From Dhol to Gold: Caste, Power, and Punjabi Identity

James Baldwin famously said, “If I love you, I have to make you conscious of the things you don't see.” I come back to this quote every time I am still and in observation of who and what am I not thinking about when I am building and hoping to enter in community. I come to this quote every time I think about my own privilege and power and what I can do with it. I come back to this quote when I think about my own culture and holding complexity for all the things I witness. There’s no denying it: many parts of Punjabi culture, including our music, that have this magnetic energy that gets under your skin (no wonder Bollywood loves stealing our songs). From the dhol beat dropping in songs to the banter in our lyrics, Punjabi songs hold the heart of our community, the pulse of who we are. But as much as we love the energy they give, especially Bhangra songs, I’ve always thought about the deeper layers of all the things we don’t talk about. The language we use and the language we allow to continue being used. The dynamics and history at play that we refuse to acknowledge. And that history isn't just about celebration—it’s about power, identity, and the social structures that shape us.

If you’ve grown up around Punjabi music, you know that a lot of it centers around upper-caste, and predominately Jatt pride. You’ve heard it in song after song from Jatt Di Pasand to Jatt Da Muqabla, the list goes on. It’s seen as an anthem of strength and success. But beneath that pride lies a deeper truth: the Jatt identity is rooted in land ownership and power, a legacy that not everyone shares. For many, Jatt isn’t just a word for a farmer; it is a symbol of dominance, a caste that historically controlled Punjab’s land and resources. What feels like cultural pride to some, is a painful symbol of exclusion to others.

While we dance to those beats, we must ask ourselves: who is being celebrated, and who is being erased? The dominance of upper-caste narratives in music does not reflect the struggles of Dalit communities, of Chamars, of lower-caste Punjabi folks who have long been pushed to the margins. A song at the expense of others is not just a song, it is a repetition of history. And yet, in the heat of a party, in the sway of a dance floor, people will tell me, "it’s just music." Is it? Or is it a beat that echoes deeper, carrying the weight of privilege?

But power and pride don’t just stop at music. They usually as umbrellas of supremacy holds extensions in other realms of our lives. For me, I also see it in the way we put importance on receiving, wearing, and accessorizing ourselves with material goods such as gold. If there's one thing you’ll notice in Punjabi culture, it’s that gold is everywhere. From heavy chains and rings to the bridal jewelry passed down through generations, I have seen that gold in every generation is seen as an ultimate marker of success. It glows on wedding days, in music videos, in everyday adornment. It is more than metal—it is attributed to legacy.

Gold serves as both a flex and a symbol of respect. For many Punjabi families, it’s more than luxury: it’s a tangible marker of success. The more gold you possess, the more you’ve ‘made it.’ But here’s the truth: as much as we revere gold, its distribution is far from equal. For some, it’s a symbol of status and wealth, while for others, it highlights the deep-seated inequities that have grown over time. Gold becomes a reminder that not everyone has the same opportunities to build wealth or pass down those markers of success. It is as much about inheritance as it is about hard work and yet not everyone has been allowed to inherit.

Recently, there’s been a growing narrative online about Indian women owning 11% of the world’s gold. So I have to ask, which Indian women? This statement is tossed around as if it speaks for all, but access to gold—like land, like power—is deeply tied to caste and class. It is not the laboring women in Punjab’s fields who hold this wealth. It is not the Dalit women whose generational prosperity was stolen long before they could dream of it. When we say “Indian women own 11% of the world’s gold,” we must ask: who does this really include? And who gets left out of that claim?

When I think of the interconnectedness of all of this and the questions I hold, I often come back to Jose Rizal’s phrase of, “no history no self — know history, know self.” Punjab isn’t whole anymore. Partition ripped it apart, leaving scars that still dictate whose voices get heard and whose struggles get ignored. Punjab was split between India and Pakistan, severing communities, histories, and futures. Sikhs, Hindus, and Muslims all suffered from the colonial violence that forced these borders upon them. And within that fractured land, caste and class continued to dictate who would thrive and who would barely survive. Generational wealth such as land, gold, influence did not trickle down when the dust settled. It stayed where it always had, while others were left with nothing. So when we celebrate Punjab, when we blast our music and flex our gold, we must ask: which Punjab? Whose culture? Whose history?

Gold in Punjabi culture is both a beacon and a burden. It shines with accomplishment, yet casts shadows of exclusion. It is a symbol of success, but also of systemic inequity. For some, it is an heirloom passed down with ease; for others, it is a dream deferred, something that takes lifetimes of struggle to attain.

The truth is, gold like the language we choose to include in our music isn’t just an accessory. It is a mirror to the power dynamics that shape us. It reflects caste, class, and the histories we carry. As much as we celebrate its place in our culture, we must also confront its deeper meaning: that it is not, and has never been, an equal inheritance.

But acknowledgment alone isn’t enough. What good is gold if it is built on the exclusion of others? What good is culture if it thrives on silence? If our pride rests on another’s erasure, then it isn’t pride, it is complicity. The beats we dance to and the gold we wear hold history, and it is up to us to decide what we do with that weight. Do we let it settle into the cracks of our past, or do we break it apart and forge something new? Not just a Punjab that sings of power, but one that redistributes it. A Punjab where worth is not measured in what we inherit, but in what we build together.