Punjab’s Unending Battle for Chandigarh: History, Betrayal and the Politics of a Capital Denied
The political storm that erupted in Punjab in November 2025, after the Union government listed the Constitution (131st Amendment) Bill for introduction, was not surprising to anyone familiar with Punjab’s historical memory. The proposed amendment aimed to include Chandigarh under Article 240 of the Constitution, which would give the President authority to issue regulations for the city with the force of law. Although the Ministry of Home Affairs rushed to clarify that the government had no intention of introducing the Bill in the Winter Session and that no final decision had been taken, the damage had already been done. For Punjabis, Chandigarh is not just a Union Territory. It is the living symbol of a promise made and never fulfilled. It is the monument of a wound that never healed.
To understand the uproar, one must go back long before Chandigarh existed. The story begins in the twilight of the British Raj, when Sikh leaders were negotiating their place in a soon-to-be-independent India. In July 1946, at the All India Congress Committee meeting in Calcutta, Jawaharlal Nehru addressed Sikh leaders directly and declared that the Sikh community was entitled to special consideration. He added that he saw no difficulty in creating a region in the North where Sikhs could experience the glow of freedom. These assurances were not vague gestures. They were repeated by other senior Congress leaders in the months leading to Partition. They told Sikh leaders that their identity, political rights and autonomy would be protected in independent India.
During this period, the Muslim League was also trying to court Sikh leadership. Historical accounts suggest that Muhammad Ali Jinnah proposed the idea of a Sikh homeland, sometimes referred to later as Sikhistan, which would either exist as a semi-autonomous region within Pakistan or as a buffer between the two new nations. For a community anxious about being a minority in both India and Pakistan, these proposals held appeal. Yet Sikh leaders refused them. They believed that the Congress, with its secular outlook, was more trustworthy. They placed their faith in the assurances of Nehru and other Congress figures. This faith would later become the foundation of bitterness.
After Independence, when Master Tara Singh reminded Nehru of the promises made before 1947, Nehru reportedly replied that circumstances had changed, and this became the touchstone of Sikh political disappointment. They encapsulated a deeper pattern in which Delhi made commitments during moments of political vulnerability but retreated once it consolidated power.
This sense of betrayal was magnified by the trauma of Partition. Punjab witnessed the bloodiest migrations in human history. Entire villages vanished. Families were torn apart. Among the many losses, the Sikh community lost Lahore, the majestic capital of undivided Punjab. Lahore was more than an administrative center. It was the cultural heart of Punjabi literature, music, religion and politics. Its loss was an emotional catastrophe. In its wake, the Indian state decided to construct a new capital for Indian Punjab.
Chandigarh emerged from this crucible of pain and hope. The government chose the foothills of the Shivalik range as the site for a new, modern city. Designed by Le Corbusier and a team of international architects, Chandigarh was envisioned as a beacon of independence and modernity. But its construction came at a steep price: twenty-eight villages in the Puadh region were uprooted. Families lost ancestral farmlands. Communities were displaced. Although some compensation was offered, it could not replace the emotional and cultural loss. Yet Punjabis accepted this sacrifice. They believed Chandigarh was theirs, created to replace the capital they lost in Partition.
But while Chandigarh was taking shape, another struggle was unfolding. The Punjabi Suba movement, led by the Akali Dal, demanded a Punjabi-speaking state. Across India, linguistic states were being formed, but in Punjab, the demand became contentious. Hindu leaders of the Arya Samaj and the Jana Sangh argued that Punjabi was merely a dialect, that Gurmukhi was a religious script and that Punjabi Suba would create a Sikh majority. The Centre resisted the demand fiercely.
Tensions escalated in July 1955, when police entered the Darbar Sahib complex, beat peaceful protesters and arrested them. This violation of the Golden Temple’s sanctity was seen as a deliberate act of state aggression. It marked the first time in independent India that the Sikh community felt its religious institutions were not safe from the government. This incident cemented the perception that the Centre viewed Sikh demands through a lens of suspicion.
