The republic of the diya

 When a Prime Minister’s Birthday Becomes a Month-Long Government Festival, and “Seva” Becomes the Most Photographed Form of Governance

By Ramphal Katraia

“In the new Republic, a pending file is invisible; a lit diya is evidence.”

“The citizen is asked to save the nation’s oil, fuel, gold and foreign exchange. The State merely asks him to spend his time, money and enthusiasm differently.”

“When governance becomes a celebration, the photograph begins to matter more than the work.”

There was once a time when a Prime Minister’s birthday was simply a birthday. There might be greetings, perhaps a few charitable activities, perhaps a party function, and then the country would return to the much less glamorous business of governing itself. That quaint arrangement now appears to belong to another constitutional era.

The 17th of September has acquired a rather more ambitious destiny. It is no longer merely the birthday of Narendra Modi. It is the opening ceremony of a month-long national spectacle called “Seva Sankalp Abhiyan”, running from 17 September to 17 October and commemorating, among other things, his 25 years in public life. The programme includes blood donation, plantation, cleanliness drives, rallies, public outreach, school competitions, cultural activities, “Seva Mera Yogdan”, “Aangan Milan Seva”, “Seva Jyoti Kalash Yatra” and, naturally, the lighting of the “Aashirwad Ka Diya”.

In Haryana, citizens were specifically urged to light an “Aashirwad Ka Diya” at 7 p.m. on 17 September, while programmes were scheduled across the State until 17 October.

One cannot help admiring the imagination.

The Indian administrative vocabulary has been transformed into a poetic universe. Nothing can simply be called a programme anymore. It must be an Abhiyan. An Abhiyan must contain a Sankalp. The Sankalp must contain a Seva. The Seva must become a Milan, Utsav, Jyoti, Setu or Samarpan. Somewhere a committee is probably already considering whether the next initiative should be called “Sankalp Se Samriddhi: Samagra Seva Samarpan Jan-Jyoti Abhiyan.”

And because the occasion belongs to the Prime Minister, the machinery of the State naturally begins to hum.

Officials are assigned.

Meetings are convened.

Orders are issued.

Districts are instructed.

Photographers are engaged.

Banners appear.

Reports are demanded.

Photographs are uploaded.

WhatsApp groups become active.

And somewhere, in some forgotten corner of a government office, an ordinary file sits quietly on a table wondering whether it too should learn to light a diya.

“The modern file has discovered its greatest enemy: the Prime Minister’s birthday.”

The philosophical difficulty begins here.

There is nothing objectionable about blood donation, plantation, cleanliness, public service or helping the poor. These are worthwhile activities regardless of whose birthday provides the occasion. The question is not whether such activities are good. The question is why the ordinary machinery of government requires a birthday festival to perform them with such extraordinary enthusiasm.

Why must service to the citizen be converted into an annual spectacle?

Why must public administration acquire the grammar of political celebration?

Why must every department suddenly become a stage-management agency?

And why does the calendar of governance seem to become unusually efficient whenever there is a camera?

That last question deserves attention.

India has become a country in which governance increasingly has two lives.

One is the life of the file: slow, invisible, procedural and mostly photographed only when something goes wrong.

The other is the life of the event: colourful, immediate, branded, carefully arranged and photographed from twelve angles.

The first one governs.

The second one communicates that governance is happening.

The second, unfortunately, photographs much better.

The diya is perhaps the perfect symbol of this new administrative philosophy.

The diya is inexpensive, traditional and emotionally powerful. It looks magnificent in photographs. A few thousand flames become an event. A few lakh become a spectacle. And millions become a narrative.

In Odisha alone, the birthday celebrations included 11,000 “Ashirwadara Deepa”, while other States and organisations organised their own lamp-lighting activities.

But there is an amusing little contradiction hiding inside the mustard oil.

Only a few months ago, on 10 May 2026, the Prime Minister appealed to Indians to reduce petroleum consumption, avoid non-essential foreign travel, reduce gold purchases, consume less edible oil and conserve foreign exchange amid the West Asian crisis.

The advice was economically intelligible.

Petrol and diesel consume foreign exchange.

Gold consumes foreign exchange.

Edible-oil imports consume foreign exchange.

Foreign travel consumes foreign exchange.

So the citizen was asked to sacrifice a little for the national economy.

And the citizen, being patriotic, presumably nodded.

Then September arrived.

And suddenly the nation needed lamps.

Many lamps.

More lamps.

Still more lamps.

Perhaps the Ministry of Finance should introduce a new category in the balance of payments:

“Current Account Deficit — excluding birthday diyas.”

