From a simple sneeze to cancer…from depression to exorcism…and from a desired partner to an American visa…churches in Punjab offer a myriad for those seeking refuge in Christ. In narrow alleys, unnoticed home-churches spring up, while in city centers, sprawling ministries spread over acres. Here, you meet pastors or 'Papaji' who touch your head and supposedly absolve you of sins.
Aajtak.in's reporter ventured into Punjab's border belt, posing as someone in need to explore the scene with her own eyes.
Punjab, once plagued by separatism, then drug addiction, now grapples with the termite of conversion, as many scholars in Chandigarh lament.
There are claims that demographic changes are evident. In the 2011 census, Christians were about 1.5% of the population. Allegedly, they have now increased to 15%, possibly more. Even in regions where Sikhism originated, many homes have replaced images of Gurudwara Sahib with framed crosses of Jesus. An individual in a ministry comments, 'God tells us to change from within, whether I wear a turban outside or not!'
To bridge fact with fiction, we traveled from Jalandhar to the pious belt of Tarn Taran.
We found numerous home churches where pastors discussed Christ while nestled in quilts, and ministries with entire allegiances were visible in the city center.
They orchestrate different prayers on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays, with Sundays reserved for Papaji’s, or pastor’s miracles. Screen presentations depict the afflicted, such as those with broken legs or possessed by demons compelling them towards suicide.
As their stories conclude, these individuals suddenly ascend the stage, laughing and running as if their burdens have vanished, their legs turned into wings.
The journey begins with the Ankur Narula Ministries in Jalandhar.
Source: aajtak
Spread over nearly a hundred acres, this ministry is fundamentally a Pentecostal church led by Pastor Ankur Narula, affectionately referred to as Papaji by followers, who believe his touch can immense adversities.
Glimpses of this dominion in Jalandhar's Khambra village are visible from afar. Posters abound, showing the pastor unfurling miracles, offering healing, or extolling the glory of Jesus.
The prayer tower instructed me over the phone, suggesting that relief for my chronic migraines would come with prayer, though complete solace demands belief in Christ.
The implication of faith meant attendance and attentiveness to the messages. Prepped for perhaps indoctrination, I set off to experience it firsthand. It was a Tuesday, a day for counseling where those exceptionally fortunate might receive a white card, an opportunity to meet the pastor in person, albeit briefly. The demand for a mere touch on the head is fiercely competitive.
On my first visit, I received a white card. Following counseling, some expressed surprise. 'How did you get one? Maybe her case is severe!' they speculated. Emergency cases often prompt desperation. I nodded affirmatively.
From the village outskirts, crowds gather early. If you ask for directions through the murmuring mouths of the crowd, they point straight—there’s no left or right on the path to Christ.
At a halt, multiple gates stand ahead. On foot, I stroll through and eventually meet a security checkpoint where my belongings are inspected, and I provide my name, Aadhaar card, and phone number. Saying, 'It’s my first time, and I wasn’t aware a card was needed.' 'God bless you,' the lady assures, motioning me inside, her face expressing, 'Once inside, you’ll comprehend fully.'
Inside lies a beautiful church, reputedly destined to be the world's fourth largest. Trying to cross from one end to the other leaves me overwhelmed, sweat assembling a sheen, yet the entire scope is hard to gauge amid active construction, seemingly establishing an entire city. Notably, workers attribute their directive to Christ, assisting newcomers with gratitude.
Under the red tent, a line forms for counseling. Staff from Ankur Narula Ministries remain visible everywhere, overseeing each move. Bereft of recording prospects with mobile phones, I receive a token and wait outside.
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Does coming here really help? Probes are met with unanimous affirmative responses.
Miracles shroud the experience, glistening narratives saturating the atmosphere. One woman recounts her mother’s myocardial infarction. They anointed her with holy oil, praying whilst proclaiming, 'Jesus, your blood operates.' Remarkably, she recovered, astonishing the doctor. That's the power of Papaji, connected directly to God—Papaji being Ankur Narula and the Lord as Jesus.
A sculptor from UP confides, 'I craft idols, it’s our ancestral occupation, yet upon knowing Christ, it now goes meaningless. I continue for sustenance, but soon enough, He (gesturing upwards) will arrange something grand.'
'Is your household also devoted to Christ?',
I query.
'No, my wife, son, daughter, and daughter-in-law continue idol worship. They'll suffer when doomsday arrives, and God elevates me while they remain.'
'They're family; why not persuade them to join your path?'
'I tried but had to relent. The time spent convincing them could rather be prayers for myself.' A middle-aged man afflicted by elephantiasis avows global treatments yielded no results, yet Papaji’s hand altered his path. 'Should I show you my leg?' he offers candidly. 'Fear not, you are blessed to arrive here. Now you shall wander no more.'
