By Kamlesh Tripathi
The golden voice of Zubeen,
That sang the beauty of Assam,
That mapped the heart of the Northeast,
That made the winding Brahmaputra musical,
Its eternal splashes tuneful,
Has fallen silent.
The silky voice that once sang of Assam’s grace,
Its lush green tea gardens,
Its animal pride,
Its nature’s basket,
Has gone quiet.
The golden voice of Zubeen,
That encouraged birds to chirp shriller,
Tigers to roar prouder,
Elephants to trumpet the dawn,
Has eclipsed to heaven.
The voice that eulogised Ma Kamakhya,
“Jay Jay Maa Kamakhya,”
The voice that stirred the tailwinds,
And pushed back the headwinds,
A symbol of animation,
Has fallen silent.
The golden voice of Zubeen—
That made the mountains smile,
That gave the jungles their chorus,
That let birds and animals join the song,
Has gone quiet.
The mountains smiled beneath his tune,
The jungles echoed his voice at noon.
Each field, each stream, each quiet glen,
Has lost its song beyond our ken.
The lush paddy fields recollect their transplant,
When life changed from the hissing breeze,
To the quatrains of Zubeen,
His stanzas that once ameliorated the wind-chimes,
Has fallen still.
In paddy fields his stanzas swayed,
Like wind-chimes where his notes once played.
Now hills and rivers stand bereft,
And only memory’s song is left.
The fields, the hills, the rivers,
The hearts that he touched,
Have all fallen quiet,
On Zubeen’s tragic demise.
An elegy can only make you feel,
The flow of his golden voice,
That now feels solemn,
After his premature demise.
Now hills are hushed,
Rivers mourn,
The night sky missing his refrain,
His films have paused, his stage unlit,
Yet in memory he remains.
In verses and human dawns,
In fraternity of species,
In citizens group,
His legacy will sing,
Again and again,
But Northeast will never be the same.