“Reduce edible oil, said the nation.
Light the diya, said the celebration.”

There is no need to accuse anyone of hypocrisy. The contradiction is capable of speaking for itself.

The same is true of foreign travel.

The May appeal asked citizens to avoid non-essential foreign travel for a year. The government subsequently announced measures within the Agriculture and Rural Development Ministries to reduce official travel, implement car-pooling and restrict official visits as part of the frugality drive.

Excellent.

That is precisely how public policy should work.

But then the citizen naturally acquires a question of his own:

If austerity is a national virtue, should the State not apply the same standard to every expenditure that exists primarily for symbolism?

If extravagance is acceptable because the event is politically significant, then perhaps the citizen deserves to know what distinguishes “national necessity” from “ceremonial necessity”.

And if the answer is that government expenditure on official events is necessary while private foreign holidays are discretionary, fair enough.

But then say so.

The problem is not the exception.

The problem is pretending that there is no exception.

This is where Indian politics has perfected an extraordinary linguistic technology: renaming contradiction until it becomes policy.

When sugar prices rise, somebody discovers its health benefits.

When imports fall, it is self-reliance.

When imports rise, it is globalisation.

When citizens consume less, it is sacrifice.

When citizens consume more, it is economic growth.

When the government spends, it is development.

When the citizen spends, it is discretionary consumption.

When the State lights lamps, it is cultural participation.

When the citizen buys a foreign product, it is a threat to the rupee.

The vocabulary changes.

The economics remains.

The spectacle grows.

And the citizen is expected to clap.

We have seen this theatre before.

During Covid, the country was asked to stand at balconies and beat thalis and clap in appreciation of health workers. Later, citizens were asked to switch off lights and light diyas, candles and mobile phone flashlights for nine minutes as a symbolic expression of collective resolve. These exercises were explicitly presented as gestures of unity and morale during an extraordinary national crisis.

There is nothing inherently wrong with symbolism.

Nations need symbolism.

People need hope.

Societies need rituals.

But symbolism becomes dangerous only when it starts pretending to be a substitute for administration.

A hospital needs oxygen.

A school needs teachers.

A flood victim needs a house.

A farmer needs income.

A government department needs competent personnel.

A file needs a decision.

None of these things can be solved by the brightness of a diya.

“A candle can illuminate a room. It cannot illuminate a pending government file.”

That is the difference between symbolism and governance.

And perhaps the country should be especially cautious about the growing habit of converting every governmental achievement into a celebration of one individual.

A government is not a private birthday committee.

A Prime Minister is not the State.

The State is the Constitution, Parliament, judiciary, bureaucracy, armed forces, local governments, elected representatives, millions of public servants and, above all, the citizen who pays for it all.

Yet the vocabulary of the present moment increasingly merges the individual, the party, the government and the nation into one enormous celebratory sentence.

The Prime Minister's birthday becomes “Seva Diwas”.

The birthday campaign becomes national outreach.

Government schemes become material for celebration.

Party workers and government machinery appear in the same broad ecosystem of activity.

The line may remain legally visible.

Politically, however, it becomes increasingly difficult for the ordinary citizen to see it.

That is precisely why the question deserves to be asked.

Not as an accusation.

As a constitutional question.

When does public service stop being public service and become political celebration?

And perhaps nowhere is this question more uncomfortable than in the middle of disaster.

While the country prepares month-long celebrations, parts of India have been struggling with floods and other natural calamities. Assam, for example, suffered substantial flood impacts earlier this year, with deaths and large numbers of people affected.

Bihar too has been facing severe flooding.

Floodwater does not understand political calendars.

It does not wait until the Seva Sankalp Abhiyan concludes.

It does not care whether there is a banner.

It does not applaud.

It does not participate in a human chain.

It simply enters the house of a poor family.

That is the cruel difference between disaster management and political spectacle.

One requires boats.

The other requires balloons.

One requires rescue teams.

The other requires stage management.

One requires money to reach the victim.

The other requires money to reach the programme.

And, of course, both require a photograph.

Foreign policy provides its own collection of paradoxes.

India has repeatedly called for dialogue, diplomacy, de-escalation and humanitarian concern in the conflicts of West Asia. At the same time, India has had to balance its relationships with Israel, Iran, the United States, Russia and the Arab world while protecting its energy and economic interests.

This is not an easy task.

Nor should it be reduced to slogans.

But that is precisely why serious diplomacy deserves something more substantial than the politics of spectacle.

The same country that speaks of strategic autonomy must constantly navigate pressure from competing great powers.

