"Not 'died'. Killed. Murdered. Assassinated," my mom responded with as much frustration as she could muster in her perennially gentle frame. This was a response to my suggestion that, just perhaps, there is a chance Zubeen Garg died as claimed. Nope. Not my mother, nor anyone remotely Assamese, is willing to believe it was a simple death.
To live in Assam right now is to live inside a big conspiracy theory bubble that tolerates no other interpretation. To be here, even three months after his death, is to witness a fascinating, but unintended sociological experiment whose premise is simple: What happens when a mortal, flawed yet brilliant, and beloved of all artistes, transcends not just to legend, which he is, but to a state of secular sainthood?
The answer, it would appear, if you're in Assam, is a meticulously observed though unwritten, yet fiercely enforced rule: Thou Shalt Not Tip Thy Toe Out of Line On This Matter. One must tiptoe around the subject of this delicate ballet, the legacy of the late, great Zubeen Garg—the dance floor: the entire state.
This isn't mere fandom. Fans buy albums, scream at concerts, get tattoos and swoon at the very mention of the object of their affection. No. This is something beyond. It's a gentle, yet firm, societal enforcement of a particular narrative. It is the transformation of a man - a fantastically complicated, prodigiously talented man - into a monolithic symbol, one so polished that even to suggest it might have once had a rough edge is to invite fierce antagonism, a chorus of corrections, and a distinct possibility of an FIR landing at your doorstep.
On the fateful day of September 19, the news of Zubeen's demise spread not just like a wildfire but as a seismic wave of collective grief. The state didn't just mourn; it swayed to a symphony of sorrow on a scale that would have made Zubeen proud.
A businessman friend in Guwahati, and I tiptoe carefully here, found himself trapped in its rhythm. As a mark of respect, he shuttered his establishment for three days, which also happened to be a weekend. On the fourth day, he considered reopening. A well-meaning acquaintance pulled him aside, not with a threat, but a weather report. "Remember what Zubeenda said: I am a legend, bae - when I die, the state will be shut for seven days." It was a prophecy collectively being fulfilled by fans. My friend dared not defy the law written on the hearts of fans.
On the streets all over the state, impromptu sort of langars fed those for whom a week's closure meant a week's hunger. My friend saw the silent, massive enforcement of a folkloric decree carried out with impeccable logistics. Who organises the organic, grassroots enforcement of a seven-day statewide sentiment? Where does the money for the langars come from? He asked but dared not offer a theory, just raised his eyebrows.
This is at the heart of the cult of Zubeen: it is not necessarily about the man, but about the need for him to be perfect for his fans now that he's gone. During his life, Zubeen was an exhilarating paradox: the voice of a generation, the bridge between traditional Assamese music and pulsating contemporary sound, a regional superstar who sang in all of the languages of the Northeast and gave the place a defiant, proud voice in the national soundscape.
He was also, by so many accounts of those who knew him, gloriously, infuriatingly human. He stood for a kind of rebellious, unvarnished authenticity that fans adored and critics clucked at. The same on-stage energy that electrified millions could, on rare occasions, manifest as unpredictability and unexpected tantrums. Of course, this made him real, relatable in his imperfections to a public that itself feels complex and often misunderstood.
But death can become a great editor, especially if you have wowed enough people in life with your art. Death creates a final cut, and in this version, the outtakes—the human frailties, the controversies, the messy, complicated bits—are left on the editing room floor. What remains, at least in this case, is a highlight reel of pure genius and purported martyrdom. To question this edit is not seen by fans as a critique, but as vile sacrilege. To dare whisper even a note of dissent on this narrative is to invite FIRs, a reminder that in the church of Zubeen, blasphemy carries a case number.
This phenomenon begs the larger question: Is it ever healthy for a society to turn a human—any human, no matter how gifted—into a demigod? The ancient Greeks got it right. Their gods were both beautifully bold and magnificently flawed: full of pettiness, jealousies and lust. By making their deities dysfunctional, they allowed their heroes to be beautifully human. The modern world is often doing the reverse. We take a wonderfully dysfunctional human and retrofit him into a flawless deity. It is a heavy, unwieldy crown to place on any brow, even a posthumous one.
