“Junak gola, jaror nixa, mur thoi xeta xeteli…goni goni anguli murot ase kiman sokur pani,
Xukhor sikuni moni…Moi bhagora nai, jibon herua nai”
It’s a slow evening in Calcutta, and I find myself adrift, and yet attuned in a quiet corner of my mind, engulfed in this song from Zubeen’s popular album Maya.
The melody holds me still as I struggle to breathe, half-submerged in a quagmire of thoughts that threaten to suffocate me, until I give in or give up. But I will not grow weary, just as the song says.
I have not given up on life, nor have I lost it. Yes, I am lost, but I have not lost life. At least not yet. Lately I’ve been reading poetry, and some prose too, yet more than anything I’ve been listening to Zubeen.
Zubeen, after all, always had a song for every mood, even for death, but more for life. His one-of-a-kind voice hummed the melody of our tea gardens, our heritage, our oneness, our uniqueness. Zubeen was, and is, the representation of everything Assamese, as he always liked it.
A year back, he compelled, in death as in life, the political power of the state and everyone against whom he fearlessly stood up and raised his voice, to be by his side, kneel before him and sing his song – the song that he said would be hummed by all when he would be no more:
Mayabini Ratir Bukut…..dekha palu tumar sobi
(In the heart/midst of the magical night, I saw your image)
………………..dhumuhar xote mur bohu dinore nasun
Endharu xosa mur bohu dinore apun
(I have danced with the storm for ages now; darkness is my companion for ages now)
And so, it happened.
They all hummed it, night and day – the people, the leaders in government and opposition, the policemen, the lawyers, the shopkeepers, the ones who were his fans, the ones who criticised him for his childlike whims, the ones who grew up listening to his songs, the ones who saw him grow up in front of their eyes, the young, the old, and everyone who called themselves Assamese, and the ones who grew up in Assam or were somehow connected to the state or him.
He became Assam, and Assam became him, or probably it was always that way. We only realised it after he was suddenly no more, physically, while in essence, he was everywhere. Like he is there, here and everywhere, now, more than ever before.
I have lately become a prisoner of the past, floating and thereafter sinking in the memories of times past, the beauty and innocence of the old days, of childhood and dreams that I envisioned growing up.
Some of Zubeen’s songs take me, like my whole generation, back to the days when life was carefree, when we were unaware of the complexities of gender, sexism, societal impositions and para-impositions, sanctions, financial constraints, political gambits, ideological warfare, so on and so forth.
Others speak of the harsh realities of life, of growing up, of the mess and meaninglessness of existence.
Monole Ubhoti Ahe Lorali reminds me of the time when my grandfather, whom I fondly called Kaka would hold my hand, and tour me around the tiny town of Biswanath, tucked in a quiet part of Central Assam, while songs like Ei Mayar Dhorat talk about the fragility of life, Maa and Gupute Bukute Okole Eri thoi bring out the absence a child feels after his mother’s passing.
Aaji June Uroni Khohale comforts a child to sleep, while Mon Jai represents the desire and longing of one sided love; Xunere xojua poja is as relevant now as it was in the days when Assam was shrouded by the insurgency menace. No song can bring out the tragedy of Assam floods better than Keufale Gujori Gumori.
Assam no longer feels the way it once did. Since Zubeen’s sudden departure, the state seems to have been quietly pushed into an unending emptiness – a void, a sort of black hole, in a space where his voice filled the air in those colourful Bihu nights, music playlists across roadside tea stalls to high-end restaurants. The chain of life continues, but it feels like it has lost its rhythm here in Assam.
The voice now echoes only as memory, leaving behind a collective ache that has settled into the very life and atmosphere of the place.
The author holds a PhD from JNU and is currently a postdoctoral researcher and writer.
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