“My life is like sand and salt” — Zubeen turns pain into melody in Roi Roi Binale

Review | The air inside Assam’s cinema halls is thick — not with popcorn fragrance or chatter, but with emotion. A week since its release, Rajesh Bhuyan’s “Roi Roi Binale” continues to draw house-full audiences across the state. Yet, the reaction is divided. Are people there for the story — or to feel, one last time, the presence of Zubeen Garg on the 70mm screen?

The film, directed by Bhuyan, tells the story of a seven-year-old boy named Rahul who becomes “Raul,” the heart-throb of Guwahati. The narrative is drenched in tragedy and melody — Rahul, a child of disaster, loses both parents in a flood and later becomes a victim of terror. Music becomes his eyes to a world blinded by loss. Zubeen, playing the adult Raul, breathes his own life into the character. From the very first shot, he establishes that music — not money — is his blood, his breath, his everything. He doesn’t just act the artist; he is one. And when he says that he would rather be a true musician than a blind man chasing fame, it strikes a chord that reverberates beyond fiction.

What makes “Roi Roi Binale” more poignant is how art imitates life — perhaps too closely. The first half seems like a cinematic reflection of Zubeen’s own journey, of struggles and betrayals. His co-actor “Neer” (Joy Kashyap) plays the friend/band member who equates success with money, only to be deceived by his own manager — a moment that mirrors real-life stories fans are all too familiar with. Viewers can’t help but draw parallels to the real Siddharth Sharma, the former manager whose name evokes memories of conflict and controversy in Zubeen’s life.

The film also ventures into Zubeen’s personal and political shades — touching upon love, rebellion, and artistic conviction. In one of the lighter moments, an MLA who is eying the next  Assembly election humorously mimics a politician’s famous footstep campaign — a clear nod to Zubeen’s public claim that the gesture was originally his idea. Bhuyan’s direction does not shy away from such bold undertones. It paints Zubeen not merely as an entertainer, but as an artist unafraid of taking on power and parodying politics.

Then comes the media confrontation scene — raw, real, and unsettling. When Raul faces a barrage of insensitive questions, it echoes Zubeen’s own turbulent interactions with the press, most notably his outburst at a Guwahati hotel in his early days. The pain, the frustration, the vulnerability — all find their way back to the screen, blurring the line between reel and real.

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Mousumi Alifa, playing Mou, adds emotional depth to this narrative. Beyond her professional identity, her character explores the life of a woman struggling for dignity in a male-dominated world — until she finds love with a blind man, Zubeen’s Raul. It’s a delicate relationship that transcends sympathy and blossoms into something profoundly human.

Yet, beneath the applause lies an emotional question — are audiences celebrating “Roi Roi Binale” as cinema, or mourning it as a goodbye? In darkened halls, the tears of fans whisper the answer. People sob quietly, whispering “Oo Zubeen Da”, as if calling out to a friend who never left. Perhaps the love is less for the film itself, and more for the man who gave Assam its heartbeat in melody.

Even the interval feels different. No advertisements, no commercial breaks — only Zubeen and his memories fill the screen. It’s as though the filmmakers knew that every second of silence would be sacred for his followers.

“Life is like sand and salt,” Raul says in the film. Watching “Roi Roi Binale”, one can’t help but feel that Zubeen truly lived that line. He ate the sand, drank the salty water, and still built a world full of music, emotion, and defiance for his people.

So, whether “Roi Roi Binale” is a cinematic masterpiece or a flawed film almost doesn’t matter. What matters is what it represents — a farewell, a reflection, a resurrection of everything Zubeen Garg stood for. It’s not just a film screening. It’s a pilgrimage of love, memory, and melody — where Assam watches not merely with eyes, but with heart.