On September 19, nearly a dozen affluent Assamese expatriates in Singapore chartered a luxury yacht to host Zubeen Garg, who was visiting the island nation for a cultural festival. It was meant to be an afternoon of leisure and glamour — a chance to mingle with the voice that had defined a generation, and inevitably, to curate some Instagram-ready moments. In videos now circulating online, the hosts appear in coordinated white shirts and trousers as Zubeen’s own songs flow through the speakers in the background.
Near a small grassy island, the mood shifted as the group decided to swim. Zubeen, 52, slipped on a lifejacket and jumped into the sea but quickly climbed back aboard, telling friends that the jacket didn’t fit his slight frame, according to a message later shared by one of those present. The singer then removed the jacket and dived in again — this time he surfaced unconscious. Pulled from the water and rushed to a hospital, he was declared dead. The tragedy chillingly echoes a line from one of his popular songs, Protidine Tumi: “sagor tolit subore mon” (I wish to sleep on a seabed).
The case is under investigation. Meanwhile, as this report is being written, hundreds of thousands of Zubeen’s admirers wait anxiously for a final glimpse of their heartthrob — a swell of emotion that has prompted the Assam government to take a decision to place his mortal remains in the state’s largest stadium, in the heart of Guwahati, at least for a day.
In the early 1990s, while studying at Delhi University, I first heard of Zubeen Garg — a budding singer making waves with Assamese albums like Anamika and Maya. Years later, he would lend his voice to popular Bollywood hits such as Ya Ali from Gangster and Dil Tu Hi Bataa from Krrish 3. Though celebrated across the Northeast as a musical legend, Zubeen never felt the pull of Mumbai, choosing instead to remain rooted in his Guwahati home with his wife, Garima, and a lively pack of dogs of various breeds. Beyond singing, he also made his mark in Assamese cinema with memorable performances in films like Mission China and Kanchanjangha.
Although we were contemporaries, I didn’t meet Zubeen until 2000, by which time I was already working as a reporter. My first impression went beyond his appearance — a lean frame crowned with long, flowing hair, carrying an unmistakable spark of rebellion and a streak of eccentricity. Unsurprisingly, he soon began breaking conventions: drinking and singing on stage, peppering his performances with Assamese slang that many considered taboo. He often sparked controversies yet elders largely overlooked these excesses recognizing instead his musical brilliance and unparalleled fan following. In Assam, “Zubeenar bhul” — Zubeen’s mistakes — were often forgiven almost instantly.
Over the next two decades, our paths rarely crossed. Then, on a December morning in 2019, amid a curfew-bound Guwahati, I spotted him again at the famed Latasil field. He emerged from his SUV, waving to anti-CAA protesters, defying the tense stillness of the city. It was astonishing how Zubeen had managed to arrive in the heart of the curfew in a car, while armed vehicles patrolled and flag-marched through the streets. Clearly, the local police chose not to confront him.
For politicians across party lines, Zubeen was always a challenge. The fiercely independent and rebellious singer refused to align himself with any ideology or political faction, and no amount of pressure or persuasion could control him.
It is no surprise that astute politician and Assam Chief Minister Himanta Biswa Sarma always refrained from criticizing — let alone targeting — Zubeen, even as the singer and his followers openly opposed the ruling BJP during the anti-CAA protests. Instead, Sarma went out of his way to assist Zubeen, who was stranded in Mumbai during the Covid pandemic, to bring him safely back to Guwahati. Over the years, other political parties in Assam, including regional outfits, have also sought his favour. Yet Zubeen, with his immense fan following, consistently steered clear of the political theatre.
Just like his evergreen hits Maya (illusion) and Mayabini (a magical one), Zubeen himself was an enigma — a force of creativity, rebellion, and charisma that defied easy definition. In the hearts of his admirers and across the landscapes of Assam, Zubeen’s legacy will remain timeless, unforgettable, and, like his melodies, truly magical.
Near a small grassy island, the mood shifted as the group decided to swim. Zubeen, 52, slipped on a lifejacket and jumped into the sea but quickly climbed back aboard, telling friends that the jacket didn’t fit his slight frame, according to a message later shared by one of those present. The singer then removed the jacket and dived in again — this time he surfaced unconscious. Pulled from the water and rushed to a hospital, he was declared dead. The tragedy chillingly echoes a line from one of his popular songs, Protidine Tumi: “sagor tolit subore mon” (I wish to sleep on a seabed).
The case is under investigation. Meanwhile, as this report is being written, hundreds of thousands of Zubeen’s admirers wait anxiously for a final glimpse of their heartthrob — a swell of emotion that has prompted the Assam government to take a decision to place his mortal remains in the state’s largest stadium, in the heart of Guwahati, at least for a day.
In the early 1990s, while studying at Delhi University, I first heard of Zubeen Garg — a budding singer making waves with Assamese albums like Anamika and Maya. Years later, he would lend his voice to popular Bollywood hits such as Ya Ali from Gangster and Dil Tu Hi Bataa from Krrish 3. Though celebrated across the Northeast as a musical legend, Zubeen never felt the pull of Mumbai, choosing instead to remain rooted in his Guwahati home with his wife, Garima, and a lively pack of dogs of various breeds. Beyond singing, he also made his mark in Assamese cinema with memorable performances in films like Mission China and Kanchanjangha.
Although we were contemporaries, I didn’t meet Zubeen until 2000, by which time I was already working as a reporter. My first impression went beyond his appearance — a lean frame crowned with long, flowing hair, carrying an unmistakable spark of rebellion and a streak of eccentricity. Unsurprisingly, he soon began breaking conventions: drinking and singing on stage, peppering his performances with Assamese slang that many considered taboo. He often sparked controversies yet elders largely overlooked these excesses recognizing instead his musical brilliance and unparalleled fan following. In Assam, “Zubeenar bhul” — Zubeen’s mistakes — were often forgiven almost instantly.
Over the next two decades, our paths rarely crossed. Then, on a December morning in 2019, amid a curfew-bound Guwahati, I spotted him again at the famed Latasil field. He emerged from his SUV, waving to anti-CAA protesters, defying the tense stillness of the city. It was astonishing how Zubeen had managed to arrive in the heart of the curfew in a car, while armed vehicles patrolled and flag-marched through the streets. Clearly, the local police chose not to confront him.
For politicians across party lines, Zubeen was always a challenge. The fiercely independent and rebellious singer refused to align himself with any ideology or political faction, and no amount of pressure or persuasion could control him.
It is no surprise that astute politician and Assam Chief Minister Himanta Biswa Sarma always refrained from criticizing — let alone targeting — Zubeen, even as the singer and his followers openly opposed the ruling BJP during the anti-CAA protests. Instead, Sarma went out of his way to assist Zubeen, who was stranded in Mumbai during the Covid pandemic, to bring him safely back to Guwahati. Over the years, other political parties in Assam, including regional outfits, have also sought his favour. Yet Zubeen, with his immense fan following, consistently steered clear of the political theatre.
Just like his evergreen hits Maya (illusion) and Mayabini (a magical one), Zubeen himself was an enigma — a force of creativity, rebellion, and charisma that defied easy definition. In the hearts of his admirers and across the landscapes of Assam, Zubeen’s legacy will remain timeless, unforgettable, and, like his melodies, truly magical.
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