Dr Bhupen Hazarika: A multifaceted genius
Dr. Bhupen Hazarika’s life began on the banks of the Brahmaputra, long before the world would come to know him as a singer, composer, filmmaker, poet, and a bridge between cultures. Born in 1926 in Sadiya, he spent his early childhood in a landscape of rivers, songs, and folk memories. The sounds that shaped his young mind were not taught in any music school—they floated in from the fields, from the ferry ghats, and from the gentle voice of his mother who often sang lullabies in Assamese.
When Bhupen’s family moved to Guwahati and later to Tezpur, the young boy found himself surrounded by a rich world of theatre and music. The stage fascinated him. He would sit quietly in the evenings, watching local artists rehearse. Their songs, dialogues, and costumes opened a new world inside him. It was during this period that he met Jyoti Prasad Agarwala and Bishnu Rabha—two towering figures who would shape his artistic foundation. They encouraged the boy, pushed him to write and sing, and most importantly, made him believe that songs could speak for ordinary people.
By the time he reached his teenage years, Bhupen was already writing lyrics with the maturity of someone far older. His first song was recorded when he was just a child, and it carried a depth that hinted at the artist he would someday become.
After completing his schooling, he moved to Banaras Hindu University, where he studied political science. This period broadened his understanding of India—its cultures, its contradictions, and its shared struggles. He watched the freedom movement unfold, listened to speeches, and absorbed the restless, hopeful energy of a country on the edge of independence. All of this slowly began to appear in his writings.
In the late 1940s, Bhupen travelled to the United States to study mass communication at Columbia University. New York opened his senses in a completely different way. There, he met the African-American singer and civil rights leader Paul Robeson. Robeson’s thunderous voice and his belief in music as a tool of justice left a lasting mark on him. It was Robeson who sang “We Are the World, We Are the Children” of his time through Old Man River—a song that Bhupen carried back to India and transformed into “Bistirno Parore,” a tribute to people fighting inequality across the world.
When he returned home, India was a young nation struggling to find its rhythm. Bhupen threw himself into work—writing songs, composing for films, directing documentaries, travelling from village to village, and lending his voice to those who had none. His songs spoke of lost villages, broken lands, unjust systems, and also of hope, unity, and love. People listened because they saw themselves in his voice.
His life was never limited to Assam alone. He wandered across the Northeast—Arunachal Pradesh, Nagaland, Meghalaya, Mizoram—absorbing stories, cultures, and languages. Arunachal would later become one of the closest chapters of his life. He visited its mountains, sang with its people, fought for their rights, encouraged young artists, and left behind a legacy that still breathes through memories and songs.
In Mumbai, he found recognition in the world of cinema. His work in Assamese, Bengali, and Hindi films earned him national awards, but he never surrendered to the glitter of the film industry. His heart remained where it always had been—among common people, among rivers and hills, in the simple gatherings where someone would request him to sing “Manuhe Manuhor Babe,” and he would smile and begin softly, “If humans cared for humans…”
As the years passed, Bhupen became more than an artist; he became a cultural memory. His voice carried a rare honesty. When he sang about injustice, people felt it. When he sang about love, they felt it too. He had the unusual gift of expressing complicated truths in the simplest language.
Even in his later years, his passion did not fade. He travelled endlessly, meeting students, writers, tribal elders, and activists. He recorded songs for peace, for unity, for human rights. He wrote poetry on his sickbed. He kept giving, even when his health declined.
When he passed away in 2011, the entire region—from the plains of Assam to the mountains of Arunachal—felt as if a guiding star had slipped quietly behind the horizon. Millions gathered to bid him farewell, but in truth, he had not gone anywhere. His songs stayed behind, like lamps glowing along a long and winding river.
Today, when someone sings “Moi Eti Jajabor,” or when an old transistor plays “Ganga Mor Maa,” it feels as if Bhupen is still walking with us—sometimes as a traveller, sometimes as a storyteller, always as a friend of the people.
He once said that songs do not belong to the singer; they belong to those who carry them forward. His life proved those words. He left behind not just music, but a way of looking at the world—with empathy, with courage, and with an unshakable belief in the unity of humanity.
And that, perhaps, is the simplest way to describe his life:
A journey that turned into a song, and a song that turned into a journey for everyone who heard it.