Words like blessed, good news, God, and Satan echo like divine cheers in the air here.
Conversations in the counseling lounge hear individuals swapping tales of Papaji converting Satan into a meek cat. ‘Is this truly the best ministry?’ Nominees confirm happily: if someone can cure cancer or return celestial winds, who else could surpass them? But sister, only if you believe!
Quotidian inquiries cross minds, like aspirants seeking visas abroad, fret over pesky spirits in kin, or last stage cancer patients awaiting their moment, consumed by magical anecdotes.
Upon arriving at 8 in the morning, my position rests at 337. Rising, I approached the counter. 'Brother, I need to hurry back to Delhi, please expedite this.' Scanning the drawer, he offers me a 211 numbered slip, chuckling, 'What an elevation for you. Hold on half an hour longer.' Savvy peddlers guard each corner, ensuring no newcomers depart, regardless of whether it’s their inaugural or potentially final attendance.
Nearly an hour later, my turn arrives. Security at the door collect slips and make a bold line with a marker across my hand, marking the first sign of Papaji.
Inside, I meet girls in white salwar kameez under black sweaters and lanyards, googling at strategic angles—the Ankur Narula force ensures vigilance.
Source: aajtak
Sitting waiting, one by table, future pastors offer informal counselor sessions. As one force girl passes, I boldly bolt, asking 'Is this counselor the best? Please let me see another if available.' She gestures a cross in mid-air, bypassing idle discussions unencumbered by pressing questions.
Upon turn arrival, a future pastor, appearing not a day over twenty-five sits attentive, dressed nicely, inquires for my name and address, assessing the situation visually without jotting notes.
‘How long have you suffered?’ queries the 'doctor' pastor.
'Over 20 years,' my tears nearly fall, a narrative cloaked in years of heavy burdens and recognition of suffering.
Handing tissues, he grins, further asking ‘Is it only this, or anything else too?’
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Undeterred, I decide to forge forward, confronting whether this is simply a confessional box: 'Sitting straight-backed, the young man locked eyes more keenly. ‘It’s not confessional exactly, but how will we resolve without understanding your struggle all together?’
My desire to meet Papaji is stressed, and he assures, ‘That’s a later stage, engage here first. We’ll ensure they meet if truly necessary.’
'Arriving from Delhi, my stay can't be long, help connect me, please.’
'There’s no rush; you can stay. It’s a three-day card extendable if need be, albeit with modest comforts.'
Comforts are notably basic, like bedding and three square meals—safety, unmistakably present.’
'Yes, but I need Papaji for Le-hand treatment (repeating hearsay),' I highlight,
though the pastor chuckles knowingly, ‘How about what you know concerning Christ?’
'Just school lessons,’ my modest reply.
'Look no further. Begin knowing Him. Trust, and time might bring you to Papaji.'
'Meaning if I hold disbelief, neither Jesus nor my migraine nor other worries alleviate? My face proclaims intense surprise. 'Nay, Jesus is God. Children approach parents when troubled to bring remedies, likewise with Jesus. Initiating proximity remains vital. Are you here fort the first time?'
'I was likewise previously disbelieving and proud of my Sikh heritage until descending into addiction by gutterside. Eventually granted Good News (the word of Jesus) and began following Papaji online, ultimately cherishing my religion elsewhere. You behold the transformation!' The future pastor shares firsthand experience, connecting psychology honed through practice as though trained formally.
Would you offer prayers on my behalf? 'Why not? Yet belief is foundational. Discover Christ first, even through reading this book. Join Pastor in his online sermons.'
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‘But I’m Hindu; I can't forgo my rituals,' my hesitation shows.
'Christ would never demand a religious swap but welcomes seekers warmly. None here has converted per se. My name and identity remain unchanged,' I assured.
'Yet, do you worship idols?'
'Certainly not. Those who've savored Christ’s love stray not to street stalls. Scripted lines flow fluid as first uttered.
Books handed alongside voucher-like cards, instructing a prayer recitation ten times daily, without daily minimum reading limits but Christ deserves at least 2.5 hours.
The emphasis underscored countless times, even recommending potential 7-day, 21-day, or 40-day fasting intervals for divine blessings—single meal allowance, with scripture reading complementing days.
Holding the blue bound book visibly, the youth advised.
'If fasting and meditation tip family suspicion, ‘You may reside here, departing later. Nearby shelters for men and women separate,' promised assurances from future pastors, forging spiritual reconciliation, or so it seemed.
Communicating with the future pastor, I openly repented, confirming afflictions sourced from sins. Prayer transitioning from a telephone echo as communal