The United States has now passed a sanctions-and-tariff measure that gives the President authority to impose tariffs of up to 100 percent on countries making significant purchases of Russian energy. India has warned that the legislation could affect bilateral relations and global energy markets, while affirming that it will protect its trade and energy interests.

That is a serious economic and diplomatic problem.

It affects oil.

It affects exports.

It affects the rupee.

It affects consumers.

It affects India's strategic autonomy.

And yet the political calendar remains occupied by a month-long celebration.

Perhaps that is the real genius of the spectacle.

It gives the public something bright to look at while complicated questions remain complicated.

The United States can threaten tariffs.

Russia can sell oil.

Iran can face sanctions.

Israel and Palestine can remain locked in conflict.

The Strait of Hormuz can remain strategically dangerous.

The rupee can worry economists.

And somewhere in Haryana:

“At 7 PM, all households shall light the Aashirwad Ka Diya.”

There is almost something beautifully Indian about it.

The world burns.

India lights a lamp.

The only question is:

Which one is supposed to illuminate the other?

“When the country has difficult questions, governments often discover the convenience of easy ceremonies.”

There are other contradictions scattered throughout the last twelve years.

Demonetisation was presented in 2016 as a dramatic assault on black money, counterfeit currency and terror financing. Citizens stood in queues for cash. The policy generated enormous disruption, while subsequent assessments and debates complicated the original claims about how much illicit currency would actually disappear.

The slogan was revolutionary.

The queue was ordinary.

The citizen paid the immediate price.

The explanation came later.

Then came the great promise of Minimum Government, Maximum Governance.

India subsequently acquired an astonishing number of campaigns.

Swachh Bharat.

Make in India.

Digital India.

Skill India.

Startup India.

Stand Up India.

Fit India.

Vocal for Local.

Atmanirbhar Bharat.

Viksit Bharat.

And now:

Seva Sankalp.

There is nothing inherently wrong with campaigns. Some have produced real outcomes. Some have created public awareness. Some have mobilised resources that conventional administration might struggle to mobilise.

But a campaign cannot become the permanent substitute for institutions.

A nation cannot be continuously inaugurated.

A government cannot permanently remain in campaign mode.

At some point, somebody has to govern.

At some point, somebody has to answer the file.

At some point, somebody has to repair the school.

At some point, somebody has to recruit the teacher.

At some point, somebody has to clear the hospital queue.

At some point, somebody has to compensate the flood victim.

At some point, somebody has to ask why the department spent three weeks organising an event while its routine work remained pending.

And at some point, the citizen must be permitted to ask the most impolite question of all:

“Who paid for the celebration?”

Not because every rupee spent on a public programme is wasteful.

Not because every government celebration is illegitimate.

But because public money deserves public scrutiny.

Public servants deserve time to perform public service.

And government machinery should primarily serve citizens rather than personalities.

The irony is particularly sharp because the slogan itself is Seva.

Service.

If the objective really is service, then perhaps the finest celebration of a Prime Minister's 25 years in public life would not require a month of ceremonies.

Perhaps it would require a month in which every government department cleared its oldest pending file.

Every district hospital published its waiting list.

Every school reported teacher vacancies.

Every municipality fixed its worst sanitation problem.

Every department disclosed its unused funds.

Every grievance older than thirty days received a decision.

Every flood-affected family received the assistance due to it.

Every government office worked without interruption.

No stage.

No slogan.

No giant portrait.

No ceremonial diya.

Just work.

Imagine the photographs.

There would be very few.

And that may be the problem.

A completed file does not look impressive on television.

A repaired drain has no ribbon-cutting ceremony.

A teacher reporting to school is not particularly cinematic.

A government clerk clearing 300 old files does not produce a spectacular drone shot.

A flood victim receiving compensation cannot be arranged into a perfect stage backdrop.

A working government is almost boring.

A campaigning government is magnificent.

It has music.

It has slogans.

It has colour.

It has flags.

It has hashtags.

It has drone cameras.

It has Sankalp.

It has Samarpan.

It has Seva.

And, naturally—

it has the diya.

So perhaps the real Seva Sankalp should be a slightly different one.

Let the citizen light one diya.

Let the government light another.

But before the second one is lit, let someone ask whether the first one has actually illuminated anything.

Let the Prime Minister's birthday be celebrated if people wish to celebrate it.

Let political parties organise their programmes.

Let supporters express affection and gratitude.

Let citizens participate voluntarily.

But let government remain government.

Let public money remain accountable.

Let bureaucracy remain focused on administration.

Let welfare remain welfare.

