The vast sea of students that surged onto the streets of Delhi on July 20, 2026, came as a massive shock not only to the organisers but also to the established system. Over the past 14 years, such spontaneous public outrage against the government had largely faded into oblivion. The defining feature of this protest was its autonomy; these youth had gathered spontaneously, without any political call. This sea of people had neither a specific face, nor a leader, nor a party, nor any single binding ideology. Their grievance was the same yesterday and remains the same today: there are deep-rooted structural flaws in the system causing immense suffering to the general public, and especially to students. Their only reasonable expectation was that the government should simply listen and find a solution.
However, the rulers, engrossed in spinning their own virtual grand narratives and manufacturing grandeur, did not have the faintest realisation of this simmering anger on the ground. When a massive torrent of questions and grievances was knocking at the system’s doors, the lords of Delhi ignored it with sheer apathy and willful disregard. With the doors of dialogue closed, this torrent naturally became uncontrollable, and its heat reached the very gates of Parliament. What happened next? The protesters were met with iron barricades erected everywhere, brutal baton charges, tear gas shells, suspended internet, and most importantly, a shameless pretense by the government that “nothing significant actually happened here.” Subsequently, state-sponsored trolls on social media and self-serving leaders aligned with the ruling power played out their usual script. Without any sense of proportion, they orchestrated a smear campaign against these protests and protesters through blatant falsehoods.
This entire sequence of events raises some fundamental questions. Do the people of this country not have the right to voice their demands and pain? If they do, how can their constitutional right to protest through legal and peaceful means be denied? And if this right is absolute in a democracy, why is the government’s first response to wield a baton or use force, instead of bringing the students to the negotiating table? The answer to these questions lies in one bitter reality: the government has completely forgotten the fundamental democratic arts of dialogue, accountability, and ‘Rajdharma’.
The Illusion of Dialogue and Evading Questions
Fundamentally, political accountability is neither a favour nor charity bestowed by the government. It is an institutional pillar of the established political system—democracy itself. If elections are the visible manifestation of this accountability every five years, it is this very accountability that facilitates dialogue between the public and the government between elections, through protests and independent journalism. Internally, this accountability flows through the courts, the separation of powers, and executive institutions. The devaluation of democracy does not happen solely through electoral interference; when institutions created specifically to hold power accountable turn a blind eye, democracy truly perishes. The students’ protests were not merely a law and order issue. The demand for the minister’s resignation was a demand to enforce accountability. It was a demand for senior figures in power to take responsibility and engage with the protesters. Filing court petitions against the crackdown was a test of institutional efficacy. However, at every step, the government either shirked its responsibility or maintained silence behind the veil of intermediaries. This perfectly illustrates the sheer lack of accountability.
Analysing the ruling establishment’s response to the students’ demands brings some dismal facts to light. Until the lava of student anger breached the highly secure fortresses of Lutyens’ Delhi, the government’s policy of convenient apathy remained unchanged. Despite such a massive outburst, the highest echelons of power avoided direct dialogue, settling for an ambiguous and brief tweet. On the second day of the protests, the Parliamentary Affairs Minister sent a message to the protesters through an intermediary. Screaming hoarse about the ‘politicization’ of the protests, the Education Minister preached that “students need reforms more than anger.” Ironically, this is the same minister who had previously, and quite irresponsibly, mocked this very student movement as the “B-team of terrorists.”
Unfortunately, each of these moves was a convenient deflection from the core issue. When the protesters pointedly ask, “Why should the concerned minister remain in office after such a colossal failure?”, the government, instead of answering, rattles off a list of its ‘administrative band-aid solutions.’ Constantly harping on the ‘politicization’ of the protests is merely a devious tactic to attack the questioner’s intent instead of answering the question. Moreover, instead of engaging in direct and reassuring dialogue with a distressed public, conveying the Prime Minister’s message through a junior minister from a party platform is akin to settling for an illusion of dialogue rather than meaningful communication. On one hand, the government officially admits to administrative lapses. Yet, the state cleverly evades explaining why accountability shouldn’t reach the top leadership of the ministry under which this massive failure occurred. Governing by shirking responsibility—treating citizens’ grievances not as serious issues but as viral Public Relations (PR) crises to be managed—has become the absolute priority of this government.
When Power Itself Brands Reality as Fake
Is this limited merely to crisis management? The government’s suppression tactics are far more pervasive, operating on a cognitive level. As videos of the crackdown began circulating on social media, the Delhi Police launched a systematic counter-campaign. Refuting numerous posts, their official handles declared that no violence had occurred and the situation was handled highly professionally. One specific claim showed a baton, used in the lathi charge, made more lethal with nails driven into it. The police dismissed this claim as fake. However, the fact-checking organization BOOM verified the video and stated it was genuine. When truth itself is branded as fake by official state machinery, a grave question arises: who should the public trust for reality? Of course, not all police claims are false. But when official mechanisms can dismiss real evidence as fake, and partisans can peddle fake videos as real, the shared factual foundation essential for any democratic dialogue is fundamentally destroyed.
Superficially, this might seem like an isolated incident, but it masks a dangerous institutional innovation. The state no longer stops at arbitrating truth and falsehood; it has erected a colossal apparatus to manufacture and impose its own convenient truth. On one hand, ordinary citizens face draconian action for allegedly spreading rumors, while on the other, state-patronized propagandists spreading disinformation are openly protected. An ever-aspiring former minister in Maