Zubeen Garg: The Pause of a Song That Silenced an Entire State

Zubeen Garg, a name that needs no introduction in Assam, is no more. The voice that gave life to millions of emotions fell silent today, thousands of miles away from his home state, in Singapore. The news has left Assam numb, stunned, and hollow. It feels as if a piece of our collective soul has been ripped away.

Zubeen was never just a singer, he was a genre in himself. He didn’t merely perform songs; he became the soundtrack of our lives. Every Zubeen Garg song carries a different story, a different memory for each of us.

He was not just an artist, he was a habit. For many, listening to Zubeen was as natural as breathing. His music became part of our morning bus rides, our late-night loneliness, our heartbreaks, and our celebrations.

When sadness knocked, Zubeen had a song ready for us: ‘Mur Kothai Amoni Korene’, ‘Mukti’, and countless more.
When we missed our mothers, he sang ‘O Maa’ and ‘Kot Mur Maa’.
When we longed for our siblings or friends, he had melodies that reminded us of them.
When nostalgia struck, there was always ‘Pakhi Pakhi Ei Mon’ waiting to take us back in time.

The beauty of Zubeen was that no matter what you were feeling —heartbreak, joy, anger, hope, he had a song that mirrored it perfectly.

In his lifetime, he sang thousands of songs across Assamese, Bengali, Hindi, and other languages. His soulful voice transcended borders, gaining national fame with ‘Ya Ali’, a song that became an anthem for an entire generation. His fanbase was never limited to Assam. From the streets of Guwahati to the lanes of Kolkata and Bombay, from Bollywood listeners to music lovers across India, Zubeen belonged to everyone.

But for Assam, Zubeen was more than just a celebrity. He was our voice, our pride, our identity. People didn’t just love him; they worshipped him. His concerts weren’t just musical evenings, they were healing spaces where broken hearts found comfort and restless minds found peace.

And for those of us who were away from home, scattered across India and the world, Zubeen’s voice was home. His concerts in faraway cities were not just shows, they were little pieces of Assam, a reunion of hearts, a reminder of where we belong. In a foreign hostel room or a lonely apartment abroad, playing a Zubeen song made us feel as though we were back by the banks of the Brahmaputra.

The thought of a future without him feels unreal. Our generation feels too young to be mourning him, as if we were not supposed to face this loss yet. Zubeen was supposed to be around for decades more, to sing us through our lives, to grow old with us. His absence feels like a void we don’t yet know how to carry.

Today, as we process his sudden departure, there is a strange silence across Assam. The tea stalls, the buses, the college canteens, all seem quieter. Because the man who gave us words when we had none, the man who taught us how to feel through music, is gone, and for a moment, we all forgot to breathe.

Zubeen Garg may no longer be with us, but his songs will keep singing for generations to come. His voice will remain the echo of Assam’s soul.

Today, Assam weeps. But somewhere, we know, Zubeen would want us to play his music a little louder, sing along a little prouder, and keep the rhythm of his heart alive. And as he once said, “On the day I die, ‘Mayabini’ should be played all day” today, we owe him that.