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12 articles
She wears a chunni to the gurdwara on Sunday and leads a board meeting on Monday. She's raising her kids with Punjabi values and also setting boundaries her own mother never had language for. Punjabi-American women across generations are done choosing between who their families want them to be and who they actually are — and they're building something entirely new in the space between.
Punjabi-American artists are filling venues from Toronto to London and landing on Spotify's global charts — but getting back to Punjab to perform, collaborate, or even record? That's a whole other story. We dug into the bureaucratic, financial, and cultural walls that keep diaspora artists locked out of the homeland they're busy making famous.
For queer and trans Punjabi-Americans, the relationship between faith, family, and identity is rarely simple — but it's rarely one-dimensional either. Across the US, a quiet revolution is building sangats, stages, and sacred spaces that refuse to ask anyone to choose between who they are and where they come from.
Second and third-generation Punjabi-Americans are no longer apologizing for slipping between English, Punjabi, and Hinglish mid-sentence. Across classrooms, boardrooms, and content studios, that linguistic dance is quietly becoming one of the sharpest tools in their arsenal.
For a new generation of Punjabi-Americans, the big fat desi wedding is getting a thoughtful makeover. From scrapping overpriced mehndi packages to weaving in interfaith rituals, couples across the US are asking a harder question: whose celebration is this, really?
In living rooms from Fresno to New Jersey, Punjabi grandmothers are learning to swipe right — and not just on shaadi.com. Explore how community elders in the US are blending centuries-old matchmaking wisdom with the chaotic, swipeable world of modern dating apps, and why their role is more relevant than ever.
For Punjabi-American men, the decision to wear a turban in public spaces is rarely simple — it carries decades of fear, pride, and hard-won dignity. From airport security lines to corporate boardrooms to concert stages, the dastar is becoming an act of quiet revolution. Shreya Punjab explores how a new generation is reclaiming what it means to be visibly, unapologetically Punjabi in America.
Across the US, a quiet revolution is happening in Punjabi kitchens — one where the menu doubles as a history book. Chefs and restaurant owners are using food to reclaim the stories that 1947 tried to erase, turning every plate into an act of remembrance and resilience.
For a generation of Punjabi-American kids who grew up hiding their heritage in school hallways, the turban and dupatta are suddenly the coolest things in the room. What changed? Everything — and it started with them deciding they were done apologizing for who they are.
From thick kajal rims to hand-embroidered phulkari dupattas, Punjabi beauty traditions are no longer staying within South Asian circles — they're showing up on runways, in Sephora hauls, and all over Gen Z's TikTok FYPs. Punjabi-American makeup artists and designers are leading the charge, blending ancestral aesthetics with the kind of bold, unapologetic energy that American fashion has been quietly craving. This is not a trend. This is a reckoning.
For second-generation Punjabi-Americans, the kitchen has become something far more meaningful than a place to make dinner. From pop-up dhabas in Brooklyn to TikTok recipe threads that go viral overnight, young cooks are turning their grandmothers' recipes into acts of love, resistance, and cultural survival.
For decades, the stories of Partition lived in whispers — in things grandparents didn't say, in photographs kept face-down in drawers. Now, a generation of Punjabi-American artists is pulling those silences into the open, transforming inherited trauma into theater, painting, music, and poetry that speaks to diaspora communities hungry to finally hear their own history told out loud.