On a quiet September afternoon in Guwahati, the former Chief Justice of India, Ranjan Gogoi, leaned back in his chair and spoke with the kind of voice that carried more memory than grief. His words flowed not with the formality of a courtroom pronouncement but with the gentleness of personal confession. He was speaking to India Today Magazine’s Kaushik Deka, only two days after Assam’s most beloved cultural icon, Zubeen Garg, breathed his last in a Sin- gapore hospital.

What began as an in- terview about public loss slowly turned into some- thing much more intimate: an exploration of the ways in which a voice-just a human voice carrying music-can weave itself so deeply into one’s daily life that it becomes indistinguishable from memory, ritual, and even identity. “I listen to any three of Zubeen’s songs every day,” Justice Gogoi said softly. He paused for a moment, letting the words rest between them.

“It has been my routine for years. Music, for me, means Zubeen. Nothing else quite compares.” It was not grief speaking, at least not entirely. It was the warmth of remembrance, the quiet gratitude one feels toward something that has kept them company through years of solitude, travel, and responsibility. To Gogoi, Zubeen was not just a singer. He was a companion.

Music as Memory For a man who has spent most of his life in the nation’s corridors of law and power-whether in Guwahati, Delhi, or far beyond-Justice Gogoi’s attachment to Zubeen’s music was a reminder that even the most powerful figures carry within them private rituals that root them to their homeland. When he was far from Assam, Zubeen’s voice became the bridge across distances.

Whether it played in his car during long commutes in Delhi or streamed through speakers in his study, the songs acted like invisible threads tying him back to the red earth of Assam, the monsoon-soaked air of Dibrugarh, the tea shop chatter, and the unhurried flow of the Brahmaputra. “Zubeen’s voice didn’t need credentials or certificates,” Gogoi explained with a smile.

“It found you wherever you were-whether you were a tea vendor or a judge in the Supreme Court. His music reminded you of who you really are.” The remark captured something essential about Zubeen Garg’s legacy: his music cut across class and geography. It was never bound by the trappings of education, profession, or privilege.

It was equally at home in a crowded Guwahati café, in the villages of Upper Assam, or in the marble chambers of the nation’s capital. “No singer could ever, or will ever, sing like Zubeen,” Gogoi reflected, his eyes momentarily brightening. “His voice was out of this world.” The Ritual of Listening Justice Gogoi’s mornings, for years, began with Zubeen.

He described those moments with a kind of quiet reverence. After waking, he would pick three songs-sometimes the evergreen “Ya Ali” that carried Zubeen beyond Assam into Bollywood, sometimes the soulful Assamese ballads that spoke of rivers and longing, sometimes devotional tracks steeped in bhakti With his eyes closed, the songs transported him back home.

They were more than melodies-they were landscapes. Each note carried the fragrance of tea gardens, the sound of temple bells, the sight of bamboo groves, the taste of rice beer, the memory of a festival night in Assam. “He was God’s divine creation,” Gogoi said final- ly. It was not a statement of grief but one of awe, the same tone one might use to describe a sunset that nev- er fails to stir the heart.

A Coincidence of Birth- days As the conversation deepened, a remarkable coincidence emerged. Gogoi, Zubeen, and the journalist Kaushik Deka all shared the same birthday: November 18. Separated by years but bound by a date, the three men represented different callings shaped by the same soil. Gogoi brought constitutional wisdom to the nation. Kaushik chronicled the region’s stories. And Zubeen gave Assam its eternal soundtrack.

“All November 18 babies,” Gogoi said with a faint smile. “Perhaps more than coincidence-it feels like connection.” Yet the bond also carried a bittersweet note. Despite decades of listening, despite the silent companionship built through song, Gogoi had never actually met Zubeen. Not once. “I have never met him in person,” he admitted, his tone turning quiet.

“And that is my biggest regret.” For a moment, silence filled the space. The irony was hard to ignore. Zubeen’s music had felt like family, like a friend one could always return to, and yet the opportunity to sit together, to share stories of Assam, to speak as two sons of the same land, had never come.

A Farewell Unlike Any Other On that very day, far from their conversation, Assam was witnessing something extraordinary. Zubeen’s body had just landed in Guwahati from Singapore. The scenes at the airport were unlike anything the state had ever experienced Airport staff wept openly. Police officers escorting the coffin struggled to contain their emotions.

Crowds lined the streets, unafraid to let their tears flow. Assam, a land often divided by politics and ethnicity, seemed momentarily united in grief and gratitude. The convoy carrying his remains moved slowly through Guwahati, and thousands followed on foot.

Shopkeepers shut their shutters in respect. Buses stopped mid-route so passengers could step out to catch a glimpse. Old men folded their hands, mothers lifted their children onto their shoulders, and young people sang his songs aloud. The final farewell was set for September 23, but in truth, the mourning had already begun writing itself into Assam’s history.

Many believed this procession would be remembered as one of the largest funeral gatherings the region-or even the country-had ever seen. Zubeen’s Assam Why did Zubeen’s death strike so deeply? Perhaps because his music carried something no politics or policy could: an unfiltered Assam.

His repertoire was vast-Assamese modern songs, Hindi hits, devotional hymns, Bengali tracks, Nepali numbers, even English rock-inspired tunes. Yet no matter the language, he carried Assam within his voice. It was the timber of the land itself-fluid like its rivers, fiery like its protests, tender like its folk songs. For Justice Gogoi, listening to Zubeen was not just listening to music.

It was listening to home. It was memory in melody, belonging in rhythm. More Than an Icon In Assam, icons are not many. There are political leaders, yes, and sports figures. But cultural icons who could unite all sections of society are rare. Bhupen Hazarika had once been such a figure, and many saw in Zubeen his natural successor. He was irreverent, unpredictable, often controversial, but always authentic.

He spoke up on issues others avoided. He sang about love, longing, injustice, and faith with equal conviction. He was, in many ways, a mirror of Assam itself: restless, diverse, proud, wounded, and hopeful. That is why the mourning felt personal. To lose Zubeen was not just to lose a singer. It was to lose a part of Assam’s collective self. Two Men Remember the Third Back in their conversation, Justice Gogoi and Kaushik found themselves reflecting on this collective grief.

Three men bound by a shared birthday, but now reduced to two, remembering the third. They did not grieve in the formal sense. Instead, they celebrated. They celebrated a voice that had brightened mornings, lightened burdens, and strengthened connections to home. They celebrated the audacity of a man who lived as he pleased yet never abandoned his people.

They celebrated the rare gift of coincidence that had tied their lives together, however loosely. A Voice That Refuses to Fade As Assam prepares for the final farewell, one truth is already clear: Zubeen’s voice will not fade. It will continue to echo in the homes of judges, journalists, shopkeepers, farmers, and students. It will be sung at weddings, played on old radios, and streamed on smartphones.

It will remain the daily ritual for many, just as it was for Justice Gogoi. Some connections are too deep for death to sever. Some coincidences are too perfect to be dismissed as chance. Zubeen was not just a singer. He was, as Gogoi said, “God’s divine creation.” And divine creations do not end. They transform into memory, ritual, and song, carried forward by every voice that dares to sing them again.