Let service remain service.

And let the Republic remember one small constitutional truth:

The government belongs to the people.

Not to a birthday.

Not to a party.

Not to a slogan.

Not to an image.

Not even to the man whose birthday happens to be on 17 September.

The State does not exist to celebrate its rulers.

The State exists to serve its citizens.

And perhaps that is the one Sankalp that requires neither a banner nor a diya.

Only work.

The flowers will bloom

 From the Freedom Struggle to the Gen-Z Revolt: India’s Long Journey from Hope to Fear—and Back to Hope

By Ramphal Kataria

“हज़ार बर्क़ गिरें, लाख आँधियाँ उठें,
वो फूल खिल के रहेंगे जो खिलने वाले हैं।”
— साहिर लुधियानवी

(“Let a thousand lightnings strike, let a million storms arise;
the flowers that are destined to bloom will bloom.”)
— Sahir Ludhianvi

There are times when a poem becomes larger than the poet who wrote it.

Sahir Ludhianvi's immortal lines belong to such a time.

They were written in another India, but they speak uncannily to the India of today. The lightning is the power of the state; the storms are repression, unemployment, inequality, communal division, political intimidation and institutional fatigue. The flower is the citizen's irrepressible desire to live with dignity and freedom.

And perhaps the most important message hidden in Sahir's metaphor is this:

Hope does not always announce its arrival. Sometimes it rises from the very soil in which hope appears to have died.

That is the story of India's democracy.

It is a story of freedom won against an empire, constitutional rights promised to citizens, dreams of a just republic, extraordinary nation-building, political centralisation, the Emergency, the rise and collapse of alternative political formations, the resurgence of religious majoritarian politics, the overwhelming electoral dominance of Narendra Modi, the shrinking space for dissent—and now, unexpectedly, a new generation discovering that fear is not invincible.

The latest chapter began not in Parliament.

It began online.

And then it reached Jantar Mantar.

I. Freedom was not given; it was fought for

India's democratic inheritance did not begin in 1950.

It began much earlier—in prisons, protest marches, underground networks, newspapers, workers' movements, student movements, peasant struggles and the long anti-colonial battle against an authoritarian imperial state.

The demand for freedom gradually expanded into something much larger than independence from Britain.

It became a demand for rights.

The freedom struggle was not merely a struggle to replace British rulers with Indian rulers. It contained a deeper aspiration: that the people of India should become citizens rather than subjects.

The constitutional imagination emerged from this struggle.

The Constituent Assembly's work was therefore not an administrative exercise. It was the political culmination of a century-long battle against colonial domination. Its debates explicitly connected independence with liberty, equality, justice and safeguards for minorities and disadvantaged groups.

The Constitution that came into force on 26 January 1950 was consequently a revolutionary document.

It did not merely create a government.

It created a citizen.

It gave the citizen Fundamental Rights.

Freedom of speech.

Freedom of religion.

Equality before law.

Protection against discrimination.

The right to constitutional remedies.

The Constitution placed the individual, at least in principle, before the convenience of the State.

That was the promise.

And every generation of Indians since then has had to decide whether that promise would remain merely written in the Constitution or become real in the lives of citizens.

II. The republic was born with extraordinary expectations

Independent India inherited poverty, illiteracy, communal wounds, displacement, weak infrastructure and a devastated economy.

Yet the first generation of the Republic possessed something that is increasingly difficult to manufacture today:

faith in the future.

The early decades were years of institution-building.

Parliamentary democracy survived.

Elections became routine.

Universities expanded.

Public-sector institutions were established.

Agricultural production was transformed.

The Green Revolution helped India overcome recurring food insecurity.

The country developed scientific and technological capabilities that appeared improbable at independence.

The Constitution survived political turbulence.

India did not become another post-colonial military dictatorship.

This achievement should never be underestimated.

But development created its own expectations.

Every generation that becomes more educated expects more freedom.

Every generation that becomes more economically aware demands more opportunity.

Every generation that learns the language of rights becomes less willing to accept arbitrary authority.

That is the paradox of democracy.

Development creates citizens who eventually demand accountability from the very institutions development created.

III. When democracy itself went dark

Then came the great rupture.

On the night of 25–26 June 1975, Prime Minister Indira Gandhi's government imposed the Emergency.

The constitutional machinery of democracy remained formally in place, but democratic freedoms were drastically curtailed. Opposition leaders were arrested. Press censorship was imposed. Civil liberties were restricted. The State acquired extraordinary powers.

It was perhaps India's clearest demonstration that even an elected government can become dangerously concentrated in its exercise of power.

