Why Manipur Owes the Late Zubeen Garg a Belated Thank You Note

Around 40,000 songs in over 40 languages, a voice that carried the soul of Northeast India, and yet, we in Manipur are the most unfortunate ones, bereft of Zubeen Garg’s golden timbre in our films. His melodies, however, found their way into our hearts, often uncredited, reshaping our music and cinema. 

I implore the film and music fraternity of Manipur to cherish three iconic songs—Ngaore Urubada Nangbu by Hamom Sadananda, Lakchage Nanakta Lotna Lotna by Ranbir Thouna, and Asha Eigi Asha by Bikramaditya—as invaluable gifts from the legend, the pride of our region. These songs, born from Zubeen’s genius, are treasures we must hold dear. Manipur owes a belated, heartfelt thank you to Zubeen Da, a debt we can never fully repay.

The pain of this realization cuts deep. Manipur’s cinematic journey began with a blaze of glory in the 1970s. Imagi Ningthem, a black-and-white gem, dazzled the world, earning international accolades and proving our storytelling could rival any. Films like, Olangthagee Wangmadasu, Lamja Parshuram, Madhabee and Meiree followed, their vibrant colors and poignant narratives standing toe-to-toe with Bollywood’s might.

For a fleeting moment, Manipuri cinema was a beacon of pride, weaving local folklore with universal truths. But the light dimmed. Financial losses bled the industry dry, and cinema halls, once alive with our stories, became hollow shells echoing Hindi blockbusters. The dream of Manipuri cinema seemed to slip away, leaving only memories of its former glory.

Then came the crushing blow. Underground groups banned Hindi film screenings, plunging Manipur’s entertainment scene into a desolate void. Theaters stood silent, their screens dark, as the industry entered what many call its “dead phase.” Creativity withered, and hope faded. The audio cassette era offered a faint pulse, with voices like B. Kunjabihari, Khun Joykumar, Naba Volcano, and Thongram Luxmi carrying the torch. 

Also Read: Zubeen Garg: Life and Work of The Humming King of the World

Amid this resurgence, Tapta emerged as a revolutionary force, his original lyrics and unique style carving out a fanbase untouched by imitation. His music, authentic and unborrowed, continues to captivate crowds, a testament to Manipur’s capacity for innovation.

They were followed by Oinam Swamikumar, Hamom Sadananda, Ranbir Thouna, Roshibina, Salam Sophia, Sarita Gazmer, and Sonali Mukherjee, whose songs kept the ember of Manipuri music glowing through the darkness. Yet, even their efforts struggled to fill the gaping hole left by the absence of films.

When the Kunjabihari era began to wane, Assamese-inspired songs by Sadananda and Ranbir Thouna brought a new flavor to Manipuri music. The rise of music album videos transformed the industry, and Zubeen’s compositions were at its core. When the digital video format arrived, it was a lifeline thrown to a drowning industry. Album songs became the heartbeat of Manipur’s cultural revival, birthing stars like Kaiku, Gung, Pritam, Kamala, Binita, Medha etc. 

As Manipuri musicians journeyed to Guwahati, they returned with Zubeen’s songs, his melodies flooding Manipur like a river breaking its banks. At roadside stops like Jakhalabandha, where travelers paused for food and rest, shops blared Maya and other hits. Album producers, among those passengers, eagerly bought these tracks, weaving them into Manipuri with local lyrics. 

The evidence is both beautiful and painful. Sadananda’s Ngaore Urubada Nangbu mirrors Zubeen’s Maya (1998), its haunting melody a direct echo of the original. Ranbir Thouna’s Lakchage Nanakta Lotna Lotna lifts the soul of Aahe Ba Nahe from Zubeen’s 2001 album Anamika, its rhythm and structure a near-perfect replica. Bikramaditya’s Asha Eigi Asha draws from Zubeen’s Asha, a melody that stirred hearts across the Northeast. These songs, while often labeled as plagiarism, became anthems for Manipur’s 2000s generation.

They weren’t mere copies; they were lifelines, pulling audiences back to local music and fueling the digital film boom. Yet, the lack of credit stings—a wound felt by fans who revered Zubeen’s artistry and saw its unacknowledged echoes in our songs.

The pain deepens when we consider what Zubeen meant to the Northeast. His voice was a bridge, connecting Assam’s lush valleys to Manipur’s vibrant hills. His melodies didn’t just fill our albums; they stitched together a fractured cultural timeline. When Manipur’s cinema lay dormant, Zubeen’s music—through its adaptations—kept the industry’s heart beating. The 2000s generation embraced these songs, not knowing their true origins, and they redefined Manipuri music’s identity. Later, South Indian and Nepali influences entered, but it was Zubeen’s tunes that laid the foundation, giving artists like Sadananda and Ranbir Thouna the wings to soar.

Why does this debt feel so heavy? Because Manipur, in its rush to revive its culture, leaned on Zubeen’s genius without offering the gratitude he deserved. The cultural proximity between Assam and Manipur made borrowing inevitable, but it also demanded ethical responsibility. Zubeen addressed plagiarism in other contexts, yet his silence on Manipuri adaptations spoke of his grace. Fans saw these songs as tributes; critics called them theft. Either way, they were a lifeline we didn’t fully honor. Every note of Ngaore, Lakchage, and Asha Eigi Asha carries Zubeen’s spirit, a gift we accepted without saying thank you.

The ache of this oversight is unbearable now. We can no longer sing praises to Zubeen Da in person, no longer share a stage to celebrate his contributions. Manipur’s music and film community—its singers, composers, producers, and listeners—must act. A tribute concert featuring these songs, a documentary tracing Zubeen’s influence, or a public acknowledgment of his role in our revival would be a start. These acts wouldn’t erase the past but would honor a man whose music became our own. Imagine a festival where Sadananda, Ranbir Thouna, and Bikramaditya perform their hits alongside Zubeen’s originals, a testament to the shared cultural tapestry of the Northeast.

This thank you is belated because we waited too long. We sang his melodies, danced to his rhythms, and built our industry on his foundation, yet we failed to name him as our muse. The 2000s, when Manipuri music found its footing, owe their vibrancy to Zubeen’s artistry. His songs were more than tunes; they were a lifeline, a spark that reignited our cultural flame. To ignore this is to deny our own history, to forget the voice that carried us through the darkness.

And here’s the deepest wound: Zubeen Da knew his music was copied by Manipuri singers. Fans urged him to sue, to demand justice for the uncredited use of his work. But the legend Zubeen Garg, the greatest of all time—never uttered a word against his Manipuri brothers. His silence was not weakness but love, a recognition of the shared spirit of our region. 

Manipur, let us repay that love with gratitude. Let us sing Ngaore, Lakchage, and Asha Eigi Asha not as stolen notes but as gifts from a legend. Zubeen Da deserves our thanks, our tears, and our eternal respect. Let’s write that thank you note, even if it comes too late.