A Democracy in a Designated Enclosure

30-June-2026

I had an uneventful flight to Delhi. Having left Bangalore in the morning, I reached Delhi at around 2 p.m. I am quite familiar with the city, so after collecting my baggage, I took a shuttle bus to Aerocity Metro Station. From there, I boarded the Airport Express to New Delhi Metro Station, switched to the Yellow Line, and headed to Kashmere Gate. Through an app called Lugbee, I had found a hostel near the ISBT where I could store my luggage for a few hours.

After dropping off my bag, I walked back to the metro station and headed to Jantar Mantar. I wanted to be part of the ongoing protest organised by the Cockroach Janatha Party. After passing through the security checks, I entered the designated protest area where the demonstrators had been confined. It struck me as symbolic of the state of public dissent in the country today—a small, designated enclosure where citizens may protest only with permission. Demonstrations held elsewhere would likely invite police intervention and arrests.

Police jeeps were stationed on all the adjoining roads leading to the venue, and at times there seemed to be more police personnel and security forces than protesters.

As I entered, public interest lawyer Prashant Bhushan was speaking on stage. Beside him stood many of the prominent faces of the movement—Abhijeet Dipke, Saurav Das, and Ashutosh Ranka. At the centre of the stage lay Sonam Wangchuk on a bed. He had begun his hunger strike only a few days earlier. Below the stage, several young men and women were also on an indefinite fast. Boards displaying their names and vital signs were hung beside them. Independent media outlets had gathered in large numbers, trying to interview the movement's leading figures. The speakers that day were not particularly compelling orators and, for the most part, were unimpressive in the way they articulated their thoughts. Small groups had formed across the protest site, and I spent time walking around, observing the conversations.

During my time there, I met and spoke with people from very different backgrounds. I met a traveller from Karnataka who was journeying across India and had stopped to support the movement. I also spoke with a young college student representing the Revolutionary Communist Party of India. He and his colleagues were running an independent media initiative to make their voices heard. He told me that he had lied to his parents who, I assume, either lacked the courage to support such causes or had been influenced by years of political messaging—just so he could participate in the protest.

I also met a young PhD scholar in Film Studies from Jadavpur University who seemed disheartened by what he saw as the government's indifference. At another corner, I sat beside an elderly man passionately explaining socialist ideals to a group of attentive young listeners. Everywhere I looked, I saw faces marked by frustration with the system.

By late evening, the crowd had grown considerably, and many people intended to spend the night there. Groups of young people performed street plays, sang songs, delivered speeches, and held discussions in small circles. Independent media channels continued interviewing participants and recording content for their social media platforms. Not everyone present appeared to support the movement, however. Some had come simply—or perhaps had been sent—to argue with the protesters, leading to spirited debates across the venue.

As painful as it was to witness my country in this state, I also found a ray of hope in its young people—the real Gen Z of this country. They have the courage to speak up against the system, question what they see as injustice, and refuse to remain silent. Unlike many who, in my view, were raised not to question authority by fearful or manipulated parents or were shaped by rigidly conservative teachers, these young people are choosing to think for themselves. Their willingness to ask difficult questions and stand up for what they believe gives me hope that the future can still be different.

Yet, as I walked out of the venue, despite that hope, I was overcome with sadness. What troubled me most was what I perceived as the government's indifference to the protest. The demands seemed straightforward: the students wanted accountability for examination paper leaks and a better education system. Are these not reasonable demands for citizens to make in a democracy? To me, the government's apparent indifference raised unsettling questions about the health of democratic dissent in the country.

Lost in thought, I walked to Connaught Place, where I met my friend Divyesh Patel. Divyesh and I have known each other for nearly ten years, and we usually meet once a year for a trek. Our political views differ considerably, yet we have managed to preserve our friendship—mostly by choosing not to discuss politics.

After a satisfying Mexican meal at Taco Bell, we headed back to Kashmere Gate. I collected my bag and we made our way to the ISBT. The Volvo bus that would take us to Shimla arrived on time. I was exhausted that night, and as soon as I settled into my seat, I fell fast asleep.

To Be Continued...