When grief went digital: How social media united a mourning Assam for Zubeen Garg

The day the first reports of Zubeen Garg’s passing surfaced online, disbelief spread faster than confirmation.

Within minutes, social media timelines flooded with his voice; the unmistakable strains of Mayabini echoing across reels, stories, and statuses.

What followed wasn’t just mourning. It was Assam and its people finding a new language of loss and love in the digital space.

“I was in office when I first heard the news. I couldn’t believe it. He used to fall sick, but I always thought he’d come back stronger as he always did,” recalled Bhargav Jyoti Das, a long-time fan from Guwahati.

The first thing Bhargav did was post a WhatsApp status — not words, but a photograph. It was taken just days before Garg’s departure to Singapore, at an event where the singer inaugurated a fan-curated album museum holding over 38,000 of his songs.

“I wrote, ‘Just met him a few days ago, how can he leave this early?’ When you can’t speak out your grief, you post it. It’s like letting go of a burden; like dropping heavy bags from your shoulders.” he said softly.

Like Bhargav, social media became a quiet confession room for millions, transcending boundaries and united in grief, post Garg’s untimely and mysterious demise in foreign shores.

Every platform carried Garg’s presence. Instagram reels looped with live concert clips; Facebook pages replayed his interviews and stage-banters, X was flooded with hashtags — #ZubeenGargLives, and #JusticeForZubeenGarg.

“At the beginning, it was hard to believe there would be a time when we would remember him through posts. But social media never made his absence felt. His videos, his voice — everything made it feel like he’s still here among us,” Bhargav said.

The scene was similar across Assam and beyond. In Tezpur, Kritartha Kaushik Kashyap, an executive member of Tezpur Zubeenians and part of the All Assam Zubeen Garg Fan Club, was in his university class when he saw the news flash on Facebook

“At first, I didn’t panic since he’d recovered from illness before. But minutes later, another post confirmed his death. I went completely numb,” he said.

For nearly two weeks, he couldn’t bring himself to post anything. “The first thing I shared was a collage of me and him together,” he said. “Then I posted a WhatsApp status with just one symbol — “0”. That was my life without him.”

For Kritartha, social media became more than expression, it became an archive. “If I tell someone what I wrote, they may forget. But social media won’t. It keeps our emotions preserved.”

Across Assam and its diaspora, mourning followed a shared rhythm. Some fans sang cover versions of Garg’s songs, others painted portraits, while some turned his words into art posts.

“Everyone is doing something — some are singing, some are sharing interviews, some are posting behind-the-scenes clips,” Kritartha said. “Each person is keeping him alive in their own way — and social media makes it possible.”

This collective participation, he noted, blurred boundaries of age, geography, and familiarity. “Strangers are commenting on each other’s memories. People are discovering stories about him we never knew — his kindness, his poetry, his love for nature.”

Bhargav echoed this sentiment, “Social media brought out a side of Zubeen da we didn’t always see — his kind, generous, socially aware self. People are learning new things about him even after he’s gone.”

Perhaps the most powerful display of this unity unfolded during Garg’s final journey home. The live broadcasts of his funeral rites — streamed across Facebook, YouTube, and X allowed thousands who couldn’t reach Guwahati to still be part of his farewell.

For many, those live videos became both painful and comforting. “I watched the entire procession online,” said Kritartha. “I couldn’t be there physically, but through my phone, I felt I was walking with everyone — part of that sea of people.”

The digital mourning, amplified through those live visuals, turned personal grief into a collective experience.

Grief also evolved into purpose. The #JusticeForZubeenGarg campaign became a rallying cry — uniting fans across continents, reaching even Singaporean authorities.

“Ordinary people can’t do much legally,” Bhargav said. “But through hashtags and mentions, we felt part of the process.”

Kritartha agreed, though with a note of caution. “The campaign has massive reach,” he said. “But people must remember the real goal — justice, not just numbers. It shouldn’t be about taking the hashtag from 2.5 to 2.6 million. Even ten million posts mean nothing if the truth is lost.”

Still, he believes the movement proved one thing - social media is a powerful tool of unity. “It connects strangers. It gives people a voice. Even organizing a shraddhanjali takes just one message on WhatsApp now,” he said.

In the weeks that followed, social platforms became living museums of Garg’s work. His poetry, once overlooked, is now being shared through recitations and posts. His interviews once dismissed as rebellious, are being revisited with empathy.

“Earlier, people called him controversial. Now, through his old videos, we understand the man behind the words. We see his reasons, his courage, his truth,” said Kritartha.

The digital archive continues to grow, not curated by institutions but by ordinary people who loved him. A global collective of fans now safeguards his songs, his thoughts, and his essence — one post at a time.

As the night scrolls stretch longer, his voice still drifts through every feed. Somewhere, a new reel plays his evergreen songs. Somewhere else, a WhatsApp DP still holds his smiling face.

For many, it’s more than nostalgia. It’s connection.

“If I could tell him something. I’d ask him to come back to us — to the people and the land he loved,” Bhargav said.

In a way, he already has. Through every post, lyric and memory shared, Zubeen Garg lives on — his music now the heartbeat of a digital nation that refuses to let him fade.