A Punjab highway that mirrors dreams, struggles and hopes

Journey on a highway often offers a glimpse into the soul of the land it traverses—the mindset of its people, the trends they embrace and the struggles they confront. Hoardings flash what is in vogue, slogans cry out the pressing issues of the region, and the villages, towns and cities tell silent tales through the houses lining the roads, the cars passing by, and the eateries welcoming travellers.

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A trip on National Highway 5, stretching from Chandigarh to the border town of Ferozepur, offers a unique insight into Punjab. The unique highway, cutting through the heart of the state from east to west, reveals where Punjab stands and where it is heading. Its total stretch is from Shipki La near the Sino-India border to Ferozepur. Much before the highway was christened NH5, it stretched to Lahore via Kasur, both in Pakistan now. One still finds a couple of milestones on the highway indicating the distance between Delhi and Lahore, reminding one the trade route of yore. The milestones carry a dream that the borders between India and Pakistan would be reopened someday.

As our journey begins from Chandigarh, a few kilometres past Kharar, a hoarding looms large, its message stark and unsettling—Pardes jaana jaan Punjab rehna (Do you want to live in Punjab or move abroad?) The question is not merely an advertisement but a challenge, tinged with urgency. The choice is stark—leave or stay? Immigration consultants aggressively line the highway, promising easy escapes—solutions for rejected visas, low IELTS scores, and a fast track to a foreign dream. Yet none mention the humiliation of over 70 handcuffed Punjabis deported from the United States in military planes. These advertisements thrive because migration is Punjab’s obsession. Estimates suggest that 1 lakh to 1.3 lakh students leave the state annually for education, while others abandon agriculture, businesses, and even government jobs for greener pastures abroad.

The fascination with foreign lands is not just about leaving Punjab—it has left its mark on those who return. Some, having made fortune abroad, invest in Punjab but mould it in the image of the world they left behind. London Street, a gleaming market complex, caters to those who seek branded clothing, imported gadgets and Western food chains offering fast food far removed from traditional Punjabi dhabas. Along the highway, many such modern market hubs have emerged—places where eating is paired with entertainment, factory outlets offer discounts, and luxury blends with leisure. The presence of global franchises, from KFC to McDonald’s, signifies Punjab’s purchasing power. Modernisation dots the highway.

A Bob Marley café a few kilometres short of Kohara invites you. There are no Surinder Kaur or Asa Singh Mastana cafes in memory of popular Punjabi singers.

Yet, the quintessential Punjabi dhaba is far from fading. In fact, these once-modest eateries have transformed. Small shanties along the highway now offer state-of-the-art hospitality—grand halls, paved parking, and carefully curated menus balancing tradition with contemporary tastes. The daal makhni, shahi paneer and aaloo pranthas with butter and buttermilk, followed by masala tea.

It’s impossible to pass by without stopping at the charming mobile vans dotting the highway, offering a taste of kulfi, lassi and burfi—delicacies specially crafted by the Bhaini Sahib dera. These are not just food carts, but a statement about the influence and presence of such deras in Punjab, estimated at 3,000.

Marriage palaces stand like grand monuments on the outskirts of all towns that fall on either side of the highway, their architecture a curious mix of European facades, sloping roofs with Roman columns, and the timeless elegance of a Punjabi haveli adorned with Mughal minarets. In the evenings, their dazzling lights hint at extravagant fat Punjabi weddings—spectacles of wealth and celebration.

Ancient towns such as Sanghol (Harappan civilisation), and those a few centuries old like Morinda, Samrala, Kohara, Mullanpur and Jagraon tell stories of the Punjab of yore. These came up when people started settling along the roads connecting big cities instead of settling along the rivers. The highway was the lifeline but now it has ditched them and moved on—elevated roads now bypass these towns, cutting them off from the very lifeline that once sustained them. Punjab has recorded a 37.5% migration from villages and towns to urban centres like Mohali, Ludhiana and Chandigarh. The reasons are many—better education, employment and living conditions.

Yet, from the highway, Punjab’s villages look deceptively prosperous. No slums or mud houses dot the landscape, only concrete roads and sturdy homes. Those leaving do not flee poverty, they chase ambition.

Among the symbols of change scattered along NH5, drug addiction looms large. Hoardings denounce substance abuse, invoking Punjabi pride and urging youth to reclaim their heritage of valour and hard work. Chief Minister Bhagwant Mann stares down at the travellers from most hoardings, boasting statistics of drug seizures as evidence of success. Private de-addiction centres advertise guaranteed rehabilitation programmes. A first-time traveller cannot miss the unspoken truth—drugs are Punjab’s most urgent battle.

The harsh side of migration and drugs surfaces at Dagru village, where the Ludhiana-Ferozepur railway line intersects the highway. Here, elderly men sit on both sides of the railway barrier, their frail bodies hunched in the scorching sun, selling marunda—puffed rice held together with jaggery. Their faded kurta-pyjamas, loosely wrapped turbans and lined faces speak of decades of toil that led nowhere.

“Most of us are landless,” says Bikkar Singh, pointing towards his companions. “We were farm labourers. Now, all we can do is sell these snacks for a few rupees. Some of our children have moved to cities to work as plumbers or labourers. Others—" he hesitates, eyes clouded—"we lost to drugs.” Soon, the over-bridge will be completed, the highway will bypass them, and they will have to find another intersection to make a living.

Yet, amid these warnings, hope takes form. On the outskirts of Moga, a group of young entrepreneurs seek to revive tradition with innovation. Their startup bakery sells biscuits baked with sugarcane juice instead of refined sugar, crafted with millets and gram flour instead of wheat. Trained at Punjab Agricultural University, they have built a bakery that rejects the norm, crafting biscuits from millets, gram flour and barley, baked entirely in sugarcane juice. The crowd gathered at their stall suggests not every traveller seeks fast food; some choose innovation.

As long as such enterprises thrive, Punjab has a future. One takes a deep breath. Not all seems to have been lost.