“Jaane kya chahe mann, bawra.”
Many fellow millennials who grew up on Bollywood music in the early 2000s would remember these lines. For someone raised on a staple diet of Shaan, KK, and Sonu Nigam, the voice of Zubeen Garg was not only new, it was distinct. Back in the day, when Google was still inaccessible to most of us, I could do little except ask people who Zubeen Garg was. “An Assamese singer,” was all I could learn.
And before someone objects, yes: I had heard of, and about, Shri Bhupen Hazarika. But I would not be offending anyone if I said for a teenager like me in the early 2000s, a Bollywood song felt more relatable than the music of Shri Bhupen Hazarika.
It was not until 2005, while living in Delhi among hundreds of Assamese students in Vijay Nagar, that my love affair with Zubeen Garg’s songs truly began. Cassettes were on their way out and MP3 players were becoming the norm. Roomal, his famous album, was a constant in my collection.
Zubeen Garg’s voice could convince you to feel emotions even when you barely understood the words. At that point, I could hardly understand Assamese, let alone speak it. But Motoliya Botahe was a constant across my playlists; and Roomal made me dance even though I understood just one word: Roomal (handkerchief).
When I finally visited Assam in 2016 to cover the state elections, it became clear that Zubeen’s music was my “conversation starter” no matter where I went. My journey took me deep into Barak Valley, a Bengali-dominant region. While I could speak Bengali, I still asked a driver out of curiosity if he had any Zubeen songs. “Of course!” he said, smiling. Over the next two hours, as he drove in torrential rain, the two of us—one Bengali and one Bihari—bonded over Garg’s songs. That day I was convinced Monor Nijanot was his best song. Why? Because, according to the driver, it showed “how one could sing in pain while still using a soft voice.” Mind you, I have zero training in music, so maybe what he said made no sense, but it stuck with me.
Two days ago, I bought a second-hand iPod. The first artist I loaded on it? Zubeen Garg.
Zubeen’s career, his music, his struggles, and his legacy will be highlighted by people far more knowledgeable than me. That said, the beauty of music and artists remains years and decades after they are gone. As I write this, Zubeen may have left us forever, but Rod Aaji Keni Pau plays at home.
And to Zubeen, all I will say is this: thank you. For millions of non-Assamese people, you were not just a singer—you were a portal. Your voice, your music was our entry into the world of Assamese music. Without you, I would have never discovered Jitul Sonowal, Bhupen Hazarika, Jayanta Hazarika, Papon, and many more.
Adieu, Zubeen.
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