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Zubeen Garg is a singer and composer from Assam, India, in the Bollywood and Assamese music scene. He plays dhols, dotora, mandolin, keyboard and various percussion instruments. Background Zubeen Garg hails from Jorhat, a small city in upper Assam. His birth name is Jibon Barthakur. He was named after the great composer Zubin Mehta and used their Gautra as his surname.

Life and Controversies of a Versatile Artist Zubeen Garg (must watch the video)

Zubeen was born to Mr. Mohini. M. Borthakur, a famous lyricist and poet (who uses the pseudo name Kapil Thakur), and late Mrs. Ily Borthakur. However, because of transliteration discrepancies he is sometimes credited as Zubin Garg, Jubin Garg, or simply Zubin, Zubeen or Jubin and various combinations of the above mentioned. The Borthakur family had its roots in Janji, Sivasagar. Mr. Borthakur was a magistrate and moved often during his early years along with little Zubeen. Zubeen’s mother was a good dancer, an actress and a singer. However, she never turned these talents into a professional career. Instead, she decided to teach them to little Zubeen at home. Zubeen considers his mother to be his first guru and mentor.

Zubeen’s younger sister Jonkie Borthakur was a well known singer and actress who died in a car accident in 2002. Zubeen’s other sister Palme, is a good Bharatnatyam dancer, presently living in Guwahati. Feeling indebted to his loyal fans from Assam, Zubeen became involved in various charitable organizations dealing with AIDS and brain cancer. He plans on opening an institute in the near future to help those who are mentally challenged as well. Zubeen lives with his wife Garima, a fashion designer, in his flat, which is a part of his music studio called Sound & Silence, located at 165/1, Sher-E-Punjab, Andheri East, Mumbai, India. Zubeen has opened a chain of beauty parlours across northeast India called Zubeen’s Veda. Entering The Music Scene Zubeen started learning tabla from Guru Robin Banarjee, and then continued learning Assamese folk music form Guru Romoni Rai. He attended J.B. College in Jorhat, and then moved to B. Barooah College, where he was pursuing Bachelor of Science after his family moved permanently to Guwahati. But he did not complete his baccalaureate studies as he jumped into the music scene. Zubeen’s life had a turning point when he received the gold medal for his western solo performance in the youth festival held in 1992. This is where he got his first taste of success and confidence as a vocalist.

Apart form playing dhols, dotara, mandolin and percussions, Zubeen is an accomplished keyboard player. He broke into the professional music scene in 1992, releasing his first album – Anamika. This unusual album became an instant hit in the entire northeast India and re-defined Assamese musical landscape for the coming 21st century. After that, there was no looking back for Zubeen. With about 40 albums to his name, Zubeen continues his musical career directing music in over 24 Assamese movies including a few Hindi and Bangla movies as well. He received the best Music Award in 2005 for the Bangla movie Shudhu Tumi.

Zubeen considers himself to be a musician having sung more than 9000 songs in various languages including Hindi, Tamil, Telugu, Kannada, Punjabi, Oriya, Bengali, Marathi, Nepali, and many others. The song Ya Ali from the movie Gangster became a superhit in mainland India, the Middle East and across South Asia. Following the success, an album titled ‘Ya Ali Remix Blast’ containing remix by DJ Suketu & Aks was released. In 2000, Zubeen wrote, directed and acted in his own Assamese film Tumi Mor Matho Mor. He acted, co-produced and scored music in another Assamese film Dinabandhu, for which he received a national award in 2005. Zubeen had composed music for Strings – Bound By Faith, a Hindi film, directed by Sanjay Jha which was released in 2006. Mukha and Uronia Mon are the latest solo Assamese albums of Zubeen released in the year of 2007 under the N.K. production banner. Currently, he is working on his new Hindi album Chakra. Zubeen came up with his own Hindi album ‘Zindagi’ in 2007, which received appreciation. He also worked in the video album of his Assamese audio album “Rumal” which was released in 2008. The video album was released in the Bengali version in Kolkata.

He sang across languages, raged from stages, gave away his money, mocked ministers, and broke caste rules. Zubeen Garg didn’t just live in Assam—he moved through it like the storms he danced with many a lifetime.

Zubeen Garg is gone. He drowned in the sea in Singapore on 19 September 2025, at the age of 52. Though unconfirmed, public reports suggest a seizure. He had traveled to sing at the North East India Festival. He rose to fame in the 1990s, as Assam passed through a period of insurgency and curfew. On those lockdown nights, in small rooms, a cassette clicked into place, the same sound that later followed the lovelorn, the rebel, and the youth into shut rooms as they learned the routes to new malls and call centres. Radio filled the gaps. Later came phones, laptops, FM, and the endless churn of playlists. In 2006, he sang “Ya Ali” for a Hindi film, and the song raced ahead of him across India. Yet, he kept making Assamese albums and scoring films at home. His voice travelled across languages; his behaviour remained stubbornly his own.

