A Fangirl’s Goodbye to Zubeen Garg: He Taught Us How to Love, But Not How to Grieve

In every corner of Assam, from narrow lanes echoing with children’s laughter to the long highways drenched in monsoon rain, there lives a memory tied to Zubeen Garg.

For some, it’s the scratchy sound of a cassette in a school van playing Monole Ubhoti Aahe on repeat; for others, it’s the quiet comfort of Mayabini while inching through traffic on the way to work. Generations have grown up, fallen in love, healed heartbreaks, and celebrated milestones with his voice as their soundtrack.

Zubeen was never just a singer — he was an emotion woven into the very fabric of Assamese life. He was a companion in our most intimate stories: in the chaos of weddings, in the solitude of travel, in the haze of a drunken night with friends. His music didn’t just play in the background; it held our memories together.

Assam woke up to silence today — a silence heavier than words, deeper than grief. Zubeen Garg, the man whose voice carried our joys, sorrows, and dreams, is no more. His passing in Singapore, where he was scheduled to perform at the Northeast Festival, has left behind a void that no song will ever fill.

For me, Zubeen da was never just a singer. He was a presence, always lingering in the background of life, as familiar as the sound of rain on a tin roof in Assam. His songs were like a diary I could listen to.

Born Zubeen Borthakur on 18 November 1972 in Tura, Meghalaya, he later took the surname Garg from his family’s gotra. Music was his destiny. His father, Mohini Mohon Borthakur, wrote poetry under the pen name Kapil Thakur, and his mother, Ily Borthakur, was a singer. Zubeen inherited this legacy and turned it into something extraordinary.

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From early recognition with Assamese albums like Anamika, Xapunor Xur, and Junaki Mon, Zubeen moved to Mumbai in 1995, where he entered Bollywood. He sang for films like Dil Se, Fiza, and Kaante, but in 2006, he captured the nation with Ya Ali from Gangster. The song became a sensation, winning him awards and cementing his place as a national star.

Yet, for all his Bollywood fame, Zubeen’s heart always belonged to Assam. He sang in over 40 languages and dialects, but it was his Assamese songs that carried his soul. Mayabini, Pakhi Pakhi Mon, his countless Bihu albums — they weren’t just songs. They were the sound of Assam breathing.

For millions like me, Zubeen Garg will never be just another singer lost to time. He will remain the heartbeat of Assam — the man who made every listener feel he sang only for them. The voice that taught us how to love, how to dream… but not how to grieve.

It feels unbearably cruel that only months ago, we were celebrating him — talking about his biography, watching Bhaimon da’ pay him an extraordinary tribute, dreaming of a documentary that would capture his genius. His story still felt unfinished, full of promise.

And now, here we are. The diary is closed. The voice is gone. And yet, it will echo forever. Zubeen da’s story remains unfinished — but it is eternal.