In 1960, Sant Fateh Singh launched a hunger strike demanding Punjabi Suba. He ended his fast after receiving assurances from Prime Minister Nehru. Once again, the promises evaporated without tangible action. Eventually, in 1966, the Punjab Reorganisation Act created a new Punjabi-speaking state. Yet the manner of reorganisation felt like a second betrayal. Haryana was carved out. Himachal Pradesh was expanded. Several Punjabi-speaking areas were kept out of Punjab. And Chandigarh,funded by Punjab, built on Punjabi soil, envisioned as the symbolic successor to Lahore, was declared a Union Territory and made the joint capital of Punjab and Haryana.
For Punjabis, this decision was devastating. Just twenty years after losing Lahore, they lost their new capital too.
The anger did not subside. On 17 December 1966, Sant Fateh Singh began another hunger strike demanding Chandigarh’s restoration to Punjab. He announced that he would self-immolate on 27 December if no action was taken. But on the day of his planned sacrifice, he withdrew the threat after receiving new assurances. When these assurances also failed to materialise, frustration deepened further.
In 1969, Darshan Singh Pheruman began a hunger strike on 15 August demanding that the Centre honour its commitments. For seventy-four days, he rejected food, water and medical intervention. He eventually attained martyrdom, becoming Shaheed Darshan Singh Pheruman. His sacrifice gave Chandigarh an almost sacred emotional significance in Punjabi political consciousness.
The legacy of Darshan Singh Pheruman’s martyrdom shaped Punjab’s political consciousness throughout the 1970s. Chandigarh was no longer seen simply as an administrative capital. It had become a symbol of dignity, resistance, constitutional justice and cultural survival. Each generation inherited the narrative of sacrifice that Sikh leaders had made for the rightful claim over Chandigarh. This sentiment grew stronger with each unfulfilled promise.
In 1973, the Akali Dal articulated a vision for federal restructuring in the Anandpur Sahib Resolution. The Resolution demanded greater autonomy for states and affirmed that Chandigarh must be transferred to Punjab. Although the Centre and mainstream political discourse framed the Resolution as separatist, the document itself was focused on federalism and constitutional rights. The insistence on Chandigarh’s transfer was rooted in a simple fact: the city had been built for Punjab, on Punjabi land, with Punjabi resources.
When the Akali leadership launched the Dharam Yudh Morcha in 1982, Chandigarh re-emerged as one of the central demands. The Morcha challenged what was seen as systematic marginalisation of Punjab. Alongside concerns about river water distribution, state autonomy and agricultural rights, Chandigarh remained a symbol of unresolved commitments. For the activists who joined the Morcha, Chandigarh represented the Centre’s failure to uphold the trust it had once sought from the Sikh community.
Then came a moment of rare hope. In 1985, following the tragedy of Operation Blue Star and the turbulent political conditions that followed, the Rajiv–Longowal Accord was signed. Among its provisions was a clear commitment: Chandigarh would be transferred to Punjab on 26 January 1986. The announcement was greeted with cautious optimism. After decades of agitation, martyrdom and political negotiation, Punjab finally seemed on the verge of regaining its rightful capital. But history repeated itself. Powerful political actors in Haryana opposed the transfer. Mobilisations occurred, pressure increased and negotiations stalled.
The assassination of Harchand Singh Longowal, only weeks after signing the Accord, was the final blow. The political climate changed drastically, and the Centre retreated. The transfer of Chandigarh, once again, remained on paper. Not a single clause of the agreement that favoured Punjab was implemented. For many Punjabis, this was the most painful betrayal since 1947. It proved that even formal written agreements were not enough to ensure justice for Punjab.
Through the 1990s and early 2000s, the issue of Chandigarh periodically resurfaced but never received concrete action. Successive governments made statements that Chandigarh would eventually be given to Punjab, but each administration avoided taking decisive steps. The political logic was obvious. No major national party wanted to alienate voters in Haryana, nor did they want to lose administrative control over a strategically located Union Territory.
