A Feeling that's called Zubeen
হয়টো ব্ৰহ্মপুত্ৰ হোৱা হ’লে উভতাই পঠিয়াই দিলেহেঁতেন....কিন্ত বিদেশৰ সাগৰখনে ৰাখি থ'লে.... There are some voices that don’t just pass through the ears, they settle inside the heart and quietly shape the rhythm of a generation. For many of us, the Gen X, who grew up in Assam, Zubeen was never only a singer; he was a season, a mood, almost a childhood friend who stayed close through the radio static, the cassette rewinds, and the loudspeakers that blared when the night supers stopped at Jakhalabandha for tepid dinners. I remember Mahalaya mornings and Durga Puja evenings when the pandals in every nook and corner of my town would come alive not just with the fragrance of dhoop-dhuna, but also with Zubeen Garg’s voice spilling from loudspeakers. The boys decorating the pandal with bamboo and thermocol would pause their work just to hum along, and the girls in their mekhela sador would giggle when the song would hit its high note. For us children, his songs stitched festivals...
