When the DJ played —a song from 2011 that everyone knew the words to—Simran leaned in and shouted over the bass: “This is the best one. It never gets old.”
Gippy never did decide on a single “best” Punjabi song. But driving back to Surrey after the wedding, he built a playlist he titled Highway to Punjab .
He realized the best Punjabi song isn't a track. It’s the feeling of being a Punjabi anywhere in the world—whether you’re plowing a field in Majha, or driving an 18-wheeler through a Canadian blizzard. The song is just the vehicle. The destination is always home . Best Punjabi songs
Then, late at night on the Coquihalla Highway—a stretch of road famous for its deadly curves—he scrolled to a sad song he usually skipped. . But the real knife in the heart was “Titliaan” by Harvy Sandhu (2021) —a song that sounds upbeat but hides a lyric about a love that flies away like a butterfly.
The year was 2012, and for , a 19-year-old truck driver in Surrey, British Columbia, the phrase “Best Punjabi Songs” wasn’t a playlist—it was a lifeline. When the DJ played —a song from 2011
Then, at his cousin’s wedding in Brampton, the DJ dropped . The floor exploded. Gippy saw an old friend, a girl named Simran who worked at the same depot. She pulled him onto the floor. As “High Rated Gabru” by Guru Randhawa transitioned into “Lemonade” by Diljit , Gippy forgot the highway. He forgot the broken engagement.
It started with (the energy of a new beginning). It moved through “So High” (the confidence of the diaspora). It paused on “Ikk Kudi” (the one that got away). It ended with “Mithi Mithi” (the sweetness of coming home). He realized the best Punjabi song isn't a track
Gippy had left his village near Ludhiana two years prior, following his father’s footsteps into the long-haul trucking business. The Canadian highways were vast and lonely. His only companion was a binder of scratched CDs and a USB stick dangling from the stereo of his Volvo truck. Every night, parked at a rest stop near Hope, he would scroll through the same folders. He was searching for the perfect song—not just a beat to tap the steering wheel to, but a song that could collapse the 11,000 kilometers between his truck’s cab and the brick-walled courtyard of his pind (village).
One rainy evening, Gippy picked up a cousin from the airport. The cousin, fresh from Delhi, plugged in his phone. The first song that blared through the speakers was —though Gippy didn’t know the name yet. “Tere bina saahan da, ve mainu koi hor ni…” (Without you, I don't need any other breath.) But it wasn’t the romance that hit him. It was the dhool (dust) in the vocals. Gippy remembered his mother humming a similar tune while kneading dough. He asked his cousin, “What’s this?” The cousin laughed. “Bro, this is the best . It’s not just a song; it’s a vibe for every wedding back home.”