However, even when the issue was not dominating headlines, the sense of injustice remained alive in the Punjabi psyche. Chandigarh was more than a capital lost. It had become a symbol of Punjab’s unequal place within the federal structure of India. It was a reminder that promises made to Punjab were negotiable, contingent and easily withdrawn. It was a constant presence in the political memory of Punjab, resurfacing in moments of crisis, agitation and assertion.
This historical memory became sharper in the last decade. Multiple administrative decisions taken by the Centre intensified the feeling that Chandigarh was being systematically detached from Punjab. The most significant shift occurred in 2022 when the Central government decided to replace the Punjab Service Rules with Central Service Rules for Chandigarh employees. For Punjabis, this was not a minor administrative adjustment. The decision removed one of the last practical markers of Punjab’s influence over Chandigarh’s governance. It symbolised an accelerating trend of centralisation.
Alongside administrative changes, another troubling development occurred. Punjabi, once visible across Chandigarh’s public institutions, began to disappear from everyday administration. Punjabi was removed as a compulsory subject in many schools. Government documents, recruitment rules and official circulars began to appear without Punjabi translations. Job requirements that once mandated Punjabi proficiency were gradually eliminated. Public signage that once displayed Punjabi began to shift towards English and Hindi.
To Punjab, these gradual omissions represented more than bureaucratic choices. They were a cultural erasure. They signalled an attempt to detach Chandigarh from its Punjabi identity. For a city built on Punjabi sacrifices, whose foundations lay in uprooted Punjabi villages, such developments were deeply hurtful. The loss of Punjabi visibility was not merely symbolic; it represented the weakening of Punjab’s voice in the public life of its own capital.
The situation was aggravated when the Centre dissolved the Senate and Syndicate of Panjab University. Panjab University is not just an academic institution. It is one of the most prestigious and historically significant universities in the region, intimately tied to Punjab’s intellectual life. The dissolution of its democratic bodies set off immediate protests. Students, teachers and alumni saw the move as another attempt to reduce Punjab’s influence over an institution that carried its cultural and academic legacy. Although the order was eventually withdrawn, the incident deepened the distrust between Punjab and the Centre.
It was against this backdrop of accumulated grievances that the 131st Amendment controversy emerged in 2025. When the parliamentary bulletin listed the Bill for introduction, it ignited widespread protests in Punjab. Political parties, except the BJP, condemned the proposal. The Punjab Chief Minister denounced it as an attack on Punjab’s rights. Akali Dal announced emergency meetings. Congress leaders described it as an assault on federalism. Even the Punjab BJP, caught between party loyalty and regional sentiment, stated publicly that Chandigarh belonged to Punjab.
The Centre attempted to diffuse tensions by insisting that the proposal was merely under consideration. But the damage had already been done. For Punjabis, this was not an isolated administrative move. It was part of a long pattern of centralisation, marginalisation and erosion of Punjab’s historical claims.
The protests that followed were not merely political gatherings. They were expressions of collective memory. When thousands of Punjabis broke through the gates of Panjab University in protest, their slogans echoed decades of resistance. The chants carried the weight of history. “Mithi dhun rabab di, Panjab University Panjab di” and “Soohah phull gulab da, Chandigarh Panjab da” were not casual rhymes. They were affirmations of identity and declarations of belonging. They connected the present moment to the sacrifices of Master Tara Singh, Sant Fateh Singh, and Shaheed Darshan Singh Pheruman.
These protests also revealed something deeper. They showed that Punjab’s relationship with Chandigarh cannot be reduced to a legal question. It is a bond that exists across emotional, historical and cultural domains. It is a bond reinforced by pain and sacrifice. Each generation inherits the memory of Lahore’s loss, the displacement of villages to build Chandigarh, the broken promises of 1966, the martyrdom of Pheruman, and the unfulfilled commitments of the Rajiv–Longowal Accord. Chandigarh is the emotional repository of these memories.
In this sense, Punjab’s struggle for Chandigarh is not about administrative control but about political dignity. It is about the right to self-definition. It is about the recognition of historical injustice. It is about asserting that Punjab’s sacrifices cannot be erased by bureaucratic decisions. Chandigarh, in the Punjabi imagination, represents the right to be heard, the right to be respected and the right to reclaim an identity that has been repeatedly undermined.