He refused to look polished. On some nights, he wore a black beret; on others, he arrived in loose, vest-style pyjamas. He could reach the stage drunk, drink backstage, and grin at the audience. He could seize the mic and declare, “Do not be like them, become a socialist. I am a socialist.” On national television, he would later amend this to “Social Leftist.” These were lines, not a program. People cheered anyway. They were hearing defiance, not doctrine.

His public life swung between tenderness and trouble. He once hoisted the flag in shorts, sang a song that was not the national anthem, and FIRs were lodged. He walked off a Bihu stage in Guwahati when organisers told him to drop the Hindi songs, then told another crowd that a gamocha alone does not make one Assamese. He used harsh words about Brahmins and apologised. He said Krishna was a man, not a god, and satra institutions in Majuli announced a ban. He kept performing.

Long before Instagram, he was a street influencer. He did not curate. He spilled. A walk through Panbazar, a hug for a fan, a quarrel with an organiser, a sudden line on stage — each turned into news by nightfall. He kept fame close to the ground, moving between bar room, mela tent, studio, and street with the same ease. People trusted the presence, even when the words did not line up.

He was Assam’s own turn-of-the-century Jim Morrison, unruly, adored, and perpetually half in defiance.

He entered protest, then stepped away from it. He stood at Latasil and spoke against the Citizenship Amendment Act, and the crowd answered like thunder. He later said Assam would not accept the Act and asked for calm. He liked the street more than the halls. But he liked the stage most of all.

His health had its turns. Public reports describe a history of seizures and collapses. Any other celebrity might have avoided risks like swimming in the sea. Zubeen lived by his own rules, or ante rules.

There is a last mobile clip people are sharing now. In a small Singapore bar the night before he died, he stepped up behind the in-house singer, rested a hand on her chair, took the mic, and sang “Tears in Heaven.” No drama. Just a plain song about loss and love and the hope of meeting again. He held the room without effort. If you watch that clip today, it plays like a soft goodbye, whether he meant it or not.

Assam has changed over the years. Insurgency cooled. Roads and bridges rose. Markets spread. Media multiplied. In 2019, the CAA brought crowds back to the streets. The questions of identity, migration, land, and language found no easy peace. Zubeen’s shifts tracked this time. He could sing a devotional and then pick a fight on stage. He could speak at a rally, then step back. He gave pride to his listeners and refused every label they placed on him.

He wasn’t a saint or a steady dissenter. He acted on impulse and made people feel seen. He catapulted Assamese music into places it had not stood before. He irritated those who wanted him to behave. He comforted those who needed a song.

He once said, “I will only have a funeral pyre to myself. All my wealth and property belong to the people of my land.” While alive, he often claimed he gave away half his income. What is certain is this: no one in need ever left his residence in Guwahati, empty-handed.

He could publicly call powerful ministers corrupt and stupid. He could take cudgels with the very idea of India. Earlier this year, after Assamese was granted classical language status, Zubeen snapped from a stage full of journalists and guests: “Who the hell is the Indian government to grant recognition to us? Sankrit – Pali – Prakrits. There are no other classical languages … What has India given us? Assam gave oil, the rhino — and Zubeen. Who the hell are you? We are more modern than you.”

People heard his narcissism as fury, born of love and pride. He didn’t always make sense. He always made it matter.

He was born Brahmin, but as a Class 12 student, he threw away his sacred thread. It wasn’t a performance; just a decision, early and final. He never looked back.

Mourn him whole. Remember the love songs. Remember the exits and the returns. Remember the loud lines and the later apologies. Remember the sudden help in a crisis. His life held the contradictions of Assam. His silence now tells us how much sound one life can hold.

In 2019, while singing his iconic song “Mayabini ratir bokut” Zubeen smiled on stage and said: “The day I die, all of Assam will have to sing — I’ve danced with the storms for many a lifetime.” The line wasn’t part of a speech. It came mid-song, tossed to the crowd like a challenge or a promise.

“Dhumuhar xote mor, bahu jugore nason…” (I’ve danced with the storms for many a lifetime.)

This morning, Asomiya Pratidin carried those words on its front page. Not a tribute — his own voice, returning. And that’s exactly what happened.

When the news broke, students at Gauhati University gathered outside and began to sing his songs. Most sang. Some stood in silence. Some wept. In the middle of the circle, a few girls sobbed aloud. No slogans, no speeches, just the defiant voice they had all grown up with, now suddenly gone.

Last night, hundreds kept vigil across Assam. In towns and villages, people lit candles, played his songs, and stood together in silence. He had written his eulogy in melody. All they had to do was sing.

Now, as Assam prepares to receive him at Sarusajai Stadium, it feels as if time has paused, waiting for its defiant icon to return home one last time.