Zubeen's Abyss whispers melody

Those who dare to think deeply are rarely accompanied; they walk with shadows, not crowds. Nietzsche knew this and his words—“If you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss also gazes into you”—were less a caution than a confession. Century later, in a different corner of the world, that same abyss seemed to gaze into the life and art of Zubeen Garg. A singer adored by millions, yet forever unsettled, he spoke of nothingness and even quoted Nietzsche. It felt dissonant—how could an artist rooted in Assam’s cultural soil echo a German philosopher of despair? Perhaps it was not dissonance. Perhaps it was inevitability. To draw similarity between Nietzsche and Zubeen is not to impose Western philosophy upon Assamese music. It is, rather, to recognize that the human search for meaning transcends geography. The questions Nietzsche wrestled with—identity, despair, creation after collapse—were the same fires that forged Zubeen’s art. In his melodies, musings and silences, one hears the same urgency that once drove Nietzsche toward both brilliance and breakdown.

Nietzsche’s Abyss: Nietzsche lived in a time when faith was collapsing under the weight of modern reason. For him, the death of God was not a triumphant liberation but a deep rupture — a collapse of the common moral fabric that once held society together. His idea of the abyss symbolized that moral vacuum, that terrifying recognition that there is no preordained purpose to life. Yet, Nietzsche refused to surrender to despair. He believed that in confronting this void, individuals could become creators of their own values. He called this revaluation of values the path to the Übermensch — the higher human being who, instead of succumbing to despair, affirms life in its fullness. In his view, nihilism was not to be escaped through denial but overcome through invention. Art, to Nietzsche, was humanity’s bold response to the threat of nothingness. “We have art,” he said, “so that we do not perish from the truth.”

Zubeen’s Creative Unrest: For over three decades, Zubeen remained an unpredictable force — singer, composer, actor, philanthropist and socialist. His work resisted categorization. Beneath the fame, though, there was a man perpetually wrestling with himself. Zubeen’s life mirrored Nietzsche’s paradoxes. He was passionate yet wounded, rebellious yet compassionate. He sought freedom, yet carried the burden of being the “voice of a generation.” People saw the performer; few recognized the philosopher beneath — a man beyond music, thinking beyond applause. When he sang “Ami jen Jontro,” it was not only a critique of the monotonous life but a cry against the mechanization of the soul. In “Mon Jai,” his voice carried the ache of a restless soul—the hunger of someone who cannot fit into pre-decided moulds. “Mayabini,” a song wrapped in illusion, memory and longing. It is a lyrical confrontation with the fragile veil between reality and dream—a poetic negotiation with emptiness, the kind Nietzsche believed artists were destined to undertake. His art was instinctive, unfiltered—a refusal to be packaged, corrected or domesticated. Containing him was never possible, because his creative fire was fed by the very chaos he refused to escape. He wanted life to be authentic, spontaneous, alive — even if it meant chaos.

Assam- Rootedness and Solitude: Assam, with its long tradition of communal harmony, shared music and cultural continuity, offers a sense of rootedness that is rare. Yet, it also demands conformity. In such a setting, Zubeen’s philosophical turn was both radical and revelatory. He was, in many ways, Assam’s first modern existentialist — not in theory, but in temperament. Through his art, he forced society to confront uncomfortable truths: that identity can suffocate creativity; that reverence can become expectation; that success can isolate. When he spoke of  “nothingness,” he was not being morbid — he was questioning whether the collective had left any space for the individual to breathe, to err, to evolve. For decades, Zubeen carried Assam’s dreams on his shoulders. He sang its joy and its pain, its festivals and its wounds. But he also bore its silences — the things unspoken, the pressures unseen. Nietzsche might have recognized in him what he once called the “tragic artist”: one who transforms suffering into song, despair into creation.

Art beyond Void: Nietzsche believed that true artists do not escape the void; they give it form. They wrestle with chaos until it sings. Zubeen did precisely that. His music was not just melody; it was a philosophical gesture — a refusal to give in to nothingness. Even when his songs carried sorrow, they were acts of rebellion against silence. It is tempting to read Nietzsche’s will to power in Zubeen’s drive — his insatiable need to create, to perform, to live on the edge. But his power was never about domination. It was the inner force that kept him moving, searching, questioning, even when the world misunderstood him. Both Nietzsche and Zubeen understood that creation is born from crisis. To make art is to make peace, however briefly, with meaninglessness. And that act — that transformation of chaos into beauty — is what makes humanity divine.

Cost of the Abyss: But such vision comes with a cost. Nietzsche’s brilliance collapsed into madness; Zubeen’s genius burned itself out too soon. Both were consumed by their intensity — men who lived without half measures. The abyss they stared into eventually gazed back, leaving marks too deep to heal. Yet their stories are parables of courage. They reveal what it costs to think, feel and create beyond comfort. They remind us that art, at its truest, is born not from peace but from peril. “One must still have chaos in oneself to give birth to a dancing star,” wrote Nietzsche. Zubeen was such a star—radiant, erratic and unforgettable.

After the Applause: Zubeen Garg’s journey forces an uncomfortable question upon us. What does a society do with a soul it cannot categorise? We celebrate art, yes—but do we give them space to fracture and heal, or do we hold them hostage to our need for perfection? Nietzsche’s abyss was metaphysical; Zubeen’s was human. One wrote of nothingness; the other sang through it. And both arrived at the same revelation: meaning is not something bestowed—it is carved out of uncertainty, defiance and yearning. Perhaps, that is Zubeen’s enduring gift to Assam—not only the music he left behind, but the subversion he embodied. He granted his listeners an unspoken permission—to doubt, to dissent, to break form, to begin again. His art did not hide the void; it negotiated with it. He did not fear the abyss. He listened to it — and taught us how to make it sing. In doing so, he left us with more than melodies. He left us a mirror. And in that mirror, maybe our own silences could finally speak.