I don’t remember when I started listening to Zubeen Garg. His voice has been around for as long as memory serves. Back then, listening to him was like a process, just like growing up, and we don’t tend to remember processes—only the moments that remind us of change. And Zubeen Garg never changed. He possessed a voice of versatility that effortlessly flowed through every kind of song, across any scale or tune.
With long, dense curls reaching his shoulders, dark shades, and either an open-buttoned shirt or a turtleneck, the pictures of Garg on his album covers reflected not only an indie-pop outlook but also the attitude and aura behind the style. His look was casual yet carefully chosen. Putting out hit after hit, he defined what it meant to be cool in the nineties. A rebel in spirit who didn’t like being caged by any structure or system of thought, his ideas often found expression in his songs—be it the popular Ami Jen Jantra or Diya Ghurai Diya.
Most importantly, his music captured the aspirations of millennials, whether it was angst against the prevailing order, or the emotions of everyday life—love, heartbreak, grief, or anything in between. His songs provided us with every emotion we didn’t know we needed to feel. As a companion, an elder brother, or a friend, his voice filled a gap in our lives that seemed created only for him—first in the audio cassette era, and later in the CD era. The world around us shifted through troubles and instabilities aplenty, but Zubeen Garg’s voice was always a constant.
There isn’t a single emotion of youth that his voice didn’t touch, be it dreams, loneliness, or innocence. We found love in I Love You, heartbreak in Bisora Morom, loneliness in Monor Nijanot, and freedom in Pakhi Pakhi Aei Mon. These were not just songs; they became personal worlds we built around his voice. His music raised us almost like a surrogate guardian. Beyond any denial, we all carry a bit of Zubeen Garg within us—as an idea, as a feeling, or as an emotion. Even if nothing else, then at least the name.
When news of his death came, I asked myself why I wasn’t feeling sad. The news was a cultural shock, but the absence of sadness meant something deeper. Zubeen existed both in reality and in our imagination. Singers often become faceless—sometimes their voices come through radios and cassettes, sometimes through the lips of movie stars. That’s why it still feels like Zubeen Garg is alive and well. Something that exists in imagination cannot die until we stop imagining it.
From childhood to adulthood, Zubeen Garg has represented different things to us while remaining the same person. From romance and passion to identity and rebellion, he covered a wide range with his art and activism. His songs defined our times so deeply that listening to any one of his early 2000s tracks can still take us back to the moment we first heard it.
His voice did more than give air to emotion; it represented something larger. A heartbroken person knows how Mon Jaican go on for ten minutes and still feel too short. His devotional songs carried spiritual purity, while his sad songs comforted pain that sometimes didn’t even exist. His upbeat, festive tracks energized entire gatherings, and his folk renditions, especially Bihu songs, became inseparable from Assamese culture.
Yet in later years, I felt a detachment from his newer work. I was not the biggest fan of his recent output, particularly his filmmaking choices. But even a cameo in a bad film meant something because it was Zubeen. His 2006 Bollywood hit Ya Ali felt like a personal victory for all of us, proof that his voice—so essential to our lives—could hold its own on the national stage. He represented Assam in the land of stars, and that filled us with pride.
Now, in his absence, we are forced to recognize the influence he had on our lives. Zubeen Garg was the truth and also the myth. If it was difficult to make sense of him in life, it is even more difficult in death. Perhaps we had never thought about him as deeply as his absence now makes us feel. But among all the changes in how we will remember him, one thing is certain: Zubeen Garg was always unpredictable, and he remained so until the very end.
Also Read: Zubeen Garg was perhaps Assam’s last ‘true people’s star’