It’s waheguru . It’s changa . It’s ho sakda .
I accept still Punjab . Torn-but-standing Punjab . Crying-at-the-bus-stand-but-dancing-at-the-wedding Punjab . Oye-Punjab . ok punjab
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. It’s waheguru
And maybe that’s the most heartbreaking word you could use for a land that once invented itself out of five rivers and a stubborn refusal to die. I accept still Punjab
Ok Punjab is the sound of a son calling his father from a Toronto basement suite in February. "How’s everything back home, Papa?" The father looks out the window at the smog settling over Ludhiana like a second blanket. The tubewell motor burned out again. The nephew left for Australia this morning. The khet is half-sold to a developer. "Ok, beta. Sab ok hai." Which means: I’m tired, but I won’t say it. We’re surviving, but we forgot what living felt like.
So when someone says Ok Punjab , they are not describing a place. They are describing a mood. A postcard from a land that used to be a promise. A land where every third house has a wedding card on the fridge and a rehab center’s number in the drawer.