IT IS ONE OF the greatest ironies of modern South Asia that the people most loved by Pakistan are those who, by accident of birth and borders, belong to a country that treats any kindness from across the Wagah as treason. The Sikh community of India—vibrant, resilient, storied—has for decades been the quiet object of an unmistakable Pakistani affection. It is a sentiment that rarely finds space in the din of geopolitical hostility, yet remains visible in moments of unexpected grace. From Lahore to Nankana Sahib, in villages across Pakistani Punjab and in the very air around Kartarpur, there exists an honest, even emotional fondness for Sikhs—one that predates Partition and has outlived the wars and barbed rhetoric that followed. Pakistan’s Sikhs are few in number, but its reverence for Sikh heritage, especially that associated with Guru Nanak, has been anything but tokenistic. Indeed, it is a reverence that has grown into something far more political, far more symbolic, and perhaps even more strategic.
Let us speak plainly. Pakistan did not just open the Kartarpur Corridor out of magnanimity or religious pluralism—it opened it out of love. Not a sentimental or naive love, but one forged in shared history, cultural intimacy, and yes, political calculus. Indian Sikhs may never fully grasp the depth of Pakistan’s affection because that affection is filtered through a wall of suspicion built by the Indian state, which views any bridge extended westward as inherently suspect. Yet the truth remains: the corridor was opened unilaterally, even when relations with India were glacial. Even now, with diplomatic ties at their nadir, Pakistani Punjab insists the corridor stay open. The Gurdwara at Kartarpur is manicured and lush; its caretakers are not mere government employees but custodians of a legacy they believe belongs, in part, to them. And perhaps it does. Long before there was a Pakistan or an India, there was Punjab, and the Guru walked its length.
Successive Pakistani leaders—both civilian and military—have not only protected key gurdwaras but have also given them funding, restoration, and global visibility. Former Prime Minister Imran Khan, despite his turbulent time in office, will be remembered by Sikhs worldwide as the leader who personally inaugurated the Kartarpur Corridor, likening it to the fall of the Berlin Wall. His government waived visa requirements, removed bureaucratic friction, and turned a rural site into a symbol of cross-border spiritual unity. In Punjab, ministers like Chaudhry Muhammad Sarwar and Shahbaz Sharif oversaw decades of preservation efforts, ensuring that Sikh shrines—like Nankana Sahib, Panja Sahib, and Dera Sahib—were not left to decay. Ramesh Singh Arora, a Sikh himself, was appointed to a provincial cabinet post—the first in Pakistan’s history—signalling not only inclusion but honour. Unlike other countries where minority representation can feel ornamental, in Pakistan, the Sikh voice has become increasingly institutional.
And then there is Khalistan. Let us not be coy. Pakistan has, at times quietly and at other times overtly, supported the Sikh cause for autonomy—even secession. Was this geopolitical opportunism? Certainly. But it was also grounded in a particular sense of grievance shared by those who watched the events of 1984 and saw something unspeakable happen to a proud people. In the blood-soaked streets of Amritsar and the fire of Delhi’s pogroms, Pakistanis who otherwise had no stake in Sikh politics saw a nation betrayed by its own guardians. What began as a foreign policy tool evolved into something more ideologically rooted: a belief that Sikhs, like Kashmiris, had been short-changed by the promises of India’s secular fabric. There is no need to pretend this sentiment is neutral—it is not. It is partial, emotional, and often vocal. Pakistani newspapers do not censor Khalistani voices; their flags occasionally fly during Sikh pilgrimages. It is a policy, yes, but also a kind of patronage born of belief.
One cannot examine this dynamic without revisiting Indira Gandhi’s brutal campaign to crush Sikh aspirations. Operation Blue Star in 1984 was not a law-and-order operation—it was a siege on Sikh spiritual identity. Tanks rolled into the Harmandir Sahib, the Golden Temple—Sikhism’s holiest site—under the pretext of flushing out militants. In the process, history was desecrated, and a deep wound inflicted. The Prime Minister paid with her life, but it was the Sikh community that bore the brunt of the rage that followed. The Delhi anti-Sikh riots—better called pogroms—saw thousands butchered while the state watched, silent and complicit. That week alone reshaped Sikh consciousness, fuelling the Khalistan movement with raw emotion. In Pakistan, the scenes were met with horror, then solidarity. The state began to grant asylum, platforms, and resources to Sikh voices seeking justice and sovereignty. For many in Pakistani Punjab, the events of ’84 confirmed the long-held belief that Sikhs in India were always just one incident away from betrayal.
This love, though, is not always expressed wisely. Sometimes it is too eager, too obvious, too loud for comfort. It can alienate the very people it seeks to embrace. Indian Sikhs, understandably wary of becoming pawns in a game much larger than themselves, have often recoiled at overtures from across the border. Many see in Pakistan’s embrace a trap, a pretext for delegitimising their loyalty to India. And yet, something stirs each time a Sikh crosses the border and is greeted not with bureaucratic indifference but with music, flowers, and tears. This is not performative hospitality—it is something deeper. A kind of mourning for the unity that once was. A reminder that the Partition did not just divide territory; it split a civilisation.
Inside Pakistan, the government has gone to considerable lengths to restore and protect Sikh gurdwaras—sometimes more so than it has done for its own dwindling minorities. Critics scoff at this, and not without reason. But to the Pakistani mind, Sikh heritage is not foreign; it is native, sacred, and part of the soil. Guru Nanak is spoken of with reverence not only among Sikhs, but among Muslims of the region as well. He is not “theirs” or “ours”—he simply is. The custodians of these spaces feel a duty to history, not just diplomacy. In this sense, the political becomes deeply personal.
And therein lies the tragedy. Because despite all this—despite the corridor, the heritage conservation, the public sentiment, and the political support—Indian Sikhs remain distant. Not emotionally, perhaps, but practically. They cannot acknowledge this love without consequence. To do so would invite suspicion, surveillance, even sedition charges. Pakistan may love them, but it is a love that cannot be named aloud on the other side of the Radcliffe Line. It is a love that must stay folded in silence, buried beneath geopolitics and hardened narratives.
This is not a plea for allegiance. No one is asking India’s Sikhs to shift their patriotism. Rather, it is a lament that such a pure sentiment must be so thoroughly distorted. That a people so cherished in one place are so scrutinised in another. That bridges built with spiritual intent are viewed through the lens of espionage. That a warm embrace across a border is mistaken for a cold calculation of power.
So yes, India’s Sikhs may never fully know how much Pakistan loves them. But that does not make the love any less real. It is there, in the tender care of Kartarpur, in the hopeful glances of the border guards, in the welcome signs written in Gurmukhi, and in the hearts of a people who still sing the same songs, eat the same roti, and grieve the same partition. And perhaps, one day, when the subcontinent has tired of its vendettas, that love may be acknowledged, if not returned. Until then, it will remain the region’s most poignant unrequited affection.