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On the outskirts of Ludhiana, the power looms have slowed. At the dyeing units of Focal Point and the small factories of Jalandhar’s industrial belt, machines sit idle for want of hands. In the villages of Doaba, farmers are anxious: paddy sowing season has begun, but there are too few workers to transplant the crop.
Weeks after missiles fell near Punjab’s heartland in May, large numbers of migrant workers are yet to return. Despite official reassurances that peace has been restored, landlords and industrialists across Punjab say work hasn’t picked up.
It may not be permanent, but the absence is already being felt.
Charanjeet Singh, a farmer in Kathar village, Jalandhar district, has been scrambling to find workers. “The harvest had just ended, and labourers were still around,” he said. “But after the blackouts, many quietly packed up and left for their villages around May 8. They didn’t even tell us. They still haven’t come back.”
With the paddy sowing season underway, Singh worries the delay could set off a chain reaction of losses. “We’re calling them, but if they don’t come, we may have to bring people from somewhere else. ”
"Even though the situation has improved, once workers reach home, they usually stay back for a few days with their families. They won’t return soon,” said Harban Lal, who runs a textile dyeing unit in Ludhiana.
"Labour absenteeism has hit us badly," added a garment exporter in the city. “We’re offering higher wages, free meals, even transport — but the fear is too deep-rooted.”
That fear took root in the days following the April 22 terrorist attack in Pahalgam, Kashmir.
In its aftermath, a brief but intense flare-up between India and Pakistan unfolded. Between May 7 and 10, missiles and drones were launched across Punjab, triggering blackouts and panic. Entire stretches of rural Punjab—home to roughly 3.9 million migrant workers—were plunged into darkness.
When the attacks began to unfold, it became the second state gripped by uncertainty. Many of these workers live and work on farms, in nearby industries, and across the informal economy—often in temporary shelters or rented rooms. As missile strikes hit the region, panic spread through these fragile settlements, reviving an old, familiar dilemma: should they stay and risk it, or return to the uncertainty of home?
“We didn’t sleep at all”
Dhogri is a village near India’s second-largest Air Force base in Adampur — one of the targets during a brief but intense flare-up between India and Pakistan following a terrorist attack in Pahalgam. Multiple drones and missiles were launched toward the base and its surrounding areas between May 7 and 10. Debris landed across farms and homes. Blackouts followed.
On the night of May 9, the base was targeted by multiple drones and missiles. The first strike hit at 1:30 am, with further bombardments reported later that morning. Debris fell not just in military zones but across farmland and residential pockets of the region. Entire villages—including Dhogri—faced power outages and blackouts in the days leading up to and after the attacks.
On the morning of May 10, in the fields of Dhogri village, 50-year-old Ramdevi, who hails from Bahraich in Uttar Pradesh, was out ploughing land to sow ash gourd for a local landlord—just like she had done every other day. But the night before had been anything but ordinary.
At around 1:30 am, a missile struck farmland near the village. Residents described bright flashes, loud explosions, and shockwaves that rattled homes.
"It was terrifying. Everything shook," she recalled. “We didn’t sleep at all. Everyone ran out of their homes and stood outside, frozen. We didn’t know if we’d survive the night.”
“We were constantly getting calls from home to come back,” said Ramdevi. “We were ignoring them, but after that night, we decided we might have to leave.”
And many did.
At railway stations across Amritsar, Jalandhar, Ludhiana, and Pathankot, platforms were swamped with migrant workers from Bihar, Uttar Pradesh, and Chhattisgarh. Long lines, surged ticket prices, and frayed nerves recalled memories of the pandemic exodus. Train fares from Ludhiana – usually Rs 800 – jumped to Rs 2,500. Seats were hard to come by.
“The fear was not just of war but of lockdowns,” said Raj Singh Rajput, president of the Akhil Bharatiya Mazdoor Council in Punjab. “Workers were scared that trains would stop running, just like during COVID-19.”
Some feared missing a chance to get out. Others feared what would happen if they stayed.
The migrants who left
When a ceasefire was announced at 5 pm on May 10, it brought a much-needed sense of relief. Speaking to migrant workers afterwards, many expressed a sense of ease. With the pause in strikes, they began to reconsider leaving and felt work might continue after all.
The migrant workers who left before the ceasefire have triggered a severe labour shortage, delaying sowing, raising input costs, and straining Punjab’s agricultural supply chain. With limited mechanisation, especially for paddy transplantation, the timing couldn’t be worse. The disruption threatens procurement cycles and food security targets in a state already battling groundwater depletion and farm debt.
Industry is hurting too. Ludhiana, Jalandhar, and Batala – hubs for hosiery, bicycle parts, auto components, leather goods, and sports equipment – depend on skilled and semi-skilled migrants. Their sudden exit has disrupted operations.
What makes the crisis more alarming is the gap between official reassurances and public sentiment. The Punjab government insists everything is under control—schools, markets, transport, and civilian life are fully functional. According to Rajput, the fear still lingers, driven largely by viral videos, social media forwards, and unverified rumours that often paint a grimmer picture than reality. “Most of these workers rely on WhatsApp, YouTube, and other social media for updates,” he said. “But these platforms offer little clarity when it’s needed most.”
Security experts confirm drone activity and cross-border intercepts, but no civilian casualties or infrastructure damage. Still, as one senior Amritsar official put it, “Once trust is broken, it’s hard to rebuild — even when there’s no direct threat.”
For the migrant workers who chose to stay back in Punjab, the challenges haven’t ended. Many now face uncertainty over their wages. According to Rajput, the Akhil Bharatiya Mazdoor Council has been receiving multiple complaints each day from workers who say they haven’t been paid for the previous month’s work. “There’s a growing mistrust,” Rajput explained.
