In the rich and ancient plains of Punjab, wheat has long been more than a crop. It has been a proud inheritance, a living testament to resilience, tradition, and identity. Today, however, a quiet crisis casts a long shadow over these sacred fields and weighs heavily on the hearts of those who till them.
The government’s support price, fixed at approximately Rs 3,900 per 40 kilograms (roughly Rs 97.5 per kilogram), was intended to shield the farmer from the turbulence of the open market. Yet reality tells a harsher tale. This season, the government has largely refrained from procuring wheat, leaving farmers at the mercy of fluctuating open-market rates.
In many areas, wheat now trades distressingly low, between Rs 2,100 and Rs 2,400 per 40 kilograms, far below the announced support price. Soaring input costs, from seeds and fertilizers to the most basic agricultural necessities, have stripped away whatever slender margins once remained, compounding an already grave hardship.
This is not merely a question of economics; it is a question of dignity, of survival, and of heritage. Punjab’s farmers, descendants of generations who have toiled with devotion and pride, now find their noble profession reduced to a precarious struggle for existence. The very fabric of rural life — its timeless festivals, songs, and traditions — stands imperilled by these mounting realities.
If this decline is allowed to continue, the consequences will stretch far beyond individual livelihoods. Disheartened and defeated, many farmers are beginning to contemplate the once-unthinkable: abandoning wheat cultivation altogether. Such a retreat would not only jeopardize the nation’s food security but would also sever an ancient bond between the people and the land, a bond that has endured the centuries and shaped the spirit of Punjab itself.
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And yet, amid the hardship, a flicker of resilience remains. It is therefore incumbent upon policymakers, and indeed upon all of us, to respond not with distant sympathy but with real and tangible action. Supporting the farmer is not an act of charity; it is a sacred duty to our history, our culture, and our shared future.
If the fields of Punjab fall silent, we stand to lose far more than a harvest. We risk erasing a proud chapter from our collective story, a chapter written in toil, hope, and undying perseverance.
