Zubeen: The Eternal Note

It was the year 1992. The city was still called Madras. I first met Zubeen Garg there. We were both young, restless, and filled with the hunger for music. I was playing lead guitar for his performances at Kamaraj Memorial Hall, a place that still carries the echoes of those early dreams. Along with us was Patrick A. Rosario, a well-known blind musician from Madras, who played the keyboard with unmatched grace as part of our troupe.


For rehearsals, Zubeen, Gudu, his cousin and my friend, and our singer friendKajjol often gathered at Patrick’s residence in Thousand Lights, Madras. Gudu was the one who had given Zubeen his first chance to sing outside Assam when he was still a newcomer. One afternoon, during a practice session, Zubeen tried singing a Tamil song. His accent and tone were so perfect that Patrick’s wife rushed out from the kitchen, amazed, saying, “How beautifully this boy sings.” That moment still lives in my memory. It was a small glimpse of the universal acceptance his voice would one day command.

Zubeen grew close to Patrick. Patrick once told him how the legendary Tamil actor Kamal Haasan had stayed with him to understand how a blind man perceives the world. That experience later became the inspiration behind Haasan’s role in the Hindi film Raaja Paarvai alongside his co-star Madhavi.


One evening, Zubeen, a few friends, and I went to watch a movie at Devi Multiplex, Mount Road. Before every film in those days, an advertisement for Lalitha Jewellery would play, featuring a tune so melodious that Zubeen began humming it as we left the hall. Later, he used that very south Indian melody in one of his iconic Assamese songs from Sapunor Sur. Even at that age, he absorbed the world around him, its sounds, its languages, and its emotions.


He was thin, spirited, and full of ideas. He laughed easily but also listened deeply. One quiet night in our small room, the talk turned lightly to Lord Krishna, as we had hardly gained any wisdom then. Being boys, we joked about Krishna having sixteen thousand gopis and how, even if one of us had one girlfriend, our parents and society would still judge us. I still remember how Zubeen responded softly, saying that Krishna was a musician too, and by playing the flute he not only purified the air but also the hearts of every living being. His love for the gopis, Zubeen said, was not lust or possession. It was true dharma and compassion. I did not fully understand the depth of that word then. Today I do. That was the seed of the man he would become, a man who lived for truth, kindness, and the unity of hearts.


Back home in Dergaon, far from the lights of Madras, my mother Late Namita Das had her own way of teaching dharma. In our home, she often played a vinyl LP of Mohammed Rafi titled Hari Ka Dhyan Laga Man Mere. She would call us to sit beside her and say, “Listen, this is how devotion sounds when it comes from the soul.” Rafi Sahab was a Muslim by faith, yet he sang that Hindu bhajan with such purity that it touched everyone, beyond boundaries. My mother would say that such legends followed dharma, not division. Their art carried the divine essence that united rather than separated. That was my first lesson in humanity and the first consequence of compassion that I understood.


Years passed. Zubeen became the voice of Assam and much more, a bridge between hearts across the country. He tried to show that dharma is not a rulebook, it is a way of being human. The consequence of that way of living is visible everywhere in his songs and in the hearts he touched.

When Zubeen sang, every note came from the soul. His most famous Hindi song, Ya Ali from the film Gangster, reached millions across the world. It was not just a song, it was a prayer of longing and surrender that carried both pain and devotion. Through that voice, people who never met him personally felt understood and healed. That was the consequence of music born from truth.


On September 19, 2025, Zubeen Garg left us. The grief that followed spread like a tide. The Government of Assam gave him state honours, and his last rites were performed at Kamarkuchi in Sonapur on September 23. The silence that covered Assam that day was deeper than words.


 

But what happened afterward at his resting place holds an even greater meaning. People from every faith began visiting his samadhi. They lit incense sticks, candles, and lamps and stood silently, united by emotion rather than ritual. People of all faiths came, Hindus offering flowers, Muslims praying in silence, and many others expressing their devotion in their own ways. There was no division, no authority, and no preaching, only faith and love. The consequence of his life was now visible in the living harmony between religions.
People also spoke of a dog that stays there, Maya. Her quiet presence has become part of that sacred stillness, a symbol of loyalty and remembrance.
 

And here again, I think of consequence, how one life can ripple into so many. My mother’s lesson through Rafi Sahab’s bhajan taught me that devotion knows no boundaries. Zubeen’s life proved the same. His art was not religious, it was spiritual, the pure reflection of dharma. A true follower of Sanatan Dharma gives priority to humanity because God resides in compassion. When Mohammed Rafi sang Hari Ka Dhyan Laga Man Mere, it was the consequence of dharma that sees the same divine spark in every heart.


Look at the sacred sites of the world such as Mecca, Jerusalem, the Vatican, the Western Wall, Varanasi, Puri, and many more. Each holds its own light. But Zubeen’s resting place in Sonapur has quietly become something different, a space where people come not as Hindus or Muslims but as human beings first. That is the consequence of love over label and of music over doctrine.

I remember that boy in Madras who spoke softly about Krishna. He had already chosen compassion over ego. As years passed, he sang for everyone, the poor and the privileged, the unheard and the celebrated. He spoke out when something felt unjust. He cared deeply for nature. He lived his dharma in every note, every gesture, and every silence.


Some artists are remembered for their hits. Zubeen will be remembered for his heart. His melodies crossed languages and made people feel less alone. Words can divide us, but a melody can remind us that we are one family. That was the consequence of his art, healing through sound.


When people ask what I saw in him, I say this, he was a human being first, then a singer. That order matters. Humanity was the foundation that held his music. His samadhi today is not just a memorial, it is a living message. When people of different faiths stand there together, they are not breaking any boundary. They are fulfilling his dharma, the duty to remain human.


If Sanatan Dharma means eternal truth, then Zubeen’s life was one piece of that eternal flame, that love is stronger than fear, kindness stronger than labels, and music stronger than speech. Even a quiet dog sitting near his samadhi reminds us that loyalty is sacred too. These are simple truths, but their consequence is everlasting.
I met him in 1992. I played guitar beside him once. I listened to him in a small room as the city noise of Madras faded away and a young boy spoke of compassion. Many stories from that time may sound like unrecorded memories, but they hold the same light that people carry when they light a lamp at his samadhi today. That is the consequence of a life that gave more than it took.
 

Zubeen Garg is gone, yet his light remains. It breathes through his songs, through the quiet gatherings at Sonapur, and through the unspoken brotherhood among Hindus, Muslims, and many other hearts of different faiths. It echoes in my Dergaon home, where a mother once made her son listen to Rafi Sahab’s bhajan about Hari. It reminds us that the divine has no religion, only compassion.


Not only Assam, but the entire world has lost a soul who lived among us in the physical form of Zubeen Garg, a voice that carried love beyond boundaries, a man who turned faith into fraternity, and music into eternal dharma