Guwahati: They came in the hush before sunrise—scarves knotted tight, eyes red from sleepless nights and heavier hearts. At 4:25 a.m., Matrix Cinema Hall in Beltola flung open its doors, and Assam stepped into the dark to say goodbye to Zubeen Garg one last time.
Roi Roi Binale—his final film, his last love letter—wasn’t just playing. It was breathing.
Twenty minutes later, 600 kilometres north, Nakshatra Cinema in Lakhimpur lit up at 4:35 a.m. The same hush, the same shiver. From Guwahati’s misty streets to Lakhimpur’s quiet dawn, Assam rose early not for coffee, but for closure.
‘He’s Gone, But He Just Spoke to Me’
Inside, the screen glowed with Zubeen’s face—smiling, singing, directing, composing, being. Every frame felt like a memory pulled from the crowd’s own lives: the first time his voice cracked open a heart at a Bihu function, the night his songs carried a broken teenager through loss.
Applause crashed like waves; tears fell without shame.
“It’s vintage Zubeen,” whispered Rima Das, 28, clutching a poster outside Matrix. “He’s gone, but he just spoke to me.”
A State and a Nation Mourn in Numbers
The numbers tell the fever: 664 shows nationwide today, 433 in Assam alone. Guwahati’s 15 halls run 177 screenings daily; Tezpur’s five halls pack 53.
Even outside Assam, the pull remains fierce—80 shows across 16 halls in Bengaluru, 24 in Delhi-NCR, 18 each in Mumbai and Hyderabad. From Itanagar to Kochi, Kolkata to Chandigarh, and one show in Gangtok—Zubeen’s echo refuses to fade.
In North Lakhimpur, Nakshatra ran eight shows by dusk; Vishva and Gold kicked off at 9:45 a.m. and 9:30 a.m., each sold out before sunrise.
“We opened at 4:35 because fans were already here at 3,” said Nakshatra’s manager, voice hoarse from shouting tickets.
More Than a Movie—A Melody in Mourning
Roi Roi Binale is more than cinema. It’s Zubeen’s madness bottled—poetry in pain, melody in mourning. He directed it, scored it, dreamed it into being before illness stole him away.
Today, Assam didn’t just watch a film. They attended a funeral and a festival in the same breath.
A Golden Sunrise for the Singer Who Never Fades
As the end credits rolled and Zubeen’s voice lingered in the closing track, theatres fell silent. Then, slowly, the lights came up on wet cheeks and clenched fists.
Outside, the sun climbed over Guwahati—indifferent and golden.
Zubeen Garg may have left the stage, but in 143 halls across India, his final reel spins on—loud, alive, and forever Assamese.
