bhaskar saikia

In 2011, when Steve Jobs passed away, I couldn’t sleep the whole night. His life and work had inspired me so deeply that his death felt like a personal loss, even though I had never met him.

Now, with the news of Zubeen Garg’s passing, I find myself feeling the same way. Restless, shaken, carrying an ache that refuses to leave.

It feels personal because Zubeen da was never just an artist to me. He was someone who helped me overcome so many obstacles in life—without even knowing it. His music, his lyrics, and above all, his soothing voice became a companion to me in moments of pain and in moments of joy.

When I was sad, his songs spoke my sorrows.
When I was broken, they stitched me back together.
When I was elated, they became my celebration.

There are very few whose work can touch me in such a way. The closest is Paulo Coelho’s writing, which has been a guiding light for me. But Zubeen da’s music holds a different kind of intimacy—it lives in my heart like a friend who has always been there.

Among all his songs, none is as dear to me as Mayabini Ratir Bukut. And then there are those ever so philosophical lines that still echo in my soul:

প্ৰতি শৰতৰ প্ৰভাতি ফুলে
ক’ব তোমাকেই মোৰ কথা
প্ৰতি মেঘালী নিশা জোনে
ক’ব তোমাকেই মোৰ বেথা…..

(Every autumn’s morning flower will whisper my words to you.
Every moon in a cloud-laden night will carry my pain to you.)

Zubeen da’s voice gave meaning to these words, turning them into something larger than music—they became life lessons, gentle whispers of beauty and pain woven into one.

And now, as I struggle with this loss, I can only hold on to his songs. They will remain, always, even when he no longer walks among us.

For Zubeen da

Your songs held my pain like a friend,
And lifted my joy like wings in the wind.
Through you I learned—
Life unfolds in sorrow and song,
And in both, its beauty, its purpose,
Its endless rhythm lives on.