A Tribute to Heartthrob Zubeen Garg: An Epic Elegy
Heramba Nath
When a people find their breath in song,
When music carries them along,
When culture takes a living form,
A soul like Zubeen is born.
In Tura’s cradle, November light,
A child emerged to bless the night,
The son of words, the son of song,
Whose journey would be wide and long.
Kapil Thakur, father of pen,
Mohini Mohon — his hidden name then,
Wove with ink the Assamese mind,
A literary treasure left behind.
Ily Borthakur, mother’s grace,
With tender voice and gentle face,
Sang of rivers, fields, and skies,
Where truth in melody never dies.
In such a home, both strong and rare,
Art was not taught — it was the air,
Music was breath, and poetry flame,
And young Zubeen became his name.
Childhood notes grew into streams,
Of lyric whispers, of endless dreams,
His fingers learned the strings to play,
His heart composed what words can’t say.
Not just a singer, but something more,
Composer, actor, and at his core,
A poet who touched the human soul,
A reciter who made broken hearts whole.
His voice was not polished to impress,
But raw with feeling, tenderness,
Each note dipped deep in living truth,
Each song a mirror to age and youth.
He sang of lovers in twilight rain,
Of parents’ love, of hidden pain,
Of workers bent in silent strife,
Of joy, of grief, of fleeting life.
Shabda Anubhuti — the poet’s book,
A people gathered, and readers shook,
At Chandmari’s fair, its pages sold,
Each verse a jewel, each line pure gold.
They found within the poet’s chest,
The unspoken thoughts they loved best,
For words became a healing stream,
A bridge between the real and dream.
And then he gave that sacred ode,
Deutar Dore Hua Hole bestowed,
A prayer to parents, love’s command,
A child’s devotion to guiding hands.
When Zubeen recited, the silence spoke,
The audience felt their spirits woke,
Each syllable carried respect profound,
Each pause a temple, holy ground.
But fate can strike with ruthless hand,
And grief can sweep across the land,
In Sonitpur’s night, the tragedy came,
Jonki Borthakur — remembered name.
A sister, singer, actress bright,
Her flame was taken in endless night,
And Zubeen stood in sorrow’s rain,
A brother’s heart engraved with pain.
Yet from that loss, a song was born,
Xixhu rose with the breaking dawn,
An album of mourning, grief, and love,
A message sent to skies above.
Through music, he kept her spirit near,
Through melody, turned grief to prayer,
He taught us all that art can mend,
That memory’s song will never end.
In life’s next chapter, love appeared,
Garima beside him, cherished, revered,
A singer too, with voice so fine,
Together their souls and songs entwined.
Not just a marriage of heart and hand,
But union that strengthened Assam’s land,
Two voices weaving harmony’s thread,
Two artists by love and music wed.
But Zubeen’s song was never bound,
By one tongue, one state, one sound,
Assamese, Bengali, Hindi clear,
His music rang in every ear.
Across the nation, across the stage,
He brought the North East to every age,
Reminding all with pride and grace,
That Assam holds a central place.
From folk traditions, dhol and drum,
To modern beats where youth would come,
He joined the old and new as one,
So culture’s river could still run.
And beyond applause, beyond the fame,
His heart was known by another name,
Compassion lived in all he gave,
His kindness marked the path he paved.
He helped the poor, he soothed the weak,
His actions truer than words can speak,
A human soul of rarest kind,
A gentle heart, a noble mind.
Now silence falls, the news has spread,
A son of Assam is with the dead,
But death cannot still the songs we keep,
For echoes wake when hearts must weep.
In tea gardens, in city squares,
His voice still rises, still declares,
At weddings, partings, joys, and pain,
His songs return like summer rain.
Children hum them, lovers cry,
Elders whisper them by and by,
On screens and speakers, far and near,
The heartbeat of Assam is clear.
His absence is a hollow deep,
But memory is a flame to keep,
And generations yet unborn,
Will greet his name with pride each morn.
He was a son who honoured his sire,
A poet who lit imagination’s fire,
A brother whose grief became song,
A husband whose bond was pure and strong.
A singer whose voice could heal and bind,
A man of compassion, rare to find,
An artist who carried Assam’s name,
Into the world, into eternal fame.
So let the rivers sing him home,
Let forests whisper, let hills intone,
Let every dhol and pepa cry,
That Zubeen’s soul can never die.
He is not gone — he only lives,
In every heart that still forgives,
In every note, in every line,
In every soul his art did shine.
Zubeen Garg — eternal flame,
Forever cherished, forever a name,
The voice of culture, truth, and grace,
Assam’s heartbeat, time can’t erase.