Zubeen Garg’s final rebellion: Assam’s voice stands tall in Roi Roi Binale
Guwahati: Few artists embody the spirit of their people like Zubeen Garg did for Assam. Stern yet empathetic, outspoken yet rooted in his homeland, Zubeen’s final film, Roi Roi Binale, released posthumously, is more than a cinematic farewell, it is his lasting dialogue with Assam, a reflection of a lifetime resisting the quiet tyranny of power.
At first glance, Roi Roi Binale seems like a musical drama. But peel back its layers, and it becomes clear that the film is Zubeen’s parting dialogue with Assam- a meditation on freedom, dignity, and the meaning of standing one’s ground in a time of submission. The story of a singer who refuses to sing for the powerful mirrors Zubeen’s own lifelong choice, to stand with the people not the rulers.
An Artist who refused to bow
Over three-decades, Zubeen was never merely a performer. He was an interpreter of Assam’s anxieties, through protest songs, public statements, or his spontaneous appearances at demonstrations. During the Citizenship (Amendment) Act (CAA) protests, when many artists stayed silent, he took the stage to warn, “Don’t mess with Assam.” He opposed the Bill when it was introduced and again when it became law. His defiance was unwavering because it stemmed not from partisanship, but from conviction.
In Assam’s polarized political climate, such defiance came at a cost. Chief Minister Himanta Biswa Sarma dismissed him as “naive,” mocking his famous line from Kanchenjunga, “I have no religion, no caste, no God. I am Kanchenjunga.” The discomfort provoked revealed the truth, Zubeen’s advocacy for a borderless, casteless identity struck at the ideological foundations of those in power.
Roi Roi Binale carries that same undertone of resistance. The protagonist, Raul, is a singer who refuses to perform for those who seek cultural validation through art. When another musician calls an MLA “Sir,” Raul interrupts: “Don’t call anyone Sir from whom you have nothing to learn.” It’s a small scene, yet it holds the weight of an entire philosophy—respect must come from merit, not from power.
The film as a mirror to power
Assam's political climate often cloaks power as cultural guardianship, Roi Roi Binale becomes an act of reclamation. Zubeen’s character, much like the man himself, insists that art cannot exist under instruction. His defiance is quiet but deliberate.
The timing of the film’s release magnified its resonance. After years of decline, single-screen theatres in Assam reopened and filled. Audiences travelled from small towns to watch what they knew would be Zubeen’s last on-screen appearance. It was less a film release and more a public farewell-a moment where art, grief, and politics converged. The scenes of long queues and tearful audiences weren’t about nostalgia; they were about recognition. People understood that Zubeen’s voice-raw, unfiltered, and unyielding, their own.
Even Chief Minister Sarma’s remark that “the king will be behind” when asked about watching the film captured the very elitism Zubeen spent his career rejecting. The comment, intended lightly, reflected how political power in Assam has often viewed itself as royalty rather than public service. In this context, Roi Roi Binale becomes not merely a film, but a symbolic reversal of hierarchy artist’s gentle reminder that the people come first.
Art as resistance
Zubeen’s activism off-screen carried the same political charge as his art. His protest at Guwahati’s Dighalipukhuri against the felling of trees, where he declared, “They can cut me down too,” captured the essence of his philosophy: emotional yet deeply ethical. His politics was one of cultural self-determination, where defending nature, language, and traditions was inseparable from resisting injustice.
That same conviction runs through Roi Roi Binale. Its flaws-the uneven editing, the lingering pace-add to its honesty. The film doesn’t demand attention; it earns it.
A farewell and a challenge
Roi Roi Binale is Zubeen Garg’s final letter to his audience-a reaffirmation of what he always believed: that an artist must serve society before the state. He didn’t shout. He said what he had to say-softly, but you felt it. That, perhaps, is Zubeen’s legacy. He never sought rebellion for its own sake. His defiance came from empathy, not ego; his resistance was cultural before it was political. In an age of orchestrated nationalism and curated patriotism, he reminded Assam that love for one’s land can also mean standing up to those who misuse its name.
Rajya Sabha MP and former journalist Ajit Kumar Bhuyan summed it up: “That was his philosophy — to stand with the people. Unfortunately, we realized the depth of his convictions only recently. He always spoke against anti-people policies and used art as his weapon of truth. An artist’s true place, he showed us, is with the people — never with those in power.”