By Satyabrat Borah
In the quiet hours of a fateful afternoon on September 19th, 2025, the heart of Assam stopped a little,beating dimmer in collective grief.Zubeen Garg, the voice that had serenaded generations through the misty valleys and vibrant festivals of the Northeast, slipped away at the age of 52 in a tragic scuba diving accident off the coast of Singapore. The news rippled through the region like a sudden monsoon storm, leaving fans, fellow artists, and an entire cultural landscape in collective mourning. Known as the heartthrob of Assam, Zubeen was more than a singer; he was the soul of Assamese music, a bridge between tradition and modernity, and a relentless champion of his people’s spirit. His departure feels premature, as if the rivers of Assam, which inspired so many of his melodies, have lost their most eloquent storyteller. Yet, in the wake of this profound loss, it is essential to celebrate the indelible mark he left on Assamese songs, a legacy woven with over 40,000 recordings that continue to echo in homes, fields, and hearts across the world.
Born Zubeen Borthakur on November 18, 1972, in the verdant town of Jorhat, Assam, to Mohini Mohan Borthakur, a poet and lyricist who penned under the pseudonym Kapil Thakur, and Ily Borthakur, a graceful dancer and singer, Zubeen’s early life was steeped in the rhythms of creativity. The family, rooted in the Brahmin traditions of Janji in Sivasagar, moved frequently due to his father’s role as a magistrate, exposing young Zubeen to the diverse sounds of Assam’s landscapes from the Brahmaputra’s gentle flow to the lively beats of rural fairs. Named after the legendary composer Zubin Mehta, he adopted the surname Garg from his gotra, a choice that symbolized his aspiration to transcend personal boundaries and embrace a universal artistic identity. From his mother’s knee, he absorbed the nuances of Assamese folk tunes, her voice a soft lilt that taught him the power of melody to heal and unite. His younger sister, Jonki Borthakur, shared this passion, blossoming into a talented singer and actress before her untimely death in a 2002 car accident near Tezpur, an event that scarred Zubeen deeply and infused his music with a poignant undercurrent of loss. Another sister, Palme, pursued Bharatnatyam, further enriching the family’s artistic tapestry. These familial threads, fragile yet resilient, became the loom on which Zubeen would weave his contributions to Assamese music.
Zubeen’s formal education at Tamulpur Higher Secondary School and later at B. Borooah College in Guwahati was brief; a Bachelor of Science degree gave way to the irresistible pull of music. By his school days, he was already composing, scribbling lyrics inspired by the tea gardens and monsoon rains around him. A gold medal for his Western solo performance at a 1992 youth festival ignited his professional fire, confirming what his heart had long whispered: music was his calling. That same year, at just 20, he released his debut Assamese album, Anamika, a collection that burst onto the scene like a fresh Bihu harvest. Anamika was no ordinary debut; it fused rock influences from his early band, Boom Boom, with the soulful cadence of Assamese folk, creating a sound that felt both revolutionary and rooted. Tracks like those evoking youthful longing and rural romance captured the zeitgeist of a young Assam awakening to its own voice in a rapidly globalizing India. The album’s success redefined the musical landscape, proving that Assamese songs could pulse with electric energy without losing their earthy charm. It sold thousands, not just in Assam but across the Northeast, establishing Zubeen as a prodigy who could make the dotara’s twang roar like a guitar riff.
This breakthrough propelled Zubeen into a prolific era, where he churned out albums at a staggering pace, each one a testament to his versatility. Asha followed, a beacon of hope with melodies that lifted spirits amid the region’s socio-political turbulence in the 1990s. Maya delved into illusions of love, its haunting ballads drawing from Sufi whispers and local lore, while Mukti infused patriotic fervor, rallying listeners with anthems that celebrated Assam’s unyielding freedom spirit. Meghor Boron evoked the romance of cloudy skies over the Kamrup plains, Xobdo captured the raw poetry of spoken word set to rhythm, and Rang painted life’s vivid hues through folk-inflected pop. Dilruba leaned into Sufi mysticism, its qawwali-esque tracks a bold experiment that resonated deeply in a state where spirituality often intertwined with song. Not all were lighthearted; Pakhi, dedicated to his late mother, was a tearful elegy of maternal love, its tender verses like whispers from the wind-swept paddies. Xixu, born from the grief of Jonki’s passing, transformed personal tragedy into communal catharsis, with songs that mourned yet mended, reminding Assamese listeners that music could be a salve for the soul. These albums, numbering over 40 in Assamese alone, were not mere commercial ventures; they were cultural artifacts, preserving dialects, idioms, and emotions that might otherwise fade in the shadow of Hindi dominance.
