It will soon be a year since Zubeen Garg passed away. A year is a long time by most measures; long enough for the shock to settle, for the tears to dry and for life to return to its usual rhythm.
Many people have accepted what happened. Some have moved on.
I, perhaps, belong to the other category. What I find astonishing about death is not merely that someone dies.
It is how a person can suddenly cease to exist. Throughout our lives, we meet people and part ways.
Friends move to different cities. Cousins become strangers.
Colleagues leave their jobs. Acquaintances disappear from our lives.
We accept these departures because, somewhere in our minds, we know that these people continue to exist. They are somewhere, living their lives.
Death, however, is different. People often say that death puts life into perspective.
That it teaches us to appreciate the people around us. Perhaps it does.
But I don't think that is true for everyone. Sometimes, death simply leaves behind a question that has no satisfactory answer.
For me, September 19, 2025, began like any other morning. 17 am, while travelling to the office, Joya was playing in the cab.
I had heard that song countless times. I hummed along almost automatically, without giving it much thought.
Within a few hours, the song was no longer the same. I was no longer the same.
Assam was no longer the same. The news of Zubeen Garg's death did something unusual to the state.
It did not remain a piece of news. It became a collective wound.
File image of streets flooded with people bidding their last tribute to Zubeen Garg during his final rites (Photo: @_AdilHussain/X) Shops shut. Roads emptied.
People gathered with candles, earthen lamps and flowers. Mayabini could be heard from homes, streets and public gatherings.
Guwahati's lanes smelled of tuberose and marigold as people continued to arrive to pay their last respects. For days, Assam seemed to speak in Zubeen's voice.
