Punjab ’95: When History Picks Sides

Punjab ’95 is on the verge of losing the essence of what makes it stand out- The truth. 

We stand on the edge of a cultural war, with death looming on both sides. The death of speech. The death of culture. Are we slowly merging into one ‘unified’ narrative, with the same history, the same heroes, and the same villains? India, a land where cultures and languages change every few miles, now risks becoming one bland, homogenized nation. Not because of political tensions. Not because of international wars. But because of its entertainment industry.

An industry that contributes barely 0.73% to the GDP of the country somehow threatens to shake its very foundations. It produces almost 1,500–2,000 films each year, showcasing India’s pride, history, culture, victories  alongside lighter stories. Some of these films are hailed as the protectors of heritage, their dialogues etched into public memory. Others, however, choke on their own unsaid words, never given a chance to be heard.

Why do we only tell a selective history? Is the history of a nation only as valuable as the number of people it pleases? Can you silence an entire event, an entire people from the story of a country? A sane person would say: No. You cannot.

And yet, Honey Trehan’s Punjab ’95 stands as proof that we are only interested in the kind of history that glorifies some while vilifying others. So what exactly is our problem? Is it with the history of India? Or with the history of a minority within India?

But Punjab ’95 isn’t just about a man in a turban. It’s about what we choose to see as patriotism and what we dismiss as a threat.

Jaswant Singh Khalra was not just another activist. He was a whistleblower who uncovered the forced cremation of over 25,000 Sikh civilians during Punjab’s insurgency in the 1990s. He documented these crimes with precision, interviewing villagers, verifying identities through local records, and cross-checking information over years. Despite court convictions and multiple agencies recognizing his discoveries, Khalra was abducted and murdered in 1995. Six police officers were later convicted for his extrajudicial killing. 

His story isn’t a film. It’s our forgotten history demanding its place on screen.

Yet the Central Board of Film Certification (CBFC) demanded 127 cuts to Punjab’95. These include removal of direct references to Punjab Police, the word “Punjab,” courtroom-verified figures, places like Tarn Taran, and even visuals of the Indian flag and Gurbani. Director Honey Trehan called the requirement absurd, saying if all those cuts were imposed, only the trailer would remain. Khalra’s daughter begged the CBFC to preserve his legacy, calling the suppression of these facts an assault on justice itself.

In Indian cinematic narratives and in real life, when a man wears a turban, he is too often seen not as a citizen, but as a suspect. A turbaned man seeking justice is quickly branded a separatist. Say the word “Punjab” and watch how fast someone whispers “Khalistan.” But what if he’s not fighting against India, what if he’s fighting for it?

Jaswant Singh Khalra wore a turban and a clerical collar. He didn’t pick up a gun. He picked up paper, names, and the dignity of the dead. And yet, instead of being seen as a patriot who exposed mass state killings, his story is treated like a national security threat. Who were the people Khalra tried to save? They were not aliens, not anti-nationals. Not even accused in court. They were Indians, disappeared, cremated without names, and forgotten. Why does telling their story still feel like crossing a line?

Khalra’s turban didn’t make him dangerous. But our fear of it, of what it represents, shows how narrow our idea of India has become. If a human rights activist from a minority can’t be honored without suspicion, what kind of unity are we building?