A film critic should be unbiased, especially if they’re watching an actor they adore. This played in my head as I went to watch Zubeen Garg’s Roi Roi Binale. To watch an Assamese film in Delhi is a rare event in itself, mostly because the budgets of Assamese films don’t usually allow India-wide distribution.
Roi Roi Binale, if it had been released when Zubeen da was alive, would have had shows all over India. That was his plan—to push the distribution of Assamese films. Zubeen da had been working tirelessly so that the state’s people could watch films in their language in other cities too.
Three months from now, Magh Bihu will not be marked with his latest release, and there will be no more films where people whistle and hoot as he delivers some dialogue that could only have been written for him.
All of these thoughts were on my mind as I waited in the foyer, 10 minutes before the show’s time, and watched the Assamese folks waiting too. It was a quiet moment of solidarity. One didn’t even need to ask who was Assamese—it was in their body language.
Not a flawless film
I have written many reviews, and even typed furiously on my phone in intervals. But I did not have anything to type this time. As usual, I did observe the people around me. A man seated next to me was fighting with his friend for ditching him for the 4 pm show, the first screening in Delhi.
Roi Roi Binale is not a flawless movie, but I am not just a film critic. I am a fan for whom it was a way of accessing the singer one last time. I wasn’t home when others could pay their respects, catch a last glimpse of the man I had once wanted to profile.
All I had was the memory of meeting him once in 2022, when he gave me his number. And in typical Assamese lahe-lahe style, I thought there was plenty of time to do a profile.
When the movie ended, I was still dry-eyed. My heart felt heavy, but that was to be expected, I told myself.
But as the BTS footage played, with Zubeen da’s signature goofiness, smile, and antics, I felt myself blink rapidly. Finally, there was a montage of his pictures, and now the tears fell, hot and fast, into the mask covering my nose.
When I walked out, I saw a man wiping his tears with a handkerchief. I hadn’t thought I would cry after the movie, but that’s where a month of pent-up grief and denial takes you, I suppose.
Despite all the songs and videos out there, he will never sing again, and no headlines will feature wildly inappropriate quotes by him. The movie offered the last concrete way to hold on, and it now feels heavier than ever. But I got to say goodbye, finally.
Views are personal.
(Edited by Prasanna Bachchhav)