Punjab today feels like a comedy show where every character is confident, confused, and overqualified at the same time. The roads still believe they are roller-coaster tracks, electricity comes and goes like a celebrity doing guest appearances, and government offices run on a timetable that only God understands. Farmers protest, ministers boast, and public hopes everyone is busy, yet nothing moves faster than a bullock cart stuck in mud.
In every village, one group of people blames the government, the government blames the system, and the system blames “technical issues.” Meanwhile, the common Punjabi keeps waiting like a WhatsApp message stuck on double grey ticks—seen, noticed, but never answered. Youngsters dream of Canada so strongly that even the globe in school classrooms quietly spins toward Toronto on its own.
The funniest part is the promises. Every leader promises jobs, development, and world-class facilities. But somehow, Punjab continues to receive promises the same way relatives give gifts—beautiful from outside, empty from inside. Schools lack teachers, hospitals lack doctors, and villages lack water, but speeches overflow like a monsoon flood.
Despite all this, Punjabis remain the happiest humans on earth. Even when the ceiling fan stops, we say, “Chal koi na.” Even when the government forgets us, we forgive them before they even apologize. Maybe this is our superpower—or maybe we just love comedy more than progress. Either way, Punjab keeps smiling, because