Punjab, once celebrated for its heroic legacy and agricultural prosperity, is now caught in the grip of a devastating drug crisis. What began as an under-the-radar issue has ballooned into a full-scale epidemic, tearing through villages, towns, and cities alike. Heroin stands at the center of this storm. Smuggled across the border with chilling efficiency, the drug has seeped into the bloodstream of Punjab’s youth, becoming not just a health crisis but a symptom of a much deeper socio-political breakdown. Shockingly, in many border areas, smuggling heroin has now become a family business—an accepted, even aspired path for economic survival.
Punjab shares a 553-kilometer-long international border with Pakistan, much of it poorly fenced and heavily exploited by drug syndicates. This border has become the primary gateway for Afghan-origin heroin, trafficked through Pakistan and pushed into Indian Punjab using a mix of old and new methods—human mules, drones, underground pipes, and even livestock. The trade has evolved into a sophisticated operation where entire households participate, often out of economic desperation. In districts like Tarn Taran, Ferozepur, and Amritsar, multiple generations are now engaged in the narcotics trade—grandparents, parents, and teenagers playing various roles in storing, distributing, or even managing the cross-border coordination. What’s worse, many of these families are also battling addiction themselves, making it a vicious cycle of use and supply.
The roots of this crisis are deeply tied to the collapse of Punjab’s rural economy. The promise of the Green Revolution has long since faded, leaving behind exhausted soil, rising debts, and declining incomes. Young people, facing bleak job prospects and systemic unemployment, find themselves turning to drugs for relief and then to the drug trade for income. When legitimate paths are blocked, the underground economy becomes an enticing, if dangerous, alternative. Addiction, in such a scenario, is not just a personal failing but a symptom of state-wide despair. Villages where every second home has an addict are no longer anomalies—they’re the norm.
Politics has played an insidious role in this decline. Several politicians from major parties—Shiromani Akali Dal (SAD), Congress, and even some elements within Aam Aadmi Party (AAP)—have been accused of protecting drug cartels or benefiting from their operations. The Bhola drug racket, named after former DSP Jagdish Bhola, exposed links between powerful political figures and narcotics smugglers. Bhola himself named multiple high-ranking politicians during interrogation, yet investigations have moved at a glacial pace, often hitting dead ends under political pressure. Elections come and go with promises of a “Nasha Mukt Punjab” (Drug-Free Punjab), but behind the scenes, the nexus between traffickers and lawmakers remains intact.
Law enforcement has been equally compromised. While many police officers have died or been demoted while fighting this war, others have been co-opted. Corruption runs deep in the police machinery, with some officers reportedly facilitating smuggling routes, tipping off drug lords, or simply looking the other way. The Border Security Force (BSF), tasked with monitoring the Indo-Pak border, has made significant seizures over the years, but gaps in surveillance and insider collusion continue to allow massive quantities of heroin to slip through. Technology like drones has further complicated detection, allowing cross-border operatives to drop packages far into Indian territory with minimal risk.
Another actor in this crisis is Pakistan’s Inter-Services Intelligence (ISI), which Indian agencies have long accused of waging a proxy war by flooding Punjab with narcotics. By addicting an entire generation, the ISI seeks to destabilize the state socially and economically. Afghan-origin heroin is routed through Pakistan’s Punjab province, particularly from cities like Lahore, where major drug lords like Haji Salim are believed to operate. These cross-border networks maintain deep connections with Indian smugglers, ensuring a steady supply line into Punjab.
What makes the situation even more disturbing is the normalization of this trade at the community level. In many villages, drug smuggling is no longer seen as criminal but as an accepted livelihood. Families pass on smuggling routes and techniques like heirlooms. Children grow up watching their parents engage in the trade, and for them, it becomes a career path. This has led to the formation of a narco-culture where drugs are not just consumed but trafficked with impunity, often with community protection. In this culture, addiction and crime are not seen as cautionary tales, but as part of life.
Cultural narratives have also played a role. Punjabi music and cinema have, over the years, romanticized drug use. Songs filled with references to intoxication, opulence, and rebellion against the law have glamorized the very lifestyle that is eating away at Punjab. Though a counter-movement has emerged, with socially conscious artists pushing back against this trend, the damage is already widespread.
Beyond the smugglers and addicts lies the larger failure of governance. Successive state and central governments have failed to build a sustainable framework for de-addiction, rehabilitation, and social reintegration. Rehab centers are overcrowded and underfunded, often functioning more as holding centers than healing spaces. Mental health care, vocational training, and post-recovery support remain practically non-existent. The absence of any meaningful investment in public health and education has only deepened the crisis.
If we are to ask who is responsible for the drug crisis in Punjab, the answer is unsettlingly vast. Politicians have protected traffickers instead of punishing them. Police have been complicit when they should have been protectors. The BSF and central intelligence agencies have failed to plug the border completely. Pakistan’s ISI has weaponized narcotics as a tool of soft warfare. Families and communities have participated, sometimes willingly, sometimes helplessly. Even cultural icons have contributed to normalizing this rot.
In short, the responsibility lies not with one person or one institution, but with an entire system that has failed to protect its youth. Until every aspect of this chain—from the fields of Afghanistan to the mohallas of Amritsar—is broken, the crisis will continue to rage. Punjab doesn’t just need slogans or crackdowns. It needs a revolution of values, investment in youth, a functioning justice system, and above all, political will that is unafraid to challenge the status quo.