In a country that proudly calls itself the world’s largest democracy, it is tragic that a singer in a turban must constantly validate his patriotism. Diljit Dosanjh, a global icon of Indian and Punjabi music, has become a lightning rod for two equally unforgiving forces: hyper-nationalists who see treachery in every cross-border interaction, and radical purists who scrutinize his every word for signs of cultural deviation. In between these extremes stands a man who just wants to sing.
The recent controversy around Diljit’s latest film, Sardarji 3, is a textbook case of outrage unmoored from reason. The movie, a light-hearted Punjabi comedy featuring Pakistani actress Hania Aamir, was completed in February 2025—two months before the April 22 Pahalgam terror attack that tragically killed 26 Indian soldiers. Yet, in the aftermath of that attack, calls for bans erupted. Social media turned rabid. Film workers’ unions threatened action. “How dare he work with a Pakistani actress?” they fumed—as if an artist must carry the burden of state policy.
In a rational world, that should’ve been the end of it. But Diljit isn’t just an artist. He is a Sikh artist. And in today’s India, that means he must constantly walk a narrow ridge between love for country and loyalty to community—both of which he holds dear, and neither of which seems to trust him fully.
He supported the decision to withhold the film’s release in India in light of public sentiment. Still, he was denounced as anti-national. Singer Mika Singh labeled him “irresponsible” and accused him of insulting Indian emotions. Netizens went further, demanding that his passport be revoked. Those who once danced to “Do You Know” now wanted to deport him.
But Diljit didn’t just face the wrath of jingoists. When he met Prime Minister Narendra Modi in January, a different storm erupted—this time from the other side. Sikh radicals accused him of selling out the farmers’ movement, of being a traitor to the cause. “Why didn’t he meet us at Singhu or Sambhu?” asked one leader angrily. No one paused to ask: why should a singer be answerable to political camps at all?
This is the irony of being Diljit Dosanjh. He is vilified by ultra-nationalists for being too Sikh. And ridiculed by hardliners within his own community for not being Sikh enough. When he sang about “Patiala Peg” or “whiskey” in his hits, Punjabi culture activists filed complaints and tried to have his concerts banned. When he tweeted “Panjab” instead of “Punjab” without adding the Indian tricolor emoji, he was accused of being a Khalistani sympathizer.
Through all this, Diljit has remained remarkably poised. In international concerts like Coachella, he has waved the Indian flag with pride. He has spoken in Punjabi with pride. And still, he is forced to answer the question: “How many times must I prove that I love this country?”
It is a question that should haunt all of us. What kind of nation demands that its artists, especially from minority communities, constantly reaffirm their allegiance through every action, every word, every collaboration? Why must the burden of loyalty fall heavier on a turbaned singer than on others?
Let us not forget: Diljit Dosanjh has taken Indian culture global in a way few others have. His art has transcended borders, language, and politics. He has brought Punjabi language and music to places where no politician ever will. And yet, he is the one made to feel like a stranger in his own land.
We are witnessing a disturbing moment in India where even art is not allowed to be apolitical, where every creative act is a potential trial, and where every artist must walk a gauntlet of identity tests. Diljit is not just collateral damage—he is the canary in the coal mine. If someone like him—who has never shouted a slogan, never insulted the nation, never broken any law—can be branded a traitor or a sellout, then what hope is there for artistic freedom or pluralism?
In the end, Diljit’s story is not just about one film or one tweet. It is about the soul of a democracy that is fast forgetting how to trust its own people. It is about a culture that punishes those who dare to be both proud Sikhs and proud Indians.
And it is about an artist who, despite being caught in the middle of two unyielding fronts, continues to sing.
And that, in itself, is an act of quiet courage.