It’s waheguru . It’s changa . It’s ho sakda .
Think about it. This is the soil that gave the world masti —not just joy, but a loud, reckless, I’ll-dance-on-my-own-grave kind of joy. This is the land where bhangra was born not in clubs, but in harvests. Where the dhol doesn't just beat; it announces. I am alive. I have wheat. I have a daughter who can kick higher than your son. Don’t test me. ok punjab
I accept still Punjab . Torn-but-standing Punjab . Crying-at-the-bus-stand-but-dancing-at-the-wedding Punjab . Oye-Punjab . It’s waheguru
Ok Punjab is the smirk of a Delhi businessman stuck behind a Fortuner with Punjab number plates on the Gurgaon expressway. "Haan, typical." He doesn’t see the farmer who drove that Fortuner to the bank three times last week, asking for a loan he knows he won’t live to repay. He just sees the chrome grille and the swagger. But the swagger is just grief with good sunglasses. Think about it
But the photograph—the real one—is still a Jatta aayi aai at 2 AM. Still a Kali miri on a dusty road. Still a bride laughing so hard her dupatta slips. Still a grandfather saying, "Putthar, babe di kripa. Sab theek ho jana." (Son, by God’s grace, everything will become theek —which is one notch above ok .)
It’s anything but fine. Ok? No. Punjab.
There it is, pinned to the bottom of a WhatsApp status. Two words. A shrug emoji, maybe, or a white heart. Ok Punjab.