The Emergency therefore occupies a unique place in Indian democratic memory.

It taught the Republic a lesson that should never be forgotten:

Democracy can be wounded not only by soldiers overthrowing governments, but also by governments using democratic institutions to silence citizens.

But the Emergency also produced its own historical paradox.

The attempt to extinguish political opposition ultimately strengthened the public's determination to reclaim political freedom.

In 1977, the electorate did what authoritarian power had assumed it could prevent.

It voted.

And it removed the most powerful political establishment in the country.

The lesson was profound:

The Indian voter could still surprise power.

IV. The era of churning

The post-Emergency period did not produce political stability.

It produced churning.

The Janata experiment attempted to construct an alternative to Congress dominance. But internal contradictions, ideological differences and leadership conflicts weakened it.

Then came the National Front government under V. P. Singh after the 1989 election.

The political arithmetic was extraordinary.

The Congress had ceased to dominate the system.

The Left supported the National Front from one side.

The BJP supported it from another.

Two forces that were ideologically poles apart temporarily converged around the objective of keeping Congress out of power.

But this was more than coalition arithmetic.

India was undergoing a profound social transformation.

Mandal and Mandir were simultaneously reshaping Indian politics.

The politics of social justice expanded through the implementation of the Mandal Commission recommendations.

At the same time, the Ram Janmabhoomi movement brought religious identity to the centre of national politics.

The political vacuum created by the weakening of Congress did not remain empty.

Something else was growing.

V. The third forces rose—and failed to become the alternative

The emergence of regional parties, caste-based political formations and Left parties was one of the most consequential developments of post-Congress India.

It broke the monopoly of one-party politics.

It gave political representation to communities previously excluded from power.

It strengthened federalism.

It produced leaders from social groups that had historically remained outside the national political elite.

But the alternative forces also carried their own weaknesses.

Coalition governments repeatedly became hostage to numbers.

Personal ambition often defeated institutional reform.

Caste mobilisation sometimes became caste arithmetic.

Regional interests competed with national objectives.

And the dream of a coherent, principled alternative remained elusive.

The United Front governments of 1996–98 demonstrated both the possibilities and limitations of coalition politics. Congress supported them from outside, while Left parties participated in the broader coalition arrangement.

The Congress returned to power in 2004 through the United Progressive Alliance.

The Left supported the first UPA government from outside for much of its first term and exercised substantial influence over its policy direction. The period produced important rights-based legislation and welfare initiatives, including the RTI framework and MGNREGA.

But the coalition era also failed to resolve the deeper structural question:

What should replace the politics of domination?

The answer remained incomplete.

And into that uncertainty stepped the BJP.

VI. 2014: The rise of the modi era

The 2014 election represented another great turning point.

Narendra Modi arrived not merely as another prime ministerial candidate but as a political brand.

Development, nationalism, strong leadership, anti-Congress sentiment and Hindu nationalist politics converged into a powerful electoral narrative.

The BJP won a single-party majority.

In 2019, it returned with an even larger mandate.

The political imagination of India changed.

The old coalition age appeared to be over.

The language of consensus increasingly gave way to the language of decisive leadership.

The distinction between government and political movement became increasingly blurred.

The State, the ruling party, the political leader and the national narrative appeared increasingly intertwined.

This transformation produced genuine achievements and genuine popular support. It would be intellectually dishonest to deny either.

But electoral legitimacy does not provide unlimited moral or constitutional authority.

A government can win elections and still be criticised for how it treats dissent.

A leader can be extraordinarily popular and still be subject to constitutional restraints.

A parliamentary majority does not mean that the opposition has ceased to be legitimate.

That distinction is at the heart of the present crisis.

VII. When majoritarian politics meets concentrated power

The concern about India's democratic trajectory is not simply that the BJP is a Hindu nationalist party.

The more profound question is what happens when majoritarian politics combines with extraordinary concentration of political, institutional, financial and communicative power.

Critics of the Modi government have pointed to pressure on journalists, civil-society organisations and opposition politicians; the use of investigative agencies; restrictions on dissent; and increasing concerns over institutional independence.

Freedom House's 2026 assessment continues to classify India as “Partly Free” and specifically reports increased harassment of government critics, growing concerns about the use of state institutions against political opponents, and pressure on independent media and civil society.

These assessments are contested, and India remains a competitive multiparty democracy. The 2024 election itself demonstrated that voters can deny the ruling party a single-party majority: the BJP won 240 seats while the NDA won 293, allowing Modi to form his third government through coalition support.

That fact is important.

