MAYABINI— The Sorceress' Sorcerer

Once, the famous Indian comedian Zakir Khan said in his stand-up, “Humari pehchaan chala gaya,” while remembering the funeral of his Abba (grandfather), Ustad Moinuddin Khan. Since childhood, I have heard this phenomenon from my elders that — when great personalities leave us, we don’t just lose a person, we lose a part of ourselves. On television, in newspapers, and now on our phones, I have seen countless such moments — the funerals of legendary figures, the way people reacted to their passing, how lives were shaped afterwards, and how entire fields realigned themselves in their absence.

And today, one such story has compelled me to write. A story I have been witnessing for the past three days, here in Assam.

Zubeen Garg has passed away.

Lovingly called Zubeen Da — “Da” meaning elder brother in Assamese — his death on September 19 has shaken the entire state. Since the day I joined the Indian Institute of Information Technology Guwahati, my friends have never stopped talking about him. A hustler, witty, glamorous, outspoken, loud, yet deeply loved — he was more than just a singer. Of course, not everyone adored him equally, but no one was untouched by his music. Everyone had grown up with it, lived moments of joy, heartbreak, laughter, and pride through his songs.

Being a non-Assamese, I cannot fully claim that journey. But wait — I too have my own small story. As the coordinator of Bohag Bihu in this campus, I have felt the pulse of Zubeen Da’s music countless times. Whenever we invited artists to perform, no matter who they were, there was always a section of the audience that would break into chants, requesting Zubeen’s songs. And graciously, those artists always obliged — a clear sign of the respect and reverence Zubeen Da commanded, both among the people and within the industry.

But now, Zubeen Da is no more.

And what I am witnessing here in Assam is not just the mourning of a singer. People are crying unbearably, shouting painfully, sitting in silent shock — not only because they loved him as a person, but because a huge part of their own lives has vanished with him. Their memories, their emotions, their aspirations of one day meeting him — all suddenly cut short. Sadly, even after creating a record gathering on his demise (the fourth largest funeral gathering ever in the world after Michael Jackson, Pope Francis, Queen Elizabeth)—Limca Book of Records, the media and people of India are unaware of this irrevocable incident. 

The grief in people’s hearts has spilled into the streets, reflecting the essence of his song “Mayabini” (the sorceress). It feels almost magical, how everyone has their own story to share. Painful stories, yes, but expressed in artistic ways — through social media posts, reels, murals, graffiti, and even impromptu performances. Over and over, people chant:
“Zubeen Da! Zubeen Da! Zubeen Da!”
as if calling his name could bring him back, as if one final spell of Mayabini could resurrect their beloved Dada and enchant them once more, just as he always did — on stage and off it.

For the past two days, I have been collecting such stories from friends, seniors, juniors, and acquaintances. And what I see is that grief, though devastating, has also sparked creativity. It reminds me of a famous dialogue from the Hindi film Rockstar (2011):
“Bada kalakar ban’ne ke liye dil tootna zaroori hai.”
(To become a great artist, heartbreak is necessary.)

Here in Assam today, I feel like I am watching a reversal of that line:
“The death of a great artist has given birth to thousands of new artists.”

Because everywhere I look — in songs, statuses, murals, speeches — I see broken hearts reshaping themselves into art, into expression, into remembrance.

And today, the whole of Assam says, “Humari pehchaan chali gayi!”
Yet, in the same breath, I am reminded of a line from the song Zinda in the film Lootera (2013):
“Kabr par meri sar utha ke khadi ho zindagi, aisa marna hai mujhe.”

And so, for sure, it is…

MAYABINI