Punjab stands today at a fragile crossroads where its identity, language, and legacy are quietly eroding beneath the noise of politics and power. Once the cradle of courage, learning, and resilience, it now finds itself gradually expelled from its own spaces. Punjab has been pushed out of Chandigarh University, excluded from the BBMB, and its land is being sliced away piece by piece, as if anyone can claim it at will. The soil that once fed nations now trembles under the weight of documents and decrees. The irony is piercing — a state that nourished India’s body and soul now struggles for recognition within its own home.
A large part of the senior administration in Punjab today is composed of non-Punjabis — officials who sign papers but do not understand the pulse of the land they govern. Decisions are taken by those who cannot hear the rhythm of the soil, the accent of the people, or the scent of ripening wheat. In such hands, Punjab becomes an administrative unit, not a living culture. Even the Punjabi language, once the beating heart of our identity, is being pulled into a war of word combinations, a battlefield of grammar and politics. Every word seems to carry the burden of belonging — spoken by some with pride, and by others with hesitation.
Meanwhile, nature itself mirrors our confusion. The floods that submerged parts of the state left not only devastation but disorientation. A section of those who lost everything do not even know which state they are now living in. The borders of governance blur when human suffering floats across them. Yet, strangely, amidst all this loss, the voices of those in power declare that there is “no threat” to Punjab. But we, the people, know that when land, language, and leadership drift apart, a silent threat becomes a living wound.
Still, the people’s resolve refuses to die. We will give our lives for Punjab, we will not let a drop of our water go to waste, and we will not let our mother tongue fade into silence. The voices rise from the fields and the streets — from the tractors, from the gurdwaras, from the crowded alleys of our cities. These are not mere slogans; they are vows born of centuries of struggle and sacrifice. The air carries their echo: protect Punjab, preserve its essence, defend its dignity.
And to the “promising” leaders of Punjab — those who speak loudly in the Vidhan Sabha about salaries, perks, and privileges — the time has come to show the same unity for Punjab’s survival that you show for your own comfort. Save as much Punjab as you can, as many seats as you can truly deserve. Do not let the soil slip away while you debate over allowances. The people who sent you there are not asking for favors; they are asking for faith. Your internal unity, already fractured, must find meaning not in party loyalty but in the shared duty to protect Punjab’s language, land, and life.
For if Punjab itself is at stake, what meaning does your existence hold? If the river runs dry, if the fields fall silent, if the language fades into memory — then what remains of the leader or the led? Join hands not only for wages, but for water; not only for positions, but for principles. For Punjab is more than a boundary on the map — it is a living poem, written in the sweat of farmers, the songs of mothers, and the prayers of generations. To defend Punjab is not an act of politics — it is an act of belonging.