Because it means that Indian democracy has not disappeared.

But the warning signs cannot simply be dismissed.

The real danger to democracy is rarely announced with a declaration saying:

“Democracy ends today.”

It usually arrives incrementally.

One institution becomes weaker.

One criticism becomes dangerous.

One investigative agency becomes politicised.

One newspaper becomes cautious.

One activist becomes afraid.

One opposition leader is isolated.

One protest is criminalised.

One uncomfortable question is dismissed as anti-national.

And eventually a society discovers that it has become accustomed to silence.

Authoritarianism does not always arrive wearing a uniform. Sometimes it arrives through the slow normalisation of fear.

VIII. The years when hope seemed to disappear

This is where India's recent history becomes particularly disturbing.

Movements arose.

Farmers protested.

Students protested.

Citizens protested against laws.

Civil society protested.

Journalists continued to raise questions.

But the accumulated experience of state power and political intimidation created something more dangerous than censorship:

fear psychosis.

People began to calculate the cost of speaking.

What if there is a case?

What if there is an investigation?

What if the institution retaliates?

What if employment suffers?

What if social media activity is monitored?

What if protest becomes a criminal record?

Fear is politically efficient.

It does not require everyone to agree with the government.

It only requires enough people to remain silent.

And perhaps this was the darkest phase—not when opposition disappeared, but when many began to believe that nothing could change anyway.

That is how authoritarian tendencies become psychologically powerful.

They do not merely suppress resistance.

They convince people that resistance is futile.

IX. Then came the “Cockroach”

And then, almost absurdly, history produced its own irony.

On 15 May 2026, during a Supreme Court hearing, Chief Justice of India Surya Kant referred to some unemployed youngsters who become media persons, social-media users, RTI activists and other activists as “cockroaches” and “parasites” who attack the system.

The remark was made in the context of a hearing concerning a lawyer and his conduct; the CJI subsequently indicated that his reference concerned people with fake or bogus degrees. But the words had already escaped the courtroom.

The Internet did what the Internet sometimes does.

It turned an insult into an identity.

A young political communications strategist, Abhijeet Dipke, responded with satire.

What if the “cockroaches” actually came together?

The answer became the Cockroach Janta Party.

And something unexpected happened.

The insult became a badge.

The badge became a meme.

The meme became a movement.

The movement became a street.

And the street became national politics.

X. From a screen to Jantar Mantar

The movement initially existed primarily in the digital world.

Its very form was new.

There was no traditional party apparatus.

No established political dynasty.

No national cadre structure.

No conventional opposition leader commanding the crowds.

No familiar political symbol handed down from an earlier generation.

It was overwhelmingly a product of the internet generation.

Yet on 6 June 2026, the movement reached Jantar Mantar, where young protesters gathered around demands concerning examination irregularities and the resignation of Education Minister Dharmendra Pradhan.

For weeks, the protest continued.

The movement grew.

The anger broadened.

Students, young professionals, activists and ordinary citizens increasingly saw their own frustrations in it.

Paper leaks were only the immediate issue.

The deeper questions were about merit, opportunity, unemployment, institutional accountability and the right to demand answers.

Then came the moment that changed everything.

XI. 20 July: when the crowd became the message

On 20 July, the movement attempted to march towards Parliament.

The response was forceful.

Clashes followed, with large numbers injured. Reuters reported nearly 180 injuries among protesters and police during the confrontation.

The state may have intended to restore order.

But politically, something else happened.

The crackdown transformed the psychology of the movement.

A protest that had been dismissed by some as an online joke suddenly became a national confrontation over the meaning of citizenship.

The question was no longer merely:

“Was there an examination irregularity?”

It became:

“Can citizens protest against the system without being treated as its enemy?”

That was the turning point.

Because repression sometimes produces precisely the opposite of what repression intends.

It creates witnesses.

It creates stories.

It creates solidarity.

And it creates a memory.

XII. The most extraordinary thing: There was no great leader

Perhaps the most politically significant feature of this movement was its lack of a conventional political leader.

That matters enormously.

Indian politics has traditionally been personality-driven.

Gandhi.

Nehru.

Jayaprakash Narayan.

Indira Gandhi.

V. P. Singh.

Atal Bihari Vajpayee.

Narendra Modi.

But this movement did not initially depend upon a towering national personality.

It was born in the digital commons.

Its language was satire.

Its participants were largely young.

Its organisational structure was fluid.

Its symbols were improvised.

Its leadership was distributed.

Its power came from participation rather than command.

That is a very different model of politics.

And perhaps this is why it frightened the established political imagination.

