In the grand circus of Punjab politics, the Aam Aadmi Party now appears ready to stage yet another dramatic protest, this time over the arrest of Sanjeev Arora. The irony, however, is impossible to ignore. The same party that once built its entire political identity around “zero tolerance against corruption” is today facing uncomfortable questions from critics about why its own manifesto promises seem to disappear whenever political allies or influential leaders come under scrutiny.
During its early years between 2014 and 2016, the party projected itself as the ultimate anti-corruption revolution. Leaders spoke with fire in their speeches, promising immediate action against anyone accused of corruption, abuse of power, criminal conduct, or misconduct against women. Back then, every press conference sounded like the beginning of a political freedom movement. Even a small allegation against opponents was treated like a national emergency. Words such as transparency, accountability, honesty, and clean governance dominated every rally and television debate.
From 2017 to 2021, while functioning mainly in opposition in Punjab, the party perfected the art of political outrage. Whenever rival leaders faced allegations, AAP leaders demanded resignations, arrests, CBI inquiries, ED investigations, judicial probes, and moral accountability. Punjab voters were repeatedly told that once the party came to power, corruption would disappear faster than free food at a political rally. The image was carefully crafted a government of ordinary citizens that would cleanse the political system.
Then came 2022, when the party swept Punjab with the slogan of “badlav” change. People expected a new era of governance. Citizens imagined honest administration, strict accountability, transparent appointments, women’s safety, and quick action against corrupt politicians regardless of status or influence. For a brief period, many genuinely believed Punjab politics had entered a historic new chapter.
But as time passed, controversies, allegations, raids, and political disputes involving various leaders began surfacing. Suddenly, the language of politics changed completely. Earlier, arrests were described as proof of moral failure. Now, arrests were being described as political vendetta. Earlier, investigations were considered necessary for justice. Now, investigations were labelled selective. Earlier, leaders demanded resignations within hours. Now, the same leaders began advising patience and respect for legal procedure.
Punjab citizens have witnessed such dramatic transformations that they now deserve honorary degrees in political philosophy. The dictionary of politics itself seems rewritten. Before elections, corruption was presented as the greatest evil threatening democracy. After elections, corruption often becomes “a matter under investigation.” Earlier, protests were described as people’s movements for justice. Today, protests sometimes look more like carefully managed media events with matching caps, prepared slogans, and social media hashtags ready before the crowd even arrives.
The biggest irony now revolves around the possibility of the government or party workers protesting over the arrest of Sanjeev Arora while critics continue asking why similar sympathy is rarely shown when ordinary citizens demand accountability from powerful politicians. Many people are asking a simple question: if the manifesto promised strict action against wrongdoing, why does political loyalty suddenly become more important than moral standards?
The situation has become so confusing that ordinary citizens wake up each morning wondering three things: who got raided today, who switched parties today, and who suddenly became “honest” after changing political camps. In modern politics, one leader may call another corrupt in the morning, share a stage with him by evening, and defend him on television before nightfall. Even scriptwriters of political thrillers might struggle to compete with Punjab’s daily political drama.
Behind the comedy and satire, however, lies a serious public frustration. Punjab continues to face major challenges including rising debt, unemployment, migration of youth, farmer distress, drug problems, and industrial slowdown. Yet political energy often appears focused more on defending leaders, managing public image, and controlling narratives than solving structural problems affecting ordinary families.
The deeper disappointment among many voters is not simply about one arrest or one controversy. It is about the growing belief that every political party eventually begins resembling the same system it once promised to destroy. Election manifestos often arrive like revolutionary scriptures during campaigns, only to quietly disappear after victory celebrations end.
If Punjab politics were a movie, the manifesto would now be the missing character everyone remembers but nobody can find. Citizens were promised a revolution in governance, but many now feel they are merely watching another sequel of the same old political drama — only with newer slogans, bigger advertisements, and more sophisticated social media teams.
Somewhere, perhaps in a dusty office cupboard, an old manifesto may still be lying silently, whispering one humble request: “Please stop mentioning me during current affairs debates.”