[ Pisi Zauing ]
It has been a month – thirty long, aching days – since Zubeen Garg, the son of Assam, Arunachal, and the Northeast, left this world in silence. And yet, silence refuses to stay. His voice still drifts through the mist of the Brahmaputra, still hums across the green hills, still trembles in the air like a prayer no one wants to end.
They say the brightest stars burn out too soon. Zubeen was one such star – fierce, free, and untamed – the voice of a generation that laughed, cried, rebelled, and loved through his songs. He was not just a singer; he was a heartbeat. From ‘Mayabini’ to ‘Ya Ali’, from ‘Prithibir Ujon Jiman’ to ‘Ae Mayar Dhoraat’, every note he sang carried the scent of the soil, the rhythm of the rains, and the ache of a restless spirit that refused to be caged.
A month has passed, but the void he left behind still hums like a broken tune. The radio on mobile phonesstill play his songs, and people still stop mid-sentence, caught by that familiar voice – fragile yet eternal.
In tea stalls, in dhabas, in lonely rooms, on long winding highways, his melodies float like a whisper of home. Even nature seems to mourn him – the wind feels softer, the rains heavier, as if the heavens themselves hum ‘Mayabini – Batore Hehote’.
He was the son of Assam, yes – but his soul belonged to the Northeast, the entire nation. Arunachal called him Zubeen Da, Mizoram called him Dada, and Nagaland listened in reverence. He sang in many tongues, but his music spoke one language – the language of love. In his voice, there was the pride of the hills, the calm of the valleys, and the fire of youth that refused to die.
Even now, the people whisper his name not in the past tense, but as if he still walks among them. “Zubeen will come back,” they say. Maybe not in flesh and bone, but as a song, as the wind, as the sudden joy of rain on an evening car ride.
The cry for #JusticeForZubeen still echoes, a reminder that truth must sing louder than silence. His fans, his people, his state – all wait for answers, not only out of anger, but out of love too deep to fade. Because to lose Zubeen is to lose a part of ourselves – the fearless, passionate part that dared to dream beyond borders.
One month has gone, but grief does not follow calendars. Somewhere in the stillness of midnight, someone hums ‘Hagor Tolit Hubo Mon’, and tears roll down cheeks unnoticed. Because for us, Zubeen Garg is not gone. He has become the music that will never stop. He will forever walk and sing beside us.
And when the wind blows from the east, carrying that faint melody through the pines and the rivers, we will know – the son of the Northeast still sings. Arunachal loves you Zubeen Da.
