In 1991, Jorhat was still a town of quiet lanes and familiar faces - the kind of place where everyone knew everyone or at least claimed to. Across the street from our home stood Symphony Music, Rajen Da's modest temple of sound. It wasn't just a shop - it was the heartbeat of Jorhat's music scene. Amplifiers, audio mixers, speakers of every size: if you played music in Jorhat, chances were you'd pass through the doors of Symphony Music.
Next door was Rajib's tea stall, which churned out hot samosas and crispy aloo chops every afternoon. Musicians came for the gear, but stayed for the adda. Symphony wasn't just a store. It was a stage. A chance. A whisper of a dream waiting to be heard.
That's where one sleepy afternoon in 1991, my brother introduced me to Zubeen. Both were students at J.B. College, and that evening was to be Freshers' Night - an annual rite of passage where performers gave it their all, hoping to leave a mark on their peers.
Zubeen arrived at Symphony on his bicycle, curly long hair dancing in the wind. To my teenage mind, he looked like he'd pedalled straight out of a movie. That mane would later earn him the nickname "Sabatini", but it was his easy smile and quick wit that put the introvert in me at ease almost immediately.
"Come to the show," he said. "I'll be playing the keyboards... and singing a few of my own songs.
"Your own songs?" I asked, surprised.
"Yeah. Wrote and composed them myself. Let's see what people think."
He wasn't from our usual circle of school friends from the '80s - more like a character dropped into the storyline. He was the new kid in town and carried himself with a quiet flamboyance, confident and different with his unorthodox attire. Even then, he seemed like someone who knew exactly what he was doing - or at least, where he wanted music to take him.
As first impressions go, I was intrigued - a bit unsure, a bit awed. There's a fine line between cocky and confident. But for someone just starting to fumble with chords on a guitar, I couldn't help but be drawn to this somewhat loud, long-haired guy with dreams in his eyes.
That night, I first heard "Pritir Xubaaxe". It was slow, soft - perhaps too gentle for the occasion. But Zubeen's voice soared, and there was something unmistakably sincere in the way he sang. The audience noticed. The musicians did too.
Not many know, but later that same year, Zubeen started playing keyboards with artistes of the time like Luna Sonowal, and later with none other than Jitul Sonowal. Back then, we were hungry for sound - any sound that felt layered, complex, and new! Zubeen played with complex chords in his compositions - an augmented fifth here, an added ninth there, although he sometimes said he didn't know the names of the chords and just played what he felt like. Those small touches were jazz-like whispers in Assamese melodies.
Then came 1992. Anamika, Zubeen's first album released like a whisper and hit like a storm. The title track, they said, was about a girl called Anamika - though we all had our own theories. "Pritir Xubaaxe" and "Monor Nijanot" from the same album were songs of unrequited love and heartbreak, whichever way you wanted to interpret them.
Overnight, Zubeen wasn't just a name - he was our voice. Across Assam, every cassette player hummed his songs.
But the '90s in Assam weren't all music and melodies. The decade after the Assam Agitation brought with it political unrest, President's Rule and Operation Bajrang. Young boys disappeared - some into the underground, others into shadows that never lifted. Many picked up the gun. Some of us picked up guitars.
By 1993, I had left for Delhi. My brother stayed on, diving deeper into Jorhat's music circles before eventually moving to Gauhati University, and later to Australia. Zubeen? He was on a different path entirely - one paved with stardust. Through the decade, he released album after album: Maya, Aaxa, Mukti, Xikoli, even his first Hindi album, Chandni Raat, and many more. He was relentless. And unstoppable.
Years passed.
It was the early 2000s when I saw Zubeen again - this time not on stage, but at our apartment in Mayur Vihar, Delhi. He was staying with us for a few days, thanks to our common friend, Papon. No stardom. No cameras. Those days were carefree, three of us old friends with Zubeen, who shrugged off his stardom and became one of us - just a bunch of twenty-something boys having a good time, sharing jokes, life experiences and what not.
