It was supposed to be an ordinary night in Canada’s Punjabi music circle — a quiet evening following a studio session, a few fans waiting for selfies, and a singer known for his humble smile. But within seconds, everything changed. The sound of three gunshots ripped through the calm, leaving one of Punjab’s beloved voices bleeding on a cold foreign street.

The victim was none other than Teji Kahlon, a name that had come to symbolize the spirit of Punjabi rhythm across borders. His songs were about love, life, and the nostalgia of home. Yet on that night, music was drowned out by the echo of bullets.

Witnesses recall the chaos that followed. “It was like a movie,” said an eyewitness who asked not to be named. “We heard three loud bangs — then people started screaming. The singer fell to the ground, clutching his stomach.”

Reports soon confirmed what fans feared: Teji had been shot in the abdomen. The attack, carried out with precision, left him critically wounded but alive. Paramedics rushed him to the nearest hospital, where doctors fought through the night to stabilize him.

While his fans prayed, a chilling twist unfolded on social media. A post appeared on an account allegedly linked to the Rohit Godara gang — one of Rajasthan’s most feared criminal networks. The post didn’t just claim responsibility. It glorified the act.

“Ram Ram, brothers,” the message began, echoing a cold confidence. “The firing on Teji Kahlon in Canada was done by us. He was shot in the stomach. If he understands, good. If not, next time, he won’t be given a chance to understand.”

The message spread like wildfire. Screenshots flooded WhatsApp groups, fan pages, and news channels. The words were more than a confession — they were a threat to anyone who dared to challenge the gang’s reach.

Authorities in Canada immediately took notice. Law enforcement sources confirmed that they were “working closely with Indian agencies” to investigate the potential transnational link. “This is not just a local crime,” said one official. “It reflects a dangerous extension of organized crime networks from South Asia into North America.”

Back in Punjab, the news struck like a thunderclap. Artists, producers, and fans were stunned. “He’s one of the most down-to-earth singers we’ve ever met,” said fellow musician Guri Randhawa. “He never got into politics, never into gangs. Why him?”

The answer, according to the gang’s own post, lay in money. They claimed Teji had been funding rival groups, “financing enemies,” as the message said. Whether the accusation was true or not, it revealed a disturbing reality — Punjabi entertainment had once again become entangled in the dark web of gang rivalries.

Teji’s journey had never been easy. Born in a small village in Punjab, he rose from modest beginnings. His breakout song, “Meethi Jail,” released in 2019, struck a chord with millions. It was followed by hits like “Do Kille,” “Jhumar,” and “Time Chak De.” Each song carried the rhythm of his roots and the optimism of a dreamer abroad.

When he moved to Canada to expand his career, fans celebrated his global success. Few imagined that the same country known for safety and opportunity would turn into a scene of violence for him.

In hospital corridors, his close friends kept vigil. One of them, speaking to local media, said, “He’s a fighter. He’s conscious now, and doctors say he’s out of immediate danger. But he’s shaken. We all are.”

The attack brought back haunting memories of similar incidents. Only months earlier, gang-related shootings had targeted Indian-origin businessmen and entertainers in Canada. Even a café owned by comedian Kapil Sharma had faced gunfire, with gangsters warning, “Do business in India. Don’t try to expand in Canada.”

It was a message — and a warning — to anyone who thought distance could protect them from India’s underworld rivalries.

Rohit Godara, the man behind the gang that claimed responsibility, is no stranger to infamy. Once a close associate of the late gangster Lawrence Bishnoi, Godara is known for orchestrating attacks even from hiding. Authorities believe he operates through digital channels and loyal associates scattered across countries.

In one chilling part of the viral post, the gang wrote, “Whoever helps our enemies or funds them will face the same fate. Next time, we won’t just target the man — we’ll destroy the family.”

For fans, the message was terrifying. For Teji’s family, it was unbearable. His mother, still in Punjab, broke down when reporters reached her. “He only sings. He doesn’t fight. Why would someone do this to him?” she cried.

Across social media, hashtags like #PrayForTejiKahlon and #JusticeForPunjabiArtists began trending. Fans shared old clips of his concerts, his interviews, his laugh. Many wrote messages like, “You gave us music, not hate. Stay strong.”

Music producers in Punjab and Canada started discussing what many had whispered for years — the deepening connection between gangs and the entertainment industry. “Money, fame, and ego have created dangerous intersections,” said one producer. “When singers start moving in the same spaces as gangsters, the line between art and crime gets blurred.”

Still, others believe Teji was an innocent caught in the crossfire. “He wasn’t part of any gang. He was just successful,” said a long-time collaborator. “Sometimes success itself becomes a target.”

Meanwhile, Canadian police have launched an extensive investigation, analyzing CCTV footage and digital evidence. “We’re exploring multiple angles,” said Sergeant Lisa Moreau in a press briefing. “Our priority is to ensure the victim’s safety and bring the perpetrators to justice.”

In India, agencies including the NIA and Punjab Police have reportedly been briefed. The attack has once again highlighted how organized crime has gone global — not just through drugs or weapons, but through intimidation and digital influence.

Journalists covering the story say it’s not just about one shooting. It’s about fear. “Artists are now afraid to perform publicly,” wrote one columnist. “When bullets become tools of warning, creativity suffers.”

In a powerful editorial, a Punjabi newspaper wrote, “The stage that once echoed with music now echoes with gunfire. We must not allow fear to silence our voices.”

Teji’s condition has stabilized, but his recovery will be long — both physically and emotionally. Close friends have said he’s spoken briefly from his hospital bed, expressing gratitude to fans. “He said, ‘Tell them I’ll sing again,’” one friend revealed, eyes wet with emotion.

That promise — to sing again — has already become a rallying cry among his supporters. Many see it as a symbol of resilience against the growing shadow of violence.

At candlelight vigils held in Toronto and Chandigarh, people gathered with placards reading “Music Will Not Die” and “Stop Gang Terror.” They played Teji’s old songs softly, their lyrics now tinged with pain and hope.

Experts say the rise in gang-related incidents abroad is tied to the spread of financial networks. “It’s no longer about local power,” said crime analyst Rakesh Khatri. “These groups use international hubs like Canada to launder money, recruit members, and intimidate rivals.”

That global web means even artists living thousands of miles away are not immune.

But amid the fear, something remarkable has happened — unity. Punjabi singers from around the world, from Diljit Dosanjh to Sidhu Moosewala’s old collaborators, have spoken out in solidarity. “This has to stop,” wrote one. “We can’t lose another voice.”

Fans have begun streaming Teji’s songs again in massive numbers, pushing “Meethi Jail” back into the charts. For many, it’s their way of keeping him alive in spirit, of turning tragedy into tribute.

Even those who never knew him personally feel the pain. “He represented us,” said a young fan from Vancouver. “He made us proud to be Punjabi. This violence doesn’t belong in our story.”

Days after the attack, the street where it happened has become a quiet shrine. Candles, flowers, and posters line the sidewalk. Someone wrote in bold letters on a poster: “They shot the singer, not the song.”

The words have since gone viral — a defiant reminder that art outlives violence.

As investigations continue, the world waits for justice. But more than that, they wait for Teji’s return — not just to health, but to the stage.

His story is now more than a headline. It’s a mirror of a generation caught between fame and fear, between melody and menace.

And when he finally steps back into the spotlight, perhaps wounded but unbroken, the first note he sings will carry more power than ever — the sound of survival.