Roi Roi Binale, Zubeen Garg's final film as an actor, opened today (October 31, 2025) at theatres to a rousing reception from the audience.  But, this is more than just another Assam film to have hit the theatres.

Several theatres across the state have flickered awake before dawn, some as early as 5 a.m., their shows already sold out on BookMyShow. Such fervor is unheard of in Assamese cinema.

The anticipation that Roi Roi Binale generated is not merely cinematic, it is devotional.

Directed by Rajesh Bhuyan,the film marks the final screen appearance of Zubeen Garg, who died on September 19, 2025, leaving a silence that still hangs heavy over the state’s cultural life.

The last time Assam saw such crowds was not in a theatre but on the streets, when Zubeen’s body was brought home to Guwahati.

Thousands lined up through the night, not for a concert ticket but for a glimpse of their musician, actor, director, and moral compass.

His death blurred the line between public mourning and personal loss. In the weeks since, Assam has spoken not in celebration but in elegy, its words suspended between disbelief and devotion.

Zubeen’s influence was always difficult to contain within a single discipline. He was, first and last, a musician, but also an actor, filmmaker, and an instinctive public figure who wore contradiction easily.

He belonged to every generation at once, uniting listeners who found in his songs either defiance, memory, or faith.  His voice could be raw and electric in one breath, meditative and tender in the next. There was no Assamese life untouched by at least one Zubeen song.

What makes his stardom unique, unlike that of Rajinikanth in Tamil Nadu or Vijay in Kerala, is its intimacy. Zubeen’s fans didn’t just idolize him, they claimed him as kin.

He could have stayed in Mumbai, where his Hindi playback work earned him national fame. Instead, he returned to Guwahati, choosing to create in the language of his soil.

His career was as much a refusal as it was an ascent: a refusal of the commercial grammar of Bollywood, a refusal to soften his political edges. When the government faltered, he spoke.

When art needed defiance, he sang louder. That defiance, too, fed the myth. He embodied an idea of Assam that was both self-critical and self-loving as a state trying to define modernity without losing its moral texture.

His songs have electrified crowds, and his legacy resides in something quieter.  It has created the feeling that one man’s art could be the emotional shorthand of a people.

Roi Roi Binale, by sheer timing, has become more than a film, it’s a mirror of the collective ache of a region. The frenzy around its release recalls the rituals of Southern superstardom, yet in Assam it feels different, less performative, more personal.

Watching Zubeen one last time on screen is like hearing his voice trail off in mid-song. It’s not just cinema; its closure, or the closest thing Assam can find to it.

Even in death, Zubeen Garg commands the morning. The theatres glow before sunrise because grief has no patience for daylight. Assam wakes early to listen again, to the man who never left.

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