections others try to hide. His love of natural elements (feeling breeze through open windows, his visceral connection to water) attempts to portray how blindness might enhance other sensory experiences. The Sri Lanka sequence, where Raul experiences the sea for the first time and declares “Salt and sand… like my life,” works both literally and metaphorically.

It’s impossible to review Roi Roi Binale without acknowledging the circumstances of its release. Zubeen Garg passed away on September 19 while swimming in the sea in Singapore. His wife, Garima Saikia Garg, who served as co-producer and costume designer on the film, and also appears briefly in the opening scene, took on the responsibility to see the film through, vowing to fulfil her husband’s dream.

And then there are the end credits, perhaps the most emotionally devastating five minutes in recent Assamese cinema. As the names roll, we’re treated to a treasure trove of behind-the-scenes moments: photographs of Zubeen with his team, his crew, his wife, Garima. Videos of laughter on set, of collaboration and camaraderie. You see him with the people who loved him, who worked alongside him, who believed in his vision. By the time the credits end, the film has completed its transformation from cinema to memorial. This raises complex critical questions: How do we evaluate a film that functions simultaneously as entertainment, art object, and memorial? Can we separate aesthetic judgment from emotional context? Should we?

Roi Roi Binale represents not merely a farewell but a statement of Assamese cinema’s confidence and creative scale. The production values, the international shooting locations, the technical ambitions, and the nationwide release strategy all signal an industry asserting its place in Indian cinema’s broader landscape. The film opened to record-breaking numbers, reportedly collecting Rs 2.60 crore on its first day with 98 per cent occupancy across Assam, with shows scheduled as early as 4:25 AM.

For decades, regional cinemas have struggled with maintaining cultural specificity while achieving technical and commercial standards that allow them to compete with Hindi and southern industries. Roi Roi Binale, for all its narrative shortcomings, demonstrates that Assamese cinema can mount productions of significant scale while remaining rooted in regional identity. The film’s success proves that audiences hunger for stories told in their own languages, reflecting their own cultural contexts and historical experiences.

Yet there’s something almost fitting about these imperfections. This is, after all, a film about incompleteness: a blind artist seeing through music, relationships left unresolved, a story interrupted by tragedy, a final film released posthumously. The gaps and rushes feel human, real, like life itself. When Raul says, “Music kept me alive,” he articulates the film’s core belief: that an artist’s voice continues to resonate even after silence falls. Through Roi Roi Binale, Zubeen Garg leaves behind a cultural heartbeat that will echo for generations.