As you drive through the Malwa or Majha regions, you realize that Punjab doesn’t just grow crops; it explodes with them. The mustard fields are a shade of yellow so vivid it hurts your eyes (in a good way). The wheat sways like a violent ocean during a storm.
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The man I asked—let's call him Gurdeep Singh—did not give me directions. He gave me a room. He gave me his wife’s homemade makki di roti with ghee dripping down my chin. He brought out a bottle of whiskey that cost more than my flight ticket. By 10 PM, we were singing old songs, and by 11 PM, his neighbor had arrived with a goat to barbecue. As you drive through the Malwa or Majha
That was a mistake. A glorious mistake.