Punjab today is less a state and more a theatre, where three groups compete daily for the spotlight: the ruling leaders, the opposition leaders, and the babas. None of them builds the future, but all of them know how to build an image. And to keep that image shining, there is a never-ending supply of police convoys, ribbon-cuttings, and miracle sermons—all funded by the humble taxpayer, who pays the ticket price for this grand circus.
The Ruling Leaders
The rulers of Punjab believe governance begins and ends with a pair of scissors. They cut ribbons as if they are cutting inflation, cut cakes as if they are cutting unemployment, and cut foundation stones as if they are cutting corruption. Ministers rush to inaugurate every half-broken road, every dusty building, and even a bus stand with no buses. Their social media teams post photos with such captions as “historic achievement,” while the public wonders if history is being made or mocked. Convoys with sirens follow them everywhere, not to protect them from danger, but to protect their fragile sense of importance.
The Opposition Leaders
But the opposition is no less. If the ruling party owns the scissors, the opposition owns the microphones. Their favorite activity is not solving problems, but holding press conferences to announce who is to blame. If the government lays a foundation stone, the opposition immediately claims: “That was our project!” If the government inaugurates a hospital, the opposition cries: “Where are the doctors?” If the rulers cut a ribbon, the opposition cuts a headline. Their politics is a full-time commentary show, where the only sport played is “find the fault.” They too roam in convoys with gunmen, because even without power, they cannot travel without the security drama.
The Babas and Saints
And then enter Punjab’s self-proclaimed saints—the babas. These holy men have upgraded spirituality into a luxury brand. Forget meditation; their peace comes with imported SUVs, golden chairs, and, of course, police security. Nothing says “divine” like a convoy of armed commandos guarding a man who preaches detachment. Their ashrams are decorated like five-star hotels, where faith is measured not in prayer, but in donations. They claim to renounce the world, but the world they renounce looks suspiciously like hard work, humility, and accountability. The babas’ real miracle is convincing taxpayers to pay for their safety, while devotees pay for their wealth.
The Common Man
Meanwhile, the common Punjabi is left without security, without roads, without hospitals, and sometimes even without electricity. He pays for the rulers’ scissors, the opposition’s microphones, and the babas’ commandos. He claps at inaugurations, listens to opposition dramas, and bows before babas—all while wondering who will ever protect him.
Thus, Punjab continues its grand circus: the rulers cutting ribbons, the opposition cutting statements, and the babas cutting deals. And in this circus, the only thing truly being cut is the pocket of the common man.