“Factory owners are worried that if they release the pending salaries, workers might take the money and leave for good. So they’re holding back payments.” This has left workers in a difficult position — stuck without wages, unable to send money home, and unsure of when or if they’ll be paid.The exodus isn’t limited to daily-wage workers. Students, roadside vendors, construction workers, and even formal-sector employees are heading home, with many saying it’s “just for a few weeks.” But officials worry the longer they stay away, the harder it will be to get them back.
Industrial and farm bodies are urging swift government intervention — reassurance campaigns in border districts, clear messaging, safety helplines, incentives, and coordination with migrants’ home states to encourage returns. The Confederation of Indian Industry (CII) and district-level manufacturing associations have appealed to the state to act urgently. Farmers, too, are demanding measures to ensure labour availability before the transplantation window closes.
“What are we going to eat when we go back?”
The war-like situation revived memories of pandemic-induced trauma among workers, especially the fear that trains, like flights, might stop running, and going home might once again mean walking.
Every migrant TNM spoke to across Punjab after the explosions echoed the same anguish. But going back didn’t seem like an easy choice either. For many, it felt like choosing between a land swiftly turning into a war zone or returning home to unemployment and the constant distress of survival.
“Our livelihoods are rooted in Punjab. Our children, our families—everything is connected to this land. If the situation here worsens, it will deeply affect us,” said Deep Narayan Upadhyay, nearly 60, a farm labourer in Jalandhar district. “If we go to [Uttar] Pradesh, things will only become more difficult there. There will be constant stress about survival. What are we going to eat once we get back?”
In Kangniwal village, where missile shrapnel landed during the attack, Rajender Rawat stood outside his damaged rented house. “Shrapnel tore through the window, smashed the water tank, and even broke the door,” said the migrant from Jharkhand. “My son needs monthly medical treatment here. We’re scared—but we don’t have a vehicle or the money. How are we supposed to leave?”
Local landlords have been watching the situation closely. While migrant workers worried about survival, a different kind of fear loomed over landlords—the fear of losing them altogether. As panic spread among the labourers, landlords grew anxious for another reason: the approaching sowing season of the kharif crop.
“When the explosion happened at 4 in the night, everyone woke up—even the labourers,” said Khushwant Singh, a local landlord. “They were talking about leaving. And they were scared that trains might stop again—just like during the lockdown. What will a poor man do then?” he added. “But we were worried too. What if they all leave? We’ve just finished harvesting, and the sowing season is about to start.”
The constant precarity that defines migrant life
For decades, Punjab’s agrarian and industrial economy has thrived on migrant labour from Uttar Pradesh, Bihar, Jharkhand, and Chhattisgarh. They arrive each season to fill a vacuum created by the state’s outmigration: a rural landscape emptied by dreams of Canada and Australia, rebuilt through the hands of those arriving from the east. But despite their indispensability, these workers live at the edge of villages, of society, and of survival.
The divide between landowning families and migrant workers in Punjab is stark and spatially entrenched. While landlords live in kothis—multi-storey concrete homes with tiled floors and gated compounds—migrants are housed in makeshift structures on the village periphery. These are single-room dwellings built with exposed brick, tin sheets, and tarpaulin, often without toilets, drainage, or secure electricity.
A 2022 study by Azim Premji University found that over 60% of seasonal migrants in Punjab lived in kutcha or semi-permanent housing, with no written rental agreements and little legal recourse. Many stay on land owned by the very landlords who employ them, where a loss of wages can mean eviction, making housing itself an extension of labour insecurity.
Ramdevi, who also lives in one such structure, recalled how the blast shook her house. “Aisa laga jaise chhath hi gir jayegi hum logon par (it felt like the roof was about to collapse on us),” she said.
Even as work resumed and engines sputtered back to life in the fields, the sense of dread remained lodged in the gut, pulsing quietly beneath every chore. Migrant workers returned to their routines. The war had only made visible what already lay buried.
This permanent temporariness has become a defining feature of migrant life in Punjab. And it’s one that has only deepened over time, especially during moments of crisis.
During the 2020 pandemic, this architecture of abandonment became painfully evident. As cities and industries shut down overnight, thousands of migrants in Punjab were stranded without income, transport, or state support. Local resentment swelled too, fuelled by false claims that migrants were spreading the virus or burdening local ration systems.
In villages around Ludhiana, Bathinda, and Amritsar, makeshift homes were razed, belongings dumped onto streets, and workers asked to “go back.”
This fragility has also been met with growing friction from within the state. Many migrants report rising social alienation and casual hostility. In village committees and gurdwaras, murmurs have turned into open complaints: that migrants are “taking over space,” “bringing crime,” or “changing the character” of Punjab’s villages. In some cases, migrants have been excluded from local disaster relief, barred from using public taps, or accused of “taking advantage” during crises.
It is this quiet war—less visible than bombs, but equally damaging—that continues to shape the lives of Punjab’s migrant workers.
Their contribution is central, yet their presence is conditional. They are needed but not wanted. And in moments of emergency, they are first to be blamed and last to be protected.
Even peace, when it returns, is uneven. Landlords rebuild, power is restored, and local families settle back into comfort. But for the migrants, the roof remains loose, the lease remains verbal, and the question of belonging remains unanswered.
They are, and have always been, the first to be shaken and the last to be counted.
Their precarity is not just circumstantial. It is structural. It is sustained.
And in the sprawling story of Punjab’s prosperity—one fed by farms, factories, and foreign remittances—migrant workers remain at the very bottom of the chain. Unseen, unprotected, and unwanted until needed.