What set Zubeen apart was his innate ability to blend genres, a skill honed by his mastery of over a dozen instruments, from the traditional dotara and dhol to the mandolin, keyboard, and percussion sets. He played them all with the fervor of a storyteller, layering Western rock’s rebellion with Bihu’s infectious pep and bhawaiya’s melancholic sway. This fusion was revolutionary for Assamese music, which had long been pigeonholed as folkloric or devotional. Zubeen dragged it into the spotlight, making it danceable, relatable, and radio-ready. Songs like Xunore Xujuwa from his early works married Bihu beats with patriotic pride, becoming anthems for youth movements and Rongali Bihu celebrations. His voice, a baritone that could thunder like a Brahmaputra storm or hush like a dewdrop on a japi leaf, carried these innovations to every corner. He recorded more than 800 songs annually at his peak, once laying down 36 tracks in a single night, a feat that spoke to his tireless dedication. By the time of his passing, his discography boasted over 40,000 songs across 40 languages, but it was the Assamese ones, numbering in the thousands, that formed the bedrock of his legacy. They weren’t just hits; they were lifelines, soundtracking weddings, protests, and quiet evenings under the stars.
Zubeen’s influence extended far beyond standalone albums into the cinematic realm, where he elevated Assamese songs to new artistic heights. His foray into films began earnestly in 2000 with Tumi Mor Matho Mor, which he wrote, directed, produced, and starred in, a bold multi-hyphenate debut that showcased his holistic vision. The film’s soundtrack, with its lush orchestration and heartfelt lyrics, became a blueprint for future Assamese cinema scores. He went on to compose for over 24 films, infusing them with soundscapes that amplified narratives of love, loss, and resilience. Mon Jai (2008) earned him the National Film Award for Best Music Direction, a rare honor for an Assamese project, where tracks like the title song wove classical ragas with folk motifs to mirror the film’s emotional depth. Priyaar Priyo (2017) featured upbeat numbers that captured the joie de vivre of young romance, while Rodor Sithi (2014) delivered poignant ballads evoking letters from afar, a nod to the diasporic Assamese experience. His work on Ekhon Nedekha Nodir Xhipare (2012) blended ambient river sounds with acoustic strums, creating an immersive auditory journey that critics hailed as a milestone in regional sound design.
As an actor and playback singer, Zubeen brought the same authenticity to films like Mission China (2017), which he directed and which shattered box-office records as the first Assamese film to gross over 6 crore rupees, its songs fueling the action-packed narrative with high-octane fusion tracks. Kanchanjangha (2019) followed suit, crossing 7 crore and featuring melodies that climbed charts nationwide. In these, his voice didn’t just accompany scenes; it propelled them, turning ordinary dialogues into operatic highs. Tracks like those in Bhal Pabo Najanilu (2013) explored unrequited love with a vulnerability that resonated universally, while Ahetuk (2015) infused social commentary with rhythmic urgency. Zubeen’s compositions democratized Assamese cinema music, making it accessible yet sophisticated, drawing younger audiences who might have otherwise turned to Bollywood. He collaborated with lyricists like his father and emerging poets, ensuring lyrics remained poetic anchors, rich with metaphors from Assam’s bamboo groves and silk weaves. His film songs often premiered at Joonbeel Mela or Jonbil Mela, cultural hubs where music and community converged, reinforcing his role as a cultural custodian.
Beyond the studio and screen, Zubeen’s contributions pulsed through live performances and social impact, where Assamese songs became tools for unity and change. His concerts, from the bustling streets of Guwahati to international stages like the Assam Convention in Chicago in 2011, were electric spectacles. He honored traditions by unveiling a 20-foot statue of himself in Digboi in 2022 during the Nazirating Tamuli Tourism Festival, a symbol of gratitude, and inaugurated the Zubeen Garg Bamboo Bridge over the Na Dihing River in 2020, blending infrastructure with inspiration. Philanthropy was his quiet melody; he championed AIDS awareness, brain cancer research, and mental health initiatives, often performing benefit shows where songs raised funds and spirits. His irreligious stance, declaring no caste or creed, made his music a secular sanctuary, appealing to Assam’s diverse tapestry of tribes and faiths. He mentored young talents, though not without controversy, as whispers of personal struggles like alcoholism surfaced in later years, shadows that only humanized his genius. Yet, these did not dim his light; they added depth, much like the minor keys in his ballads.
Zubeen’s reach transcended Assam, with forays into Bollywood via the iconic Ya Ali from Gangster (2006), which won him a Global Indian Film Award and introduced Northeast flavors to mainstream India. He sang in Bengali, Tamil, Telugu, and more, but always returned to Assamese roots, refusing to let Hindi overshadow his origins. This fidelity preserved linguistic pride amid globalization’s tide. Albums like Shishu, dedicated to children, and his devotional works for Raamdhenu (2011) bridged generations, teaching the young the value of their heritage through catchy hooks and profound choruses.
As Assam mourns, Zubeen’s songs endure, from the jubilant Bihu calls that herald spring to the sorrowful strains that console in grief. He didn’t just contribute to Assamese music; he redefined it, turning a regional whisper into a national roar. In every note, he captured the essence of a people: resilient, romantic, and rhythmically alive. Though his voice has fallen silent, the echoes he left will sing on, an eternal tribute to the heartthrob who made Assam’s songs the heartbeat of its soul. In his memory, let us hum along, for in doing so, we keep him forever young.