"I took it as a personal challenge," he once said over dinner, "to sing Bihu, Borgeet, Lokageet. These are what shape us, what give us our Assamese identity. "
Our apartment back then saw many visitors. Many of them were musicians - Hridoy, his cousin Joi (Barua), David Baker, Sonny Rao and Anupam Kotoky - names, faces, chords, laughter. We cooked together, jammed into the night. No social media. No phones to document it all. But the memories? Still fresh as ever.
I met Zubeen once again in 2006, in a TV studio in Mumbai, where I worked. He was there with Bollywood composer Pritam after the success of "Ya Ali."
"Arre, what are you doing here?" he said, eyes wide. "Why didn't you call? Come home for dinner. I insist!"
I wasn't really given a choice - it was the kind of invitation you simply couldn't refuse. And the truth is, we weren't even that close. Zubeen was my brother's friend, a friend of friends - some from Jorhat, like Gautam Chakraborty (Vedo) and Baba Rashid, others from Guwahati, like Papon. But that was the kind of person Zubeen was. Always accessible. Always warm. Always wide open - his arms, his heart, his home, his memory. And he remembered people. Whether you were an old friend or an admiring fan, he made you feel seen.
His music, much like the man himself, refused boundaries. It leapt across genres, defied the limits of language, and flowed far beyond geography. Yet even as he scaled new heights, he never lost sight of the ground beneath his feet. His lyrics carried more than just rhythm and rhyme - they carried meaning. Often cloaked in melody were messages - quiet indictments of power, bold reflections of society, and a call to remember where we came from.
While romantic ballads earned him adoration - and "Anamika" made him a household name - Zubeen's legacy reaches far deeper. Beneath the surface of pop fame lived a fierce chronicler of his times. "Xunere Xojuwa Poja", released in 1997, is one such song - a haunting tribute to Assam scarred by violence and uncertainty. Written by Zubeen himself, it captured the grief of an entire generation - one that had grown up in the shadow of unrest.
Excerpts:
Burhi aair juhalote sokulu hukai
(In Grandma's hearth, the tears run dry)
Deutaru eke dokha podulile sai
(While Father casts a longing eye at the driveway)
Bohudin hol horu bupar mukh dekha nai
(It's been so long since we saw the young son's face)
Senehir akakhot aji jun tora nai
(Tonight, there's no moon, no stars in love's dim sky)
Haalor goru guhalite potharu hukai
(The bullocks rest, the fields lie dry)
Raati holei gulir hobdo rojon-jonai
(When night descends, it's broken by the sound of gunfire)
Xunere xojua poja johi khohi jai
(The golden hut begins to fall)
Kune aji xajibohi paribo dunai
(But who remains, to rebuild it all?)
Zubeen's voice echoed with the sadness of a people, and yet, there was always hope in his music - a deep, defiant hope.
On 8 December 2017, my brother Pranjal passed away unexpectedly in Perth, Australia. We were shattered. But the next evening, in a faraway corner of the world, Zubeen stood on stage - and in front of a live audience, he dedicated his song Mayabini to his old friend.
"Tonight, I dedicate this song to my old friend Pranjal," he said. "We used to call him Gugi."
My phone didn't stop ringing that night - calls, messages, stories from people who had heard him sing Mayabini with an intensity they hadn't seen in years. Some said it was one of his most heartfelt performances. And in that moment, through that song, my brother lived again - just as so many of us have lived through Zubeen's music, again and again.
That was Zubeen.
Brash, rebellious and fiercely outspoken - yes. But also gentle, deeply sensitive, and loyal in ways words fail to capture. He may not walk among us now. His voice may have gone silent, his public tirades and fearless jabs at authority now memories. But his music - ah, the music - that will never fade.
Zubeen Garg isn't just an icon. He's a legend. And more than that, he's a feeling, etched into the hearts of every Assamese soul.
There won't be another like him.
Not in this lifetime.
Preetam Bora is a senior automotive journalist.
Disclaimer: These are the personal opinions of the author