Hey Everyone!!
When I saw the news of Zubeen Garg’s death, my heart sank. He was more than just a singer. He was a voice we grew up with, an emotion that felt like home. When he passed away, something shifted—not just in Assam, but in every person who ever heard his song.
On September 19, 2025, he quietly left us during a swimming-accident in Singapore. Suddenly, the world felt a little duller. By the time September 23 came and his final journey was arranged, life everywhere seemed paused. Guwahati became a sea of mourning. Streets that once hummed with traffic were filled with people holding flowers, posters, candles. Everyday conversations stopped; instead, people exchanged memories of his songs. His body was kept in a sports complex so thousands could pay their respects. Then came the procession, the cremation, all under full state honours.
What struck me most is that this farewell has now been recognized as the fourth-largest public gathering anywhere in the world for a funeral. Think about that. People from every walk of life—old, young, from remote corners—came together in grief, love, and remembrance. For many, hearing his voice, singing “Mayabini” or other favourite songs, was like saying goodbye to someone they’d known all their life. For Assam, it was more than a personal loss; it was a collective moment. A cultural icon had gone, but in the farewell, his connection to people became even clearer.
Seeing that crowd, I felt the power of art, music, identity — how one person’s creativity can reach so many hearts. His music bridged language, region, generation. He wasn’t just Assamese or Indian; in many ways, he became universal through what he sang. And now, silence echoes where his voice once did—but also something stronger lives on. The memories, the songs, the pride of a people who saw in him their hopes, their history.
Yet in this grief there are questions — about how we honor our artists while they are alive, how much support is given to creativity, how much recognition comes only after someone is gone. There is also comfort in the way people came together. Seeing lakhs of people gathered, standing for hours, singing, crying, lighting candles — I realize Zubeen Garg’s legacy will not be just his music, but the unity, the shared emotion.
I believe whenever future generations look back, they will remember not just the record of how many came to mourn, but why they came: because he was real, his music was a part of their lives, and because saying goodbye felt like losing a piece of their own story. Even though his voice is gone, in every song still sung, in every young singer inspired by him, Zubeen lives on. And perhaps that is the truest measure of farewell.