A movement without a conventional centre is difficult to decapitate.

Remove one leader—and another voice emerges.

Silence one account—and thousands reproduce it.

Arrest one organiser—and the meme remains.

Suppress one gathering—and the image travels further.

The most dangerous movement for concentrated power may be the one that has no single head to cut off.

XIII. The great irony of the “Cockroach”

There is something philosophically beautiful in what happened next.

A cockroach is difficult to eliminate.

It survives poison.

It survives darkness.

It disappears into cracks.

It returns when the room is quiet.

It reproduces.

It survives.

And that is precisely what the insult unintentionally symbolised.

The youth accepted the name.

They turned humiliation into humour.

Fear into satire.

Satire into organisation.

Organisation into protest.

And protest into political pressure.

The insult designed to diminish them became their source of collective identity.

That is the moment when Sahir's flower appears.

Not in a palace.

Not in Parliament.

Not in a political headquarters.

But in the most unexpected place—

inside an insult.

XIV. History has seen this flower before

India is not alone in discovering that political hope can emerge from apparently hopeless conditions.

In the Philippines, Ferdinand Marcos ruled through martial law, repression and concentrated executive power. Yet in February 1986, hundreds of thousands gathered on Manila's EDSA avenue. The People Power movement eventually forced Marcos from office and restored democratic government.

South Korea offers another remarkable example.

In 1987, students and citizens poured onto the streets against military rule. The death of student activists and police repression intensified the movement. Under enormous public pressure, the regime conceded democratic reforms and direct presidential elections.

Poland provides another lesson.

The Solidarity movement began as a workers' movement in 1980. It was suppressed under martial law, driven underground and apparently defeated.

But it survived.

By 1989 it had regained legal status and become a decisive political force in Poland's transition away from communist rule.

And in Czechoslovakia, a peaceful student demonstration in November 1989 was violently suppressed.

The regime expected fear.

Instead, the repression mobilised the country.

Students went on strike.

Artists joined.

Dissidents organised.

The Civic Forum emerged.

Within weeks, four decades of one-party communist rule were collapsing.

The lesson from these histories is not that every protest succeeds.

Many fail.

Many are crushed.

Some movements become corrupted after victory.

Some revolutions merely replace one elite with another.

But they demonstrate one essential truth:

No government can be certain that the silence of today will remain the silence of tomorrow.

XV. The people's victory is not the government's defeat

The success of the 2026 youth movement should therefore not be measured only by the resignation of a minister or any immediate concession.

Its deeper achievement was psychological.

It broke the assumption that nothing can move.

It showed that a generation supposedly described as politically apathetic can mobilise.

It showed that an online community can become a physical movement.

It showed that satire can become political language.

It showed that young citizens do not necessarily need an established political party to act collectively.

And most importantly:

it demonstrated that fear can be unlearned.

That may be the greatest victory of all.

XVI. The constitution has been waiting for this moment

The Constitution does not promise citizens a government that they must obey silently.

It promises a Republic in which citizens possess rights.

Article 19 protects freedom of speech and expression and the right to assemble peacefully and without arms, subject to constitutionally permitted restrictions.

These are not decorative words.

They are the legal architecture of dissent.

The freedom struggle gave India independence.

The Constituent Assembly gave India a constitutional framework.

The generations after independence gave that Constitution life through elections, courts, journalism, social movements and protest.

Every generation must therefore defend it again.

A Constitution survives not merely because judges interpret it, but because citizens believe they are entitled to the freedoms it promises.

XVII. The real battle is not Modi versus the Opposition

It would be too easy to reduce India's present crisis to Narendra Modi versus the opposition.

The problem is larger.

It concerns the relationship between power and citizenship.

Today it may be one party.

Tomorrow it may be another.

If citizens accept the principle that the government of the day is entitled to silence its critics, the precedent will eventually be used against everyone.

That is why democratic resistance must not become merely partisan.

The BJP should be accountable.

Congress should be accountable.

Regional parties should be accountable.

The Left should be accountable.

Civil society should be accountable.

The media should be accountable.

The judiciary should be accountable.

And above all, the citizen should remain sovereign.

Because the Republic does not belong to a party.

It belongs to “We, the People.”

XVIII. What India must learn again

The lesson of India's political history is not that one party is permanently good and another permanently bad.

The lesson is more uncomfortable.

Power corrupts political movements irrespective of their original ideology.

Congress became dominant and eventually authoritarian during the Emergency.

The Janata experiment failed through internal conflict.

Third-front politics became fragmented.

Coalition politics often became transactional.

