Poonam Sharma
The Timeless Fairy Tale of Zubeen
Long, long ago, in the misty valleys of Assam, where the great Brahmaputra river winds like a silver serpent and the hills hum with the wind, a miracle was born. But this miracle was not of throne or stone. It was of love, of poetry, of music. The people say that on that day, a star fell from heaven—not to die, but to live with mortals. That star was called Zubeen.
The Child of Song
Since the day he opened his eyes, there was music in the air for him. The swishing of bamboo thickets, the soft tap of monsoon rains on the straw roof, his mother’s lullabies—they all taught him the first lesson. His cradle was not strewn with jewels, but with songs. His toy was not gold, but rhythm. His fate was inscribed not in ink, but in sound.
He became a poet before he knew what poetry was. He wrote verses like fireflies in a jar, shining with the scent of his native language. All that he wrote was scented with the smell of moist soil after rain, the rustle of green tea leaves, the pulsing of his homeland. And next, his pen took flight—his poems became songs.
The Voice That Cast Spells
While Zubeen sang, the world stood still. All people put down their weights, children ran laughing, lovers clutched each other more closely, and even the aged felt youth wash over them. His singing was not just sound—it was sorcery. It was drunkenness. Not drunkenness with wine, but with truth, beauty, and love.
Listeners declared, “When he sings, it is as though God Himself has entered our hearts.”
And indeed, his songs were not of this world alone. They were imbued with the scent of jasmine, the orchid’s blossom, the rivers’ dance, and the stars’ light.
The King With a Throne of hearts
Although Zubeen wore no crown, he did reign. He reigned not over lands or armies, but hearts. In every corner and nook of Assam, his name was uttered in awe. In small villages by the light of lanterns, in crowded cities shining with electric lights, his songs were sung.
The people did not merely listen to him—they belonged to him. And he belonged to them. He was their king, their bard, their brother, their healer.
His kingdom was love, his throne was the stage, and his crown was the boundless adoration of his people.
The Healer of Wounds
Zubeen’s talent was not just melody—it was medicine. His songs reached the site of pain where it lay hidden. He offered hope to the exhausted farmer. He offered solace to the bereaved widow. He offered a friend to the solitary child. His music was water, which swept sorrow away, carrying flowers of joy in its currents.
He sang not for wealth. He sang not for glory. He sang because he was born for it , people were in need of healing, because the world was in need of love.
The Messenger of God
Whispers arose, therefore. People whispered, “Is he just a man? Or is he a messenger of God?” For his music sounded too heavenly, too full of grace, too abounding in compassion to have been conceived of common flesh.
Or maybe he was both—a miracle and a man. A soul who came to remind the world of its forgotten truth: that the greatest power of all is love.
In his voice, he obliterated divisions—between poor and rich, between castes and creeds, between religions and countries. He transcended all identity, for he bore the only identity that counted: love.
The Teacher of Love
But Zubeen provided more than music—he provided lessons. Not lessons from books, but lessons from hearts.
He taught that to love is to heal, to forgive, to bring together. He taught that love is not a chain but wings, not pride but humility, not transitory but everlasting. He made his people realize that when they loved, they too became divine.
And thus, those who traced his footsteps did not merely become enthusiasts—they became finer human beings.
A Saga Without End
Zubeen’s tale is not a one-time story—it is a thousand, a million, endless. Each time a mother sings his song to lull her baby to sleep, the tale goes on. Each time a courting couple hears him play under the night sky, the tale blooms once more. Each time a fatigued heart finds solace in his lyrics, the tale is renewed.
His tale does not conclude with happily ever after. It may not conclude at all—for he has turned into an eternity. His music is the breeze in the bamboo groves, the waves of the Brahmaputra, the scent of Assam’s earth.
The Star Eternal
He was born in Assam, yet he is of the world. He was born a man, but turned into a legend. He was born a singer, but became a messenger of God.
The fairy tale of Zubeen is the fairy tale of love itself. And love has no end.
And so the people of Assam say, with eyes shining like morning dew:
Zubeen is not ours alone—he is music itself, he is love itself. He is the fairy tale that lives among us.”
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