Assam bids tearful farewell to Zubeen Garg
The skies of Assam wept as thousands gathered barefoot, hearts heavy, to say a final goodbye to their beloved son, Zubeen Garg, the voice that carried the soul of a region, the melody that turned pain into poetry and hope into harmony.
His final journey began not in silence, but in song.
From the Arjun Bhogeswar Baruah Sports Complex, where for hours, fans queued through the night to lay flowers, light candles, and whisper prayers over his still form, his cortege moved slowly through streets lined with sobbing admirers. His body was taken to Guwahati Medical College for a final, respectful post-mortem, a procedural formality that could never dull the raw grief of a people who had already lost their north star.
And then, to the cremation ground at Kamarkuchi NC village in Kamrup where, as flames rose gently beneath the Assamese sun, the crowd did not wail. They sang.
They sang “Mayabini” not as mourners, but as disciples of a man who taught them that even in sorrow, there is rhythm. Even in loss, there is beauty.
Zubeen Garg, 52, passed away tragically in Singapore on 19 September, after going for a swim without a life jacket. A simple, human moment yet one that has left a nation hollow.
Assam’s Chief Minister, Himanta Biswa Sarma confirmed the state will build two permanent memorials in Zubeen’s honour. The immersion of his ashes and the sacred 13th-day rituals will be held in Jorhat, his spiritual home, surrounded by family and the quiet grace of the Brahmaputra.
Zubeen was cremated with full state honours, a 21-gun salute echoing through the hills, as hundreds of thousands stood shoulder to shoulder, many having travelled for days, just to catch one last glimpse.
Assam declared three days of official mourning. Politicians, poets, farmers, students, auto-rickshaw drivers, schoolchildren, all became equals in grief. Because Zubeen was never just a singer. He was Assam’s emotion. Her rebellion. Her comfort. Her pride.
His rise was meteoric, a 19-year-old college student with a guitar and a dream. His debut album, Anamika (1992), didn’t just top charts, it rewrote them.
At a time when Assam trembled under the shadow of violence and unrest, Zubeen’s music became a sanctuary. His songs, bursting with love, laced with longing, humming with hope, were the antidote to fear. He didn’t just sing to the people. He sang for them. With them.
By 2000, with his directorial debut Tumi Mor Matho Mor, he wasn’t just famous, he was folklore. Billboards bore his face. Markets echoed with his hooks. College fests stopped for him. Buses paused their routes when his songs played.
He was fashion, ripped jeans, aviators, effortless cool. He was culture, Bihu anthems that made villages dance, Borgeets that stirred the soul, rock ballads that made hearts race, Zikirs that brought tears to hardened eyes.
He sang in over 40 languages and dialects. Not to impress. But to embrace. To say: You are seen. You are heard. You belong.
Zubeen never joined a party but he never stayed silent.
He spoke out against separatist violence, even when threats came knocking. He stood with citizens protesting the Citizenship Amendment Act in 2019. In 2024, he marched alongside Guwahati residents objecting to tree felling for a flyover because to him, roots mattered as much as roads.
“He feared no one,” said Bimugdha Goswami, a fan wiping tears at the cremation. “He spoke his truth. And he gave quietly, constantly. Who else would offer their own home as a Covid isolation centre? Who else would pay for strangers’ hospital bills, weddings, funerals, school fees not for headlines, but because it was right?”
His fan clubs, once organisers of concerts are now organisers of vigils. They manage the crowds, distribute water, hold hands, share tissues. Because even in death, Zubeen unites.
Zubeen Garg’s legacy is not etched in stone though memorials will rise. It lives in every Assamese throat that hums his tunes at dawn. In every wedding where “Ya Ali” still brings the house down. In every protest where his anthems still fuel courage. In every child who picks up a guitar because Zubeen made it cool to dream.
Assam didn’t lose a singer.
She lost her voice.