The decision to conduct the Punjab Assembly session at Anandpur Sahib—at a staggering cost reportedly crossing ₹200 crore—has sparked a heated debate across the state’s political and intellectual circles. While the government projected the move as “historic” and spiritually significant, the practical outcomes remain deeply questionable. Many now argue that the session failed to achieve any legislative or cultural breakthrough that could justify such an extraordinary financial and administrative effort.
From a governance perspective, the biggest loss was the lack of substantial legislative action. If such a session had been used to pass a meaningful resolution on Chandigarh, or to initiate a major policy shift on Punjab’s rights, it might have carried weight. Instead, the session concluded without any binding decisions on Punjab’s territorial, economic, or cultural concerns. Holding the Assembly outside the capital is not inherently wrong—such symbolic initiatives can inspire unity or highlight heritage—but without concrete outcomes, symbolism becomes hollow.
Financially, the expenditure raised serious concerns. At a time when Punjab is already battling heavy debt, unemployment, agrarian distress, and crumbling infrastructure, spending around ₹200 crore on a single event appears unjustifiable. Critics argue that this money could have been better invested in real public needs—schools, hospitals, roads, or farmer support systems. Most especially, instead of staging an extravagant display of political grandeur, the state could have established a university or a medical college in the name of Guru Sahib. Such an institution would not only honor the legacy of Guru Tegh Bahadur Ji or Guru Gobind Singh Ji but would also serve Punjab for generations—academically, socially, and economically.
Politically, the event exposed what many described as intellectual bankruptcy and the emergence of a dictatorial attitude. Rather than engaging in serious debate, many legislators seemed more focused on optics and theatrics. Wearing masks of MLAs or orchestrating dramatic walkouts overshadowed the real issues facing the state. A legislative session is meant to be a forum for ideas, accountability, and public welfare—not a stage for personal glorification. Instead of strengthening democratic values, the session appeared to dilute them.
In terms of public perception, the credibility of the government suffered. Even supporters, who may have initially welcomed the concept of honoring Sikh heritage through a special session, expressed disappointment at the absence of purpose and planning. The sentiment echoed across Punjab was clear: this was less a “historic session” and more an event that exposed misplaced priorities. People questioned how a government that cannot address law and order concerns, manage finances responsibly, or improve education could justify spending hundreds of crores on symbolic politics.
Culturally and spiritually, the session also raised ethical concerns. Using a sacred site like Anandpur Sahib for political theatrics felt inappropriate to many. True tribute to Guru Sahib does not lie in grand speeches or staged photo ops—it lies in service, education, humility, and public welfare. Had the government established a world-class university, a medical college, or a research center on Sikh history in Guru Sahib’s name, it would have created an everlasting institution of knowledge and empowerment—a real homage to the Guru’s teachings.
In the end, Punjab’s gains from this session appear minimal, largely ceremonial, and superficial, while the losses—financial, political, educational, and reputational—are substantial. What could have been an opportunity to unite Punjab around meaningful resolutions instead turned into an expensive display with no lasting impact. The message from the people is loud and clear: Punjab does not need hollow fame or political extravagance. It needs responsible governance, visionary leadership, and institutions that uplift society. That would have been the true and eternal tribute to Guru Sahib Ji.