The political meaning of Chandigarh deepened further as the Centre continued to expand its influence over Union Territories across India. For many Punjabis, the gradual shift toward greater central control in UTs like Jammu and Kashmir, Ladakh and Puducherry offered another reminder of what could eventually unfold in Chandigarh. Political centralisation did not occur suddenly, nor was it always explicitly announced. Instead, it emerged through seemingly technical changes, administrative restructuring and legal amendments described as procedural alignments. But in Punjab, every such move was read through the long history of Chandigarh’s contested status.
The attempt to place Chandigarh under Article 240 in 2025 must be understood in this larger national context. Article 240 empowers the President to issue binding regulations for Union Territories without requiring parliamentary debate. In the case of Chandigarh, which has historically been governed through a delicate balance between Punjab’s laws and central oversight, this shift would have been dramatic. Punjab’s Members of Parliament would have lost even the limited space they currently had to voice objections, propose amendments, or negotiate changes in the legislative framework for the city. It would have further diluted the already-thin thread connecting Chandigarh to Punjab’s democratic influence.
This is why even the Centre’s reassurance did little to calm anxieties. The Ministry of Home Affairs insisted that the proposal did not intend to change governance structures or alter Punjab’s relationship with Chandigarh. It also said that adequate consultations would precede any decision. Yet the political memory of Punjab made these assurances hard to trust. Over the decades, Punjab had heard promises too many times. Each time, the result had been disappointment. Each promise, whether made by Nehru, by Indira Gandhi, by Rajiv Gandhi or by successive Prime Ministers in later decades, dissolved before materialising. The emotional fatigue caused by this repeated pattern cannot be dismissed as political rhetoric. It is a lived experience in the state’s collective memory.
This is why even seemingly minor administrative decisions in Chandigarh invite strong reactions. When Punjabi is removed from signage, Punjab reads it as cultural sidelining. When Central Service Rules replace Punjab Service Rules, Punjab sees it as a structural weakening of its claim over the city. When decisions at Panjab University appear to reduce democratic governance or state involvement, Punjab interprets it as an effort to sever the institution from its cultural roots. Chandigarh functions as a mirror that reflects Punjab’s anxieties, fears and frustrations.
Punjab’s anxieties are also rooted in the fact that Chandigarh was not an inherited space. It was produced through trauma, sacrifice and destruction. Twenty-eight Punjabi villages were erased to make way for the city. Families were uprooted and compensated poorly. The Punjabi Suba agitation left deep wounds. The 1955 assault on Darbar Sahib left a permanent scar on Sikh-state relations. When these historical memories converge, they create a powerful emotional narrative in which Chandigarh occupies a central place. It is not a city that Punjab merely governs. It is a city that Punjab built from the ashes of Partition. It is a reminder of everything Punjab endured and everything it aspired to rebuild.
This is why contemporary protests over Chandigarh draw upon imagery from the past. When protesters chant slogans linking Panjab University to Punjab and asserting Chandigarh’s emotional ownership, they are drawing upon these layers of memory. When they reference Pheruman’s sacrifice or recall the unfulfilled promise of the Rajiv–Longowal Accord, they are connecting present grievances with unresolved historical trauma. Chandigarh acts as the thread tying together generations of Punjabi assertion.
The politics of Chandigarh also intersects with broader concerns about federalism in India. States like Tamil Nadu, Kerala and West Bengal have repeatedly raised concerns about central overreach, but Punjab’s experience is particularly unique. Punjab is the only state in modern India to have lost three capitals - Lahore, Shimla (1947-1953), and Chandigarh. It is the only state in which a capital built exclusively for it was taken away almost immediately after its creation. It is the only state where a capital was promised through multiple formal agreements but never delivered. The anxiety surrounding Chandigarh is therefore closely linked to Punjab’s belief that the Indian Union has historically marginalised it within the federal structure.