Consider the comparisons that naturally arise to another titan of the Northeast: Bhupen Hazarika. Bhupen-da was a different kind of legend. His was the wisdom of Luit nodi, the deep river Brahmaputra: slow, powerful, and intellectual. His need for "spirit" was part of a lore of endless, soulful performances.
Zubeen's, in contrast, was the energy of the storm: immediate, visceral, and unpredictable. Both were loved, but the nature of the devotion was quite different. Bhupen Hazarika's legacy is discussed, analysed, and debated. Zubeen Garg's, at least at this moment, is protected. One is a subject of objective study; the other an object of venomous vigil.
This protective vigil extends to all aspects of his memory.
Take his final film. One person told me, a couple of dozen minutes in, she wanted to walk out, but dared not. Three months out, it's still running. In Aizawl, I am told it even played to packed houses in the only cinema screen here. Why? How? Someone who's not from around here might be inclined to ask. You cannot understand its staggering success merely as a box-office story; you have to see it as a teary-eyed pilgrimage for mournful fans.
As my Uber driver on the way home from Guwahati airport informed me, "Sir, it has crossed ten crores." In the context of Assam's film economy with just 82 screens, this isn't a hit; it's a miracle more prominent than Hollywood hits like Avatar or Avengers, never to be surpassed. Pointing out that the film might have cinematic flaws misses the point entirely. People aren't going to see a movie; they're attending a last rite, soaking in a final performance with teary souls.
And herein lie hints of the subtle, unspoken culture of the cult, which offers immense comfort to those who conform. In a state that has yet to come out emotionally from the turmoil, chaos, and violence that lasted decades—and a good part of Zubeen's life—the narrative of a perfect, wronged hero is soothing, is turned into a metaphor for the state that has also felt the same (trains are single line in the state because mainland wants to take the Northeast’s tea and timber, goes the argument I've heard since birth).
Zubeen's death gives people a unified focal point for grief, pride, and identity. The conspiracy theories blooming like flowers in spring around his death—whether pointing fingers at political parties, the media, or shadowy forces—are less about evidence, more about myth-making. They are necessary chapters in the gospel of Saint Zubeen, because a saint must be martyred, not merely dead. A natural demise is too mundane for a legend; it requires an epic plot that his still-growing myth deserves.
So, we tiptoe. We tiptoe not out of fear, but out of a wary respect for the beautiful, fragile ecosystem that is the collective sentiment here. We tiptoe because we understand that sometimes, people need a saint more than they need the truth. We tiptoe because the cult, in its own peculiar way, is an act of profound, communal love. But to me, it is also a warning: a society that cannot critically, yet lovingly, examine its icons risks swapping critical thinking for communal hagiography.
Perhaps the ultimate lesson from the cult of Zubeen Garg is not about him at all. He's gone. We're here. The lesson is about us. It reveals our deep need for unifying symbols, our desire to edit chaos into something we can understand, and our tendency to love in the absolute, leaving no room for the complicated, beautiful grey.
Zubeen, the man, was all grey: streaks of sublime light and patches of human shadow. The cult has painted him in pure gold. The former is relatable. The latter is only suitable for worship, hence the need for defence.
As I finish writing this, I double-check the warnings around him. I do love his music. Ya Ali remains a perennial favourite. And I respect the emotion that has built this incredible, intricate, and slightly intimidating edifice around his memory. So, I will continue to tiptoe.
But I will also occasionally glance at the FIR-stuffed trophy cabinet of those who dared speak their mind, and smile a wry smile. Because to me, in the grand, ironic theatre full of criticisms and adulations that is Assamese public life, the cult of Zubeen is the most captivating, enforced, and utterly sincere performance of all. And this show, it seems, must not just go on, but must be universally applauded. No negative reviews allowed
