Rebel, Romantic, Revolutionary

Last week, Assam witnessed a spectacle rarely seen in any funeral in India. Zubeen Garg’s final journey drew what has been called the fourth-largest crowd ever assembled for a public farewell — a staggering tribute to a man who had become far more than just a singer. Being an Assamese and being present in Guwahati when news of Zubeen Garg’s demise broke, I witnessed something I can barely put into words. The city was flooded with people — the roads, the lanes, the smallest corners were filled with prayers for him. Hindus and Muslims stood side by side, and I heard his songs being played in madrasas and outside temples across the state. An extraordinary incident. As a Muslim myself, I know how rare it is for music to enter these sanctified spaces. The love, affection and grief that unfolded for Zubeen was not bound by religion, caste, or creed; it was a tide of collective mourning and adoration. The streets were crowded, yet an uncanny silence hung over the city, an atmosphere so overwhelming that it almost felt otherworldly.

In Guwahati and beyond, roads were clogged, and people in huge numbers gathered outside the airport for one final walk, in tune with the person who made their lives so melodious. Many walked and cycled from all around the state to reach the Sarusajai Stadium, where his bodily remains were kept for two days. The state came to a halt. The sheer scale of grief and respect on display overwhelmed even those who thought they understood Zubeen Garg’s stature. In the days following his passing, Assam paused — shops remained shut, public life quieted, and a shared sorrow suffused every street corner.

But how many of us understood that the man being mourned was more than just the voice behind ‘Ya Ali’? That his life, his choices, his activism, his unspoken kindnesses — these, too, were part of the legacy Assam now mourns. This is that story.

Beyond ‘Ya Ali’

To the wider world, Zubeen may forever be strongly associated with his blockbuster hit ‘Ya Ali’ — a song that opened national doors and cast him into the limelight of India’s tinseltown. Indeed, ‘Ya Ali’ brought Zubeen global and pan-India fame. But to confine him to that single identity is to do deep disservice to his life’s work. For Assam, for the Northeast, Zubeen was far larger: a cultural anchor, a voice for the dispossessed, a social reformer, and in many ways, a political force in his own right. He was rooted in the soil of Assam, and he carried its burdens, its aspirations and its tragedies in his heart.

In a final podcast before his passing, he had said: “If I die, Assam will remain closed for seven days.” He saw himself not as a Mumbai star but as a King who must never abandon his kingdom. He spoke often of returning, of doing things for his land, of the inescapable call of home. The narrative that suddenly emerged — of shops shuttering, of public mourning, of people standing in long lines in the blistering Sun to pay respects — underscored the fact that the bond he shared with Assam was not musical alone. It was emotional, spiritual, collective.

The Quiet Revolution

Long before his name was broadcast on television, even before the times of social media and mobile phones, Zubeen Garg was quietly building a reputation as someone who stood with the people. In times of flood, crisis or outbreak, he was someone Assam could count on. During the COVID-19 pandemic, for example, he and his wife, Garima, offered their Guwahati home to be used as a COVID care centre — giving up personal privilege for public service at a time when beds and facilities were in short supply. More than that, his generosity often showed in smaller, quieter acts: lending money to neighbours, hosting the relatives of the sick, quietly supporting those in need. These weren’t gestures for public praise; they were part of who he was, rooted in an ethic of shared humanity.

And when floods devastated his state — when people lost homes, livelihoods, hope — Zubeen did not stand by. He used his platform, his voice and his resources to mobilise relief. He urged donations of clothes, medicines and other help. He knew that while music could stir hearts, it was action that would heal wounds. These are not footnotes to his life: they are central. In an era when celebrity often comes with distance, Zubeen built closeness. He made himself accessible. He walked the streets, met people in tea stalls, and heard their stories.

Reckoning with Power

Zubeen never hid his leanings. He called himself a social leftist. He was not content to sing; he believed that artists had political responsibility. He stood through the anti-CAA protests in Assam, often leading from the front, calling out injudicious power, speaking for people whose voices were drowned out. His fearless voice made him a thorn in the side of many — but also a beacon for many more. This was not showmanship. It was conviction. Even when Bollywood or Mumbai beckoned — as they repeatedly did — he came back home. Because Assam had given him everything, it deserved his time, his labour, his integrity.

In the years he spent in Mumbai, he said he got bored with the city’s life. “A King should never leave his kingdom,” he told the world. His instinct was always to return: not for fame, but for purpose. He once even predicted that Assam would mourn him for days if he died. His words now echo in the empty shops, closed roads, and collective grief. That kind of rootedness — artistic, social, and political — is rare. And in death, it has become his legacy.

Thunderous Silence

From the moment news of his death broke, Assam went quiet. Shops closed. Life paused. Commuters stayed home. Even delivery services shut down. Only hospitals and pharmacies remained open. On the second day, still nothing moved. By the third, the government appealed for normalcy, but the pause had already become a ritual of grief. (Some say this was exactly what he had predicted.) On the funeral day, what followed transcended grief — it became collective catharsis. The roads in Guwahati and the surrounding districts were jammed for hours. People queued in the scorching sun to get a glimpse of his remains. His body lay in state at the Arjun Bhogeswar Baruah Sports Complex before the cremation, bearing the weight of a million broken hearts. The funeral itself, conducted with full state honours at Kamarkuchi, Sonapur on the outskirts of Guwahati, included a 21-gun salute.

His death has now become a mystery of sorts. Across the state, there are raw expressions of pain and anger at unanswered questions surrounding his passing. In response, the state registered FIRs and formed a Special Investigation Team (SIT) to probe the circumstances. Some have questioned if there were any lapses? Any negligence? Missteps? The public is demanding accountability. For many others, though, this debate pales before the emotion of the moment: a whole people, bereft of the man they believed belonged to them.

A Symbol of Unity

Zubeen Garg’s death, in a sense, came at a troubled time in Indian social politics — with fault lines of identity, religion and region having sharpened. In Assam, something else has also happened: for a brief moment, those lines blurred. People across ethnicities, faiths, languages — Assamese, Bengali, Bodo, Nepali and more — took to the streets together, sobbing, praying, singing ‘Mayabini’. Parents sang his songs to their children. Strangers comforted strangers. The grief was universal. Division was forgotten. That, perhaps, is his greatest gift: the idea that we are not Hindus and Muslims, but human, united.

His brand of secularism was neither loud nor safe; it was lived. The vibe he cultivated: that art transcends partition, empathy transcends doctrine. If Assam today buzzes with talk of the “one people”, he would smile — because that was what he always believed and strived for.

The Legacy He Leaves Behind

Zubeen’s obituary will always list albums, films, languages sung, and instruments played — a discography of brilliance. But what he leaves behind is far more: a blueprint. He leaves a blueprint for artists who refuse to stay silent, for public figures who refuse to retreat into understated celebrity. He leaves a legacy of engagement, of boldness, and of service. In our homes, his songs will continue to echo — in laughter, in sorrow, in celebration. But more than that, the stories of him helping people and standing with them in times of floods, of opening his door in crisis, will grow into inspiration for so many. His life reminds us that to belong to a land is not to just represent it from a stage — it is to carry its burdens, feel its pain, share in its spirit. He didn’t treat Assam as a backdrop. He lived it, breathed it, fought for it. The fact that the state shut down for his passing is not a mere tribute — it is a testament that he was more than a star. He was ours. He will continue to be.