The erosion of federal principles has had direct economic and political implications for Punjab. The river water disputes, where Punjab’s water was allocated to other states despite its objections, remain unresolved. The weakened fiscal autonomy of states under GST has further deepened concerns. The experience of the farm laws, which were introduced without consulting Punjab, reinforced the belief that the Centre does not recognise Punjab’s economic and political sensitivities. When placed in this larger context, Chandigarh becomes both a symbol and a battleground for Punjab’s federal rights.
In this environment, even Punjab’s own political parties find it difficult to break from public sentiment. Regardless of differences, all regional parties in Punjab publicly assert that Chandigarh belongs to Punjab. Even national parties, when operating within Punjab, take positions that contradict their central leadership. During the 2025 controversy, the Punjab unit of the BJP was forced to reassure the public that Chandigarh was an integral part of Punjab and that any confusion would be resolved. This rare convergence among political actors shows how deeply embedded the issue is in Punjab’s collective identity.
The protests that erupted across Chandigarh and Punjab in late 2025 were therefore not simply a response to a bill. They were the culmination of decades of unresolved tension, accumulated grief and political frustration. Thousands of protesters who surged onto the Panjab University campus did not come as isolated individuals. They came as inheritors of a historical struggle. They evoked past sacrifices naturally and spontaneously. Young students shouted slogans that referenced events from the 1950s and 1960s, events that occurred long before they were born. This intergenerational transmission of political memory is what makes Chandigarh a uniquely powerful issue.
At the core of this issue lies a contradiction. Chandigarh was envisioned as Punjab’s healing balm, a symbol of modernity designed to help the state recover from Partition. Yet through complex historical developments, administrative decisions and political manoeuvres, it became a source of pain rather than healing. A city built to represent rebirth instead became the geographical expression of Punjab’s broken trust. The contradiction lies not in Punjab’s emotions but in the gap between what Chandigarh was meant to be and what it ultimately became.
Chandigarh today is a space marked by duality. On one hand, it is admired as a clean, organised, modern city with a high quality of life. On the other hand, it is perceived by many Punjabis as a space of unresolved injustice. This duality makes Chandigarh a difficult subject in national politics. The Centre sees it as a Union Territory requiring efficient administration. Punjab sees it as a promise waiting to be fulfilled. The gulf between these perspectives continues to widen, not because the administrative system has changed, but because historical wounds have not been acknowledged.
The path to resolving the Chandigarh issue is complicated. Any move towards transferring the city to Punjab will face political resistance from Haryana and logistical challenges related to governance. At the same time, maintaining the status quo will only deepen Punjab’s sense of alienation. The issue requires not only legal or administrative clarity but a historically informed approach that recognises Punjab’s emotional and cultural investment in the city.
What often goes unacknowledged is that for Punjabis, Chandigarh represents more than territorial ownership. It symbolises fairness, recognition and historical justice. It embodies their right to self-definition within the Union. Chandigarh’s unresolved status continues to remind Punjabis that their aspirations have been repeatedly sidelined. Unless these emotional dimensions are addressed, the political dispute will remain intractable.
The 2025 controversy demonstrated that Punjab’s relationship with Chandigarh has not faded with time. On the contrary, it has grown stronger as each generation inherits the memories of the last. Chandigarh stands as the intersection of Punjab’s past traumas and present struggles. It carries the emotional imprint of Partition, the political conflicts of the 1950s and 1960s, the unrest of the 1980s, and the administrative anxieties of the present. It is a city that holds meaning far beyond its physical space.
Punjab’s battle for Chandigarh therefore continues not because of territorial obsession, but because Chandigarh represents an unhealed wound at the heart of Punjab’s history. It reminds the community of promises made before independence, of villages sacrificed for its construction, of leaders who died demanding justice, and of accords that were never implemented. Chandigarh stands as the embodiment of Punjab’s persistent fight for recognition and dignity.
Until India confronts this history honestly and acknowledges the depth of Punjab’s emotional and political connection to the city, Chandigarh will remain a contested space. It will remain the symbol of a promise interrupted, a capital built and then taken away, a story that repeats itself across generations. Chandigarh is not just a city. It is Punjab’s memory, Punjab’s loss and Punjab’s unyielding hope.