It was early morning in the peaceful land of Punjab when the announcement arrived like a royal decree: “Citizens, prepare! A grand rally is coming to Moga!” And suddenly, the state witnessed something that even Bollywood could not choreograph: 890 government buses lined up like a mega-procession of yellow elephants. Drivers polished their steering wheels, officials inspected the passenger seats, and the public stared in disbelief. Some people climbed on board to enjoy the free ride; others folded their hands and said politely, “Bhai ji, asi theek aan… rally nu chhad’o.” The buses moved, but not the hearts of the people.
Around noon, as the leaders stood on stage preaching morality, discipline, and “Punjab di bhalayi,” another hilarious scene unfolded at ground level. On one side, people were taking oaths “We will fight drugs, we will save the youth, we will rebuild the state!” But on the other side, workers were struggling to balance boxes of liquor on their shoulders like an Olympic weightlifting event. The contrast was so sharp that even poets cried and comedians laughed. It felt like a live comedy show titled: “Oath on stage, spirit in backstage.”
The story actually starts earlier. The government once declared a historic target: “Punjab will be free from illegal drugs by May 31, 2025.” After this dramatic announcement, the police entered the stage and took charge. Another timeline was announced: “Phase One: Eliminate drugs. Phase Two: Eradicate remaining supply.” Posters were printed, slogans were created, teams were formed—Punjab braced for a revolution. People hoped that this time, something real would happen.
Months passed, then seasons changed. Thousands of peddlers were arrested, godowns were raided, and daily press notes proudly declared: “Huge recovery made… another supplier caught… campaign intensified.” But on the ground, reality looked like a stubborn old cycle, round and round, ending exactly where it started. The youth still struggled, families still cried, and the drug supply system simply replaced old faces with new ones, like a never-ending relay race.
It almost feels as if drugs in Punjab have become like a stubborn character in a Punjabi comedy film; no matter how many times the police chase him, he escapes through a back door, adjusts his turban, and returns with a different moustache. Enforcement agencies work day and night, but the system seems to enjoy playing hide-and-seek. The government keeps announcing phases, campaigns, and deadlines, and the drugs keep announcing their grand comeback like a blockbuster sequel. So people finally ask in frustration:
If the government is spending crores to end drugs,
If the police are arresting peddlers in hundreds,
If every rally promises a new dawn,
Then why does the night still look the same?
Why does every target become a new extension?
Why does every phase end where it began?
The irony of the whole situation is heavy and humorous at the same time. On one hand, rallies demand discipline and sacrifice; on the other hand, liquor boxes are carried like VIP guests. On one side, buses are used to mobilize the public; on the other side, the public questions why such buses are not used for hospitals, schools, or genuine development. Punjab watches everything with a mixture of amusement and disappointment—as if governance has become a circus and the citizens unwilling spectators.
Punjab whispers its own poetic satire:
“Rallyyan taan vad’hiya lagdiyan ne,
Bassan di line vi baddi sohni lagdi ae,
Par jadon maamla drugs da aunda,
Har deadline sirf photo ban ke reh jandi ae.”
The Moga rally will be remembered not for speeches, promises, or oaths but for the hilarious contradictions it exposed. The buses, the liquor, the targets, the phases… all combined to create the biggest political comedy of the year.
And the people of Punjab simply smiled and said:
“Chalo ji, asi taan hun vi wait hi karange… next deadline da.”