The BJP rose as an alternative and subsequently acquired extraordinary political dominance.

The danger is therefore not confined to ideology.

The danger is unchecked power.

A democratic India must never again construct a political system in which one leader, one party, one ideology or one institutional bloc becomes so powerful that citizens begin to believe that resistance is impossible.

The antidote is not another strongman.

It is stronger institutions.

A freer press.

An independent judiciary.

Transparent political funding.

Effective RTI.

A credible opposition.

Independent universities.

Free civil society.

And above all, citizens who are not afraid.

XIX. The youth have rediscovered the old India

There is an extraordinary historical continuity here.

The freedom fighter once challenged the colonial State.

The citizen of 1975 challenged the Emergency.

The voter of 1977 challenged political arrogance.

The Mandal generation demanded representation.

The RTI activist demanded transparency.

The farmer demanded accountability.

The student demanded justice.

And now Gen Z has discovered its own language of resistance.

Different generations.

Different causes.

Different technologies.

But the same fundamental demand:

“Listen to us.”

That is democracy in its simplest form.

Not revolution.

Not anarchy.

Not hatred.

Just the insistence that the citizen cannot be reduced to a vote once every five years.

XX. And therefore, Sahir was right

The greatest significance of the present moment is not that one protest succeeded.

It is that hope appeared where nobody expected it.

It came from unemployed young people.

From students.

From social-media users.

From people who had been told—directly or indirectly—that they were insignificant.

From a generation accused of being politically passive.

From a movement born out of an insult.

From a name intended to humiliate.

From a screen.

Then from a street.

And finally from the collective courage of people who had begun to believe that perhaps they were not powerless after all.

That is how democratic renewal often begins.

Not with a manifesto.

Not with a revolution.

Not with a famous leader.

Sometimes it begins with laughter.

Then comes anger.

Then solidarity.

Then courage.

Then the street.

And one morning, people discover that the fear which once appeared enormous has become smaller than themselves.

Conclusion: Hope comes from nowhere

History rarely sends advance notice before changing direction.

The British Empire did not imagine that its rule would end with the independence of India.

Indira Gandhi's government did not imagine that the Emergency would end in electoral defeat.

Ferdinand Marcos did not imagine that crowds on EDSA would end his rule.

The communist leadership of Czechoslovakia did not imagine that a student protest would ignite the Velvet Revolution.

The military leadership of South Korea did not imagine that students and ordinary citizens would force constitutional reform.

Those in power almost always make the same mistake.

They confuse control with permanence.

But control is temporary.

Power is temporary.

Fear is temporary.

Governments are temporary.

Even political ideologies are temporary.

What survives is the human desire for dignity.

That is why the most important political resource of a democracy is not money.

It is not propaganda.

It is not even elections.

It is hope.

Because a citizen who has lost hope will surrender.

But a citizen who has recovered hope becomes difficult to govern through fear.

And this is where Sahir's flower becomes the metaphor for India itself.

The Republic has passed through colonialism.

Partition.

Poverty.

Wars.

Political instability.

The Emergency.

Communal violence.

Economic crises.

Coalition instability.

Majoritarian politics.

Institutional anxiety.

And now a new age of digital mobilisation.

Every generation has been told, in one form or another, that the moment is too difficult, the State too powerful, the opposition too weak and change too improbable.

Yet something has always survived.

The Indian citizen.

Perhaps battered.

Perhaps angry.

Perhaps disappointed.

Perhaps afraid.

But never completely defeated.

So let the lightning fall.

Let the storms rise.

Let power believe that silence is permanent.

Let those who govern mistake fear for consent.

Let history do what it has always done.

For beneath the soil of every apparently defeated democracy, there remains a seed.

And when the time comes—

when the rain arrives—

when the darkness becomes unbearable—

when one unexpected voice is joined by another—

when one citizen discovers another citizen—

when fear finally breaks—

the flower begins to bloom.

“Let a thousand lightnings strike, let a million storms arise;
the flowers that are destined to bloom will bloom.”

Sahir did not promise that there would be no storms.

He promised something more powerful:

the storm does not have the final word.

And perhaps that is India's greatest hope.

The flower is already here.

It has merely begun to bloom.

India's democratic future will not ultimately be decided by the strength of any single political party or leader. It will be decided by whether citizens retain the courage to question power, institutions retain the independence to protect those questions, and young people retain the hope that their voices can alter the course of the Republic. The Gen-Z movement of 2026 is significant not simply because it extracted political concessions, but because it shattered the psychological belief that resistance is futile. That is the real flower emerging from the storm.