An original tribute to the voice that became the heart of Assam.
The Morning Light
The sun rose gently over Singapore’s southern coast, its reflection dancing across the water like a song that refused to end. The sea stretched out in calm waves, waiting quietly for the day’s stories to unfold. Zubeen Garg stood by the deck of a private yacht, hair brushing against the soft morning wind, his eyes tired but kind, his smile that familiar curve fans had loved for decades. He had flown across oceans to perform for the North East India Festival — a celebration meant to unite cultures, hearts, and music.
The festival had already been alive with colour and sound. Young dancers in traditional Bodo, Mizo, and Naga attire had taken over the stage the night before. The crowd had sung along to every Assamese tune that spilled from the speakers. And then, there was the promise — “Zubeen will perform tomorrow evening.” People had travelled from Malaysia, Thailand, and even India just to hear him live once more. For them, Zubeen wasn’t just a singer. He was a heartbeat that connected the Northeast to the world.
But that morning, before rehearsals, he wanted a moment of quiet. He had always said that the sea calmed him, that it reminded him of the Brahmaputra — deep, unpredictable, yet sacred. “When I’m near water, I remember home,” he had once told a friend. Nobody could have guessed that the same waters that soothed him would soon claim his final silence.
The Dive
Around mid-morning, the yacht’s engines slowed to a gentle hum. A few close friends and crew members were on board, chatting, laughing, taking pictures. Zubeen seemed lighthearted, even playful, though he mentioned being on medication and feeling a little weak from the late-night rehearsals. Still, his spirit was bright. He leaned over the rail, gazing at the water below.
“Let me swim once,” he said. “I’ll be fine.”
He wore a life jacket the first time, gliding over the gentle waves like a fish returning home. He laughed, splashed, waved at his friends. Then he climbed back up, breathless but joyful. “One more time,” he insisted, taking off the life jacket this time. It was the kind of confidence that comes from a lifetime near rivers. He had swum in the mighty Brahmaputra countless times; the ocean was no stranger.
The water embraced him once more — but when he disappeared beneath it the second time, seconds stretched into minutes. Laughter turned into shouts. Panic scattered across the deck. Someone dived in after him, someone else called for help. Within minutes, his still body was pulled out. The waves that once carried his music now carried him in silence.
Rushed to Singapore General Hospital, doctors fought for hours, but the rhythm that had lived in his chest would not return. The official cause was drowning. But for millions back home, it was something far harder to name — heartbreak.
The Grieving Homeland
Back in Assam, the news fell like thunder. Phones buzzed, television anchors spoke in trembling voices, and an entire region paused in disbelief. In Tezpur, Guwahati, Kokrajhar — even in remote hills — people gathered near radios and screens, praying the news was wrong. “He can’t be gone,” they whispered. “He was supposed to sing next week.”
Garima, his wife, sat stunned in their living room. Her phone rang endlessly — journalists, friends, politicians, fans — but she barely spoke. “He loved the water,” she finally said to a close friend, tears refusing to fall. “How could it take him?”
His old bandmate, Shekhar, who had known him since their first college jam sessions, couldn’t stop shaking his head. “He was always fearless. Always,” he said to reporters. “Maybe too fearless.”
Assam, usually buzzing with the rhythms of dhol and pepa, went quiet that night. Radio stations replaced advertisements with his songs. Fans lit candles outside homes, some singing softly, others just sitting in silence. The government announced an official mourning period, and schools across districts began their assemblies with a prayer for his soul.
The Journey Home
When his body arrived at Guwahati airport wrapped in the tricolour, the city seemed to hold its breath. Crowds stretched for miles. Flower petals rained from balconies. Bikers rode ahead of the ambulance, holding banners that read “You will sing forever, Zubeen Da.” At Kamarkuchi, his birthplace, the air was thick with grief and memory.
Elders spoke of the young boy who had once climbed mango trees humming Hemanta songs. Friends recalled his habit of scribbling lyrics on cigarette packets, of talking about melodies as if they were living creatures. “Music wasn’t his job,” said an old neighbour. “It was his second language.”
When the coffin was placed before his home, thousands gathered — fans, artists, politicians, children with painted cheeks. And yet there was no chaos, only the kind of silence that comes when words are too small to hold emotion. His favourite songs played softly in the background: *Mayabini Ratir Xur*, *Maya*, *Pakaluke Nohobi Huba*. Some sang, others wept. But everyone listened.
“I grew up with his voice,” said a college student holding a candle. “When I was sad, I played his songs. When I was in love, I played his songs. It feels like part of my life stopped breathing.”
As the pyre burned that evening, the Brahmaputra nearby seemed unusually still. Smoke curled upward, slow and tender, and somewhere in the distance, a koel sang — hesitant, lonely, as if echoing his unfinished tune.
The Legacy
Zubeen Garg was more than a singer. He was a storyteller, an activist, a bridge between folk and modern, between Assamese and the world. From the soulful “Ya Ali” that crossed borders, to the raw energy of his Bihu songs that filled fields with dance, he had a rare gift — to make music feel like home.
Born in a small village, he had risen through sheer talent and stubborn belief. There was a time when record labels didn’t want Assamese songs. “Too local,” they said. But Zubeen kept singing anyway — in Assamese, Bengali, Hindi, English — because for him, boundaries were meaningless when it came to melody.
He was also fiercely honest, sometimes controversial, but always human. He gave away royalties to struggling artists, raised funds for flood victims, and quietly paid the hospital bills of young musicians he barely knew. “He could scold you in one minute and hug you in the next,” said a sound engineer. “That was his heart — messy, but big.”
Even after fame, he never stopped being the village boy who loved trees, bikes, and rivers. Friends recall him sitting by the banks of the Brahmaputra at midnight, guitar in hand, lost in a song only he could hear. “Sometimes he sang not for people,” said Garima, “but for the wind.”
The Island of Echoes
Weeks after his passing, Singapore’s coastal authorities named the small island where the tragedy occurred as “Zubeen Garg Island” — not by political order, but by heartfelt request from the festival organizers and fans from Northeast India. They wanted the place of his last breath to carry his name, not his loss.
The island soon became a quiet memorial. Locals built a small shrine with a simple plaque: “Here sang a voice that refused to fade.”
Visitors began leaving flowers, Assamese gamusas, and letters written in multiple languages. Tourists from India came, some crying, some smiling, all whispering the same line — “He is still here.”
“I don’t believe he’s gone,” she told a reporter softly. “Every time I hear the rain, I hear him humming. Zubeen was never meant to disappear. He just changed forms.”
Forever in the Wind
As the months passed, life in Assam slowly returned to rhythm, but the void remained. Streets that once echoed with his music now felt incomplete. Yet, in subtle ways, his presence persisted. In tea shops, his songs still played every evening. At Bihu festivals, dancers still twirled to his beats. Even little children learning to play guitar would whisper, “I want to be like Zubeen Da.”
Artists began painting murals across Guwahati — one on the walls of Panbazar, another on a flyover near Beltola. Each carried a different expression of him: smiling, serious, thoughtful. The message below every painting was simple — “The song never ends.”
The state government later announced a scholarship for aspiring singers under his name, ensuring that even in absence, Zubeen would continue giving voices to others. At a small concert held in his honour, a child sang *Maya*, her trembling voice filling the air. The audience wept, not in sorrow, but in gratitude.
When Silence Sings
It is said that when the Brahmaputra wind turns warm and the evenings carry the smell of rain, you can almost hear him — a faint hum in the distance, like a song trying to return home. Some say it’s imagination, others call it memory. But for those who knew him, it’s proof that songs never die, they simply rest in silence until someone listens again.
Zubeen Garg’s story is not of an ending, but of echoes — the kind that live in every guitar string, in every heart that still believes in the power of a melody to unite people. The man who sang of love, of rebellion, of hope, became what he always sang about — eternal.
And so, when the wind brushes across the Brahmaputra, carrying whispers from faraway seas, it brings with it a familiar tune — gentle, forgiving, endless. Somewhere in that silence, Zubeen still sings.