We know Assam as this vibrant microcosm of India’s celebrated diversity. The numerous tribes, dialects, languages and sub-cultures that come together forming the composite Assamese culture.
The state has seen a lot of strife, especially during the early 1980s riots that led to the 1985 Assam Accord. Couple that with insurgency movements and inadequate attention from mainland India, it really did seem like the essence of Assamese—its language, emotion and identity—might be sidelined, even replaced amid the many sub-groups and communities that make up Assam.
This was when singer and songwriter Zubeen Garg, all but 19 years of age, released his first album, Anamika. Everyone, regardless of tribe, group or community, was captivated, and the love story of a lifetime began between the people of Assam and Zubeen. He had not yet become the force of nature he was destined to be, the ever-beloved Zubeen Da. But the ascent had begun, and Assam was ready for him.
Zubeen had once said he wanted people to sing his song ‘Mayabini Ratir Bukut’ when he died. Now, he is gone. Just as he sang ‘Xagaror tolit xubore mon’ (I want to rest at the bottom of the sea), he drowned in the waters off the coast of Singapore on 19 September 2025.
Legend of a man
For the people of Assam, there is little else as loudly and proudly Assamese in its essence as Zubeen Garg. Unruly and unrepentant, Zubeen shed his Brahmin identity and name—Jibon Borthakur—giving up his sacred thread when he had not even reached class 12.
‘Moi manuh hoi. Mor kono jati nai dhormo nai, mur kono dhormo nai, mur kono bhagaban nai. Moi mukta’
(I am a human. I have no caste, no religion, no God. I am free.)
He unapologetically belonged to Assam and the Assamese. Whether on a massive stage wearing a hat that pays tribute to the phulam gamocha or singing Bihu songs, he was the essence of the land he came from. In one of his numerous Bihu songs, Zubeen sings:
‘Phul morohile hubakh thaki jabo
smriti bedonai konduwai thakibo
sokur pani pori jaan juri bobo’
(When the flowers wither, their fragrance will linger forever. The grief of the memory will bring you to tears.)
It was almost prophetic—a glimpse of a future where people would have to imagine Assam without him.
For those born at the turn of the century, Zubeen was not just a part of the Assamese musical scene, he was the personification, the entirety of it, his name joining the cultural icons like Dr. Bhupen Hazarika. Zubeen’s songs were the charioteers of our childhood—lorali, as we call it in Assamese—marking our first brushes with romance, our first time leaving home, our first time leaving Assam, our first time coming back—the soundtrack of our entire lives.
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‘I am Assam’
Every Assamese person has a distinct Zubeen memory. Some have heard him sing in their colleges, many on the stage in massive Bihu celebrations, and even more have attended his concerts. Zubeen did not merely live in Assam; he inhabited it, wrapped it around himself, and became one with it. And Assam watched, rapt in attention, as this unscripted legend of a man raged on the microphone, in interviews, spoke truth to power, made wildly political statements, and remarked about politics and politicians alike in his matter-of-fact monotone.
Whether it was the CAA protests or the granting of classical language status to Assamese earlier this year, Zubeen always had something to say. But whatever you made of his words, one thing was unmistakable: how singular he was, how proud in his Assamese-ness, in his Zubeen-ness. Though he reached the Hindi mainstream with his song ‘Ya Ali’, Zubeen chose to remain distinctly and quite consciously Assamese. He remained Assam’s Zubeen da more than anything. And the people belonged to Zubeen as much as he belonged to them. Elders would recount a random incident of Zubeen’s rage or outburst, much like they would speak of their child. He gave to his people this right—to get mad at him like their son or brother, and the right to love him the same way.
His funeral procession entered the Limca Book of Records as the fourth-largest funeral procession in the world. Would Zubeen have cared about the record? Perhaps not. But he had once said ‘Moi Axom hoi’ (I am Assam.)
There is no doubt about it now, watching his people sing ‘Mayabini Ratir Bukut’ for the man who sang for his people his whole life. In every corner, outside every home, around clock towers, on pavements, in apartment parking lots and under overbridges, Zubeen now smiles in pictures surrounded with garlands, his beloved Assamese gamocha, and the fragrance of incense sticks lit in his name. A near-constant hum of ‘Mayabini’ rises as people of all generations, communities and tribes—all deeply mournful and proudly Assamese—gather around his picture, singing:
‘Dhumuhar xote mor, bohu jugore nason
Endhaaru xosa mur bohu dinore apon’
(I have danced with storms for ages. I have called this darkness my own for so long.)
Zubeen has found eternal rest in the sea. But he came home to this land that he loved, to his people, and they are holding him closer than ever.
We bade our final goodbye to this son, this brother, this titan of a person on the morning of 23 September, and his mortal remains became one with the skies that had earlier only been scaled by his voice. This time around, it was his people whose voices reached the skies as Zubeen became one with the elements.
Zubeen came to Assam amid a profound identity crisis, as the state and its people grappled with linguistic divides, insurgencies, and the still-raw wound of Partition and the 1971 war.
I am Assam, Zubeen said, uniting us all.
Yes, you are—has been Assam’s resounding reply.
Shabnoor Rahman is a Civil Servant (Assistant Commissioner of State Tax), Government of Assam. Views are personal.
(Edited by Ratan Priya)