A Voice That Refused to Leave Us

In the mid-nineties, when cassette tapes still carried the weight of discovery, I first heard a voice on a Hindi music album, Chandni Raat, passed from hand to hand. The voice was euphonic, impassioned, fluid, and confident. When I came to know that the singer was from Assam, it made me elated. I, too, was nurturing a dream of working in the Hindi film industry at the time, and in his journey, I caught a glimpse of possibility.

To go to Mumbai (then still Bombay) in those days was not the straightforward rite of passage it has since become. It required grit, sacrifice, and a kind of obstinate belief in one’s calling. This singer, with his unusual vocal strength and emotional register, found a foothold in the city’s musical networks. He lent his voice to the soundtracks of popular Hindi films and collaborated with composers such as A. R. Rahman and Anand Raj Anand. And yet, after a brief stint in the maximum city, he returned to Assam. It proved to be a decision that revealed his deepest allegiance was not merely to stardom but to a cultural soil that had nurtured him.

His return altered the landscape of Assamese cinema and music. With Tumi Mur Mathu Mur (2000), where he served as both director and composer, and Hiya Diya Niya (2000), which soon became a modern classic, he announced himself as more than a singer. He was an architect of feeling, a creator of moods that could sway an entire generation. In the early 2000s, with Nayak (2001), Kanyadaan (2002), Barood (2004), and other films, he stamped his long and fruitful collaboration with filmmaker Munin Barua and actor Jatin Bora, cementing his role in Assamese popular culture. His compositions, deceptively simple and always unflinchingly emotional, were sung at Bihu functions, broadcast on television sets, and hummed by individuals from various rungs of society. They belonged to the people, and the people made them eternal.

In 2006, when Ya Ali from Gangster vaulted him to national attention, it felt less like a recognition long overdue. Songs such as Jaane Kya Chahe Mann Baawra confirmed that his voice, at once tremulous and unyielding,  spoke to more than one language, more than one geography. He became an artist who could hold both the intimacy of his homeland and the vastness of a nation.

His ventures into film direction, from Mission China (2017) to Kanchanjangha (2019), proved equally popular. These were unabashedly mass entertainments, crafted for the crowds who filled cinema halls across Assam. And even in 2025, in songs like 'Era Eri' from Bhaimon Da and 'Agoli Anubhabe' from Rudra (both 2025), his voice carries the same raw ache it had when I first encountered it on tape decades ago.

But it is perhaps in death that the measure of an artist’s belonging is most clearly seen. In the days following his passing, the classic Mayabini Ratir Bukut from Daag (2001) was resurrected by grief-stricken fans and admirers. It became, almost spontaneously, a hymn of mourning. His funeral drew one of the largest mass gatherings in recent memory. It is listed in the Limca Book of Records as the fourth largest, after Michael Jackson, Pope Francis, and Queen Elizabeth II. In that moment, it was clear that he was more than a singer, an actor, or a star. He was a vessel of collective memory.

Now, as his songs will keep echoing across Assam and beyond, there is a silence underneath them. A reminder that he is no longer among us. Yet the silence is not empty. It is filled with the memory of a voice that seemed to know our longings before we knew them ourselves.

That voice belonged to none other than Zubeen Garg. Our beloved Zubeen da. He has departed, yes. But he has left behind an inheritance of song, a map of emotions that will guide us long after the music fades. A voice that refused to leave us.