When tribute turns tone-deaf: Assam pushes back on poor renditions of Zubeen Garg’s songs

The outrage seen across Assam this Bohag Bihu is not simply about a few imperfect performances—it is about emotion, identity, and the responsibility that comes with touching the legacy of Zubeen Garg. For the first time in decades, Bohag arrives without the towering presence of the man many lovingly call the “King of Assam." His absence has created not just silence, but a deep emotional vacuum. Into that space have stepped several singers attempting to perform his iconic songs—yet instead of comfort, many of these renditions have triggered anger.


The controversy began when a video of Marmita Mitra singing the evergreen “Bahi Bahi” went viral. The backlash was swift, forcing the singer to issue a public apology. Social media has since been flooded with reactions—many calling these performances disrespectful and unworthy of Zubeen’s legacy. But beneath the criticism lies a more complex truth.
 

Zubeen Garg was not just a singer; he was the sound of Assam itself. His voice carried the rhythm of Bihu, the pain of separation, the pride of identity, and the pulse of a changing society. Songs like Bahi Bahi are not merely compositions—they are woven into the cultural and emotional fabric of the state. For many, hearing them sung without the same depth feels less like tribute and more like dilution.


However, it would be unfair to place the entire burden on the singers. Music, by nature, evolves. Every generation interprets songs in its own voice. The problem arises when that interpretation appears careless, underprepared, or driven by visibility rather than genuine respect.


This is where the line between tribute and imitation becomes crucial. Attempting to replicate Zubeen Garg is a near-impossible task. His voice had a rawness and emotional intensity that cannot be manufactured. When singers try to copy rather than reinterpret, the result often feels hollow. What audiences in Assam are reacting to is not the act of singing his songs—but the perceived lack of sincerity and musical integrity.


At the same time, the public response also reflects a state in mourning. Grief often expresses itself as anger. The criticism, though harsh at times, comes from a place of deep attachment. Zubeen Garg was present in every celebration, every heartbreak, every moment that defined Assamese life. Losing that presence has made people more protective of his legacy than ever before. Yet, turning that legacy into something untouchable may not be the answer.


Zubeen himself was known for breaking boundaries, experimenting with styles, and refusing to be confined. To truly honour him would mean encouraging originality—not enforcing silence. Artists should sing his songs, but with preparation, emotional understanding, and a willingness to bring authenticity rather than imitation. This moment, therefore, is not just a controversy, it is a cultural test.


Assam must decide whether it wants to preserve Zubeen Garg only as memory, or allow his influence to inspire future voices. Singers, on their part, must recognise that performing his songs is not an easy shortcut to attention—it is a responsibility that demands respect and effort.


Because in the end, Zubeen Garg’s legacy will not be protected by stopping others from singing—
it will be protected by ensuring that when his songs are sung, they are felt.