The Loneliness Behind Locked Gates

Punjab's Empty-Nest Parents

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Across Punjab, from mud-walled homes in quiet villages to marble-floored villas lining busy town streets, silence has crept in. Courtyards that once echoed with the laughter of children now lie empty, verandas that once hosted evening gossip are deserted, and kitchens once alive with the aroma of family meals have grown cold.

The emptiness has little to do with poverty or wealth-it belongs equally to the elderly couple tending their fields, the grandmother gazing out from her veranda, and the widower sitting alone on a charpoy under the sun. In each case, the children have gone, leaving behind houses full of things but empty of voices. Punjab has long been a land of migration. From the exiled Bhai Maharaj Singh in the 19th century to the laborers who crossed oceans to build railroads in Canada and the students who today fly to Australia, migration has become almost a rite of passage. In recent years, the pace has quickened dramatically: between 2016 and 2021, nearly a million Punjabis left, with one in every thirty-three residents seeking a future abroad. Today, estimates suggest over four million Punjabis live outside India, their roots still tied to the soil of Doaba and Malwa but their branches spread across continents.

For many families, this exodus brings pride. Children earn degrees abroad, build careers, and send home remittances that transform households. Fields are irrigated with modern machinery, and houses are rebuilt with imported tiles and tall gates. Yet, alongside this material prosperity lies a silent tragedy: parents left alone to guard these assets, their hearts burdened by absence. In Hoshiarpur's Gilzian village, seven out of ten homes are locked most of the year. In Ramidi, multi-crore mansions stand with airplane replicas on their roofs, yet the only occupants are frail grandparents. A local sarpanch once remarked that the deserted bungalows look like "the backdrop of horror films."