Punjab’s political temperature rose sharply this week as the state’s BJP president, Kewal Singh Dhillon, launched a blistering attack on the Aam Aadmi Party government, accusing it of allowing law and order to disintegrate. Speaking on Monday, Dhillon claimed that the state had become a place where criminals no longer fear consequences, and where the government is busy covering up a grim reality instead of fixing it. His comments came in response to Punjab Finance Minister Harpal Cheema’s boastful statements about the state’s success in tackling fugitive gangsters. But Dhillon dismissed those claims outright, saying that the AAP government was making “shameless attempts to conceal” the true situation. For the ordinary citizens of Punjab—shopkeepers, doctors, families, and young people—this political war of words is not just about who deserves credit. It is about a growing unease in their daily lives. While politicians exchange accusations from secure offices, people on the ground struggle to make sense of a time when crime stories seem to dominate the news, when fear is a constant companion, and when the idea of safety has become fragile. The sharp exchange between Dhillon and Cheema reflects a deeper, more painful reality: a state that has endured much in recent years is now left wondering whether anyone in power truly understands their pain or is just using it for political points.
Dhillon, a veteran politician, did not mince words when he responded to Cheema’s claim that the Bhagwant Mann government had taken decisive action against gangsters since coming to power. He accused Cheema of trying to take credit for work done by central agencies like the Ministry of External Affairs, the CBI, and Interpol. In his statement, Dhillon said that Cheema was “beating drums” to claim party credit for arrests and international extraditions that were carried out by Indian diplomatic missions and federal agencies. He argued that these operations happened despite the state government, not because of it. The distinction matters, he suggested, because the AAP government wanted the public to believe that they were finally getting tough on crime, when in reality, they were simply standing in the shadow of national efforts. Cheema, however, had earlier told reporters that Punjab Police had brought back 17 gangsters from foreign countries within just six months, a feat he claimed the previous governments could not achieve in decades. He pointed to the deportation of Gurwinder Singh alias Afridi from Ethiopia, a man carrying a reward of Rs 5 lakh and facing more than 30 criminal cases. It was a moment of triumph for the AAP minister, who spoke with visible pride about the breakthrough. But for Dhillon, that pride was misplaced. He insisted that the state government was trying to hide its own failures behind the successes of federal institutions. The truth, he argued, is that Punjab’s streets remain dangerous, and the government’s celebrations do nothing to calm the fears of a public that has heard too many promises before.
The tragic death of Parvinder Singh Jhota, an anti-drug crusader who was murdered in broad daylight in Mansa last month, became the emotional centerpiece of Dhillon’s accusations. Dhillon cited Jhota’s killing as evidence that the AAP government was not just failing to protect citizens, but perhaps even enabling those who threaten them. He spoke of how a man who had dedicated himself to fighting the drug menace was gunned down in public, while the state watched. He described it as a chilling signal that drug cartels and gangsters now operate with complete impunity. In the AAP government’s much-publicized “badlav,” or change, Dhillon claimed, those who stand up against criminal networks are the ones who end up paying the heaviest price. His words carried a bitter irony: a government that promised transformation had, in his view, created an environment where anti-drug warriors are killed and their killers walk free. The numbers and statistics that ministers like Cheema offer in press conferences feel disconnected from the lived experiences of Punjabis who hear of extortion calls, gang shootouts, and targeted attacks. The death of Jhota is not just a statistic; it is a wound in a community that has struggled for decades with the devastating impact of drugs and violence. Dhillon’s demand was simple: the AAP government should explain to the people of Punjab why traders, doctors, and ordinary citizens are living under constant terror, and why the drug-gangster nexus has been given free rein to suffocate the state. These are not political questions, he implied. They are questions of survival.
One of the most striking images in Dhillon’s tirade was his description of Punjab’s jails as “five-star operational headquarters” for extortionists and gang bosses. He alleged that from inside prison walls, criminal syndicates continue to run their operations with remarkable ease. This is not a new accusation—many have pointed to the irony of gangsters issuing threats from behind bars—but Dhillon’s vivid language gave it new urgency. He portrayed the state’s prisons not as places of punishment, but as command centers where criminals direct their networks, coordinate attacks, and bully witnesses. If that is true, then the government’s claims of victory against gangsters ring hollow. How can the state boast about bringing fugitives back from foreign countries while allowing those same criminals to manage their empires from inside the state’s own facilities? Dhillon tapped into a fear that many citizens already feel: that no one is truly in control, that the institutions meant to protect them have been overwhelmed, and that the people who threaten them are laughing all the way to their next crime. He argued that the AAP government, with Chief Minister Bhagwant Mann holding the Home portfolio, is entirely responsible for this failure. It was not enough, he said, to arrest a few gangsters for the cameras while allowing the deeper system of extortion, violence, and intimidation to continue. The BJP’s demand was direct and forceful: instead of deflecting blame and taking false credit, the AAP government should answer for its record. It should explain why a state that once prided itself on resilience and courage has come to feel like a place where ordinary people lock their doors at night and pray for morning.
But as so often happens in Indian politics, the AAP leader Cheema did not stay quiet. He fired back at the BJP with accusations of his own, painting the saffron party as the real patron of gangsters. Cheema alleged that wherever the BJP is in power, it has “nurtured” gangsters, with the specific aim of planting them in opposition-ruled states to disrupt law and order. This was more than just rhetoric; it was a serious charge that the central government was using criminals as political weapons. The AAP leader pointed to the controversial figure of Lawrence Bishnoi, one of the most feared gangsters in the country, who is currently lodged in Sabarmati Jail in Gujarat. Cheema claimed that Bishnoi has been kept like a “state guest” by the BJP, and that he is being used to issue constant threats, thereby intimidating and terrorizing opposition-ruled states. It was a provocative statement, one that framed the entire gangster problem as a deliberate strategy rather than a failure of governance. For BJP leaders like Dhillon, such accusations are nothing more than a desperate attempt to shift attention away from their own incompetence. But for the people of Punjab, the political blame game is exhausting. They hear two sides, each pointing fingers at the other, while the fear of violence continues to shape their choices—where they go, whom they trust, how they speak. The image of a powerful criminal being treated with comfort in a Gujarat prison, whether accurate or exaggerated, adds fuel to a fire that was already burning. It reinforces the belief that gangsters have become tools in a larger political game, and that ordinary lives are caught in the crossfire.
In the end, this clash between Dhillon and Cheema is more than just a disagreement between rivals. It is a reflection of a state caught in a deepening crisis of confidence. Punjab has always been a land of strong people, a culture that values courage and resilience. But today, many feel that the system has let them down. The politicians argue about who did what, about which government failed first, about who is protecting which gangster. They hold press conferences and issue statements, each trying to paint the other as the villain. Meanwhile, families who have lost loved ones to violence wait for justice. Small business owners pay extortion money in silence. Young people wonder if their future is safe in a place where crime seems to have lost its fear of the law. The truth is that both sides have a responsibility. The AAP government must answer for its handling of law and order, not just in words but in visible, effective action. The BJP, both in the state and at the center, must also reflect on its own record and stop treating this tragedy as a political game. The people of Punjab are tired of being used as props. They do not need more speeches, more accusations, or more empty promises. They need safety. They need a state where a shopkeeper can open his store without a knot in his stomach, where a doctor can care for patients without fear of threats, and where an anti-drug crusader can walk the streets in daylight without becoming a target. Until that day comes, all the claims about gangsters extradited and arrests made will feel like sand slipping through the fingers. The true measure of any government is not how many criminals they bring back from foreign lands, but how peacefully a mother can sleep at night in her own home, in her own city, in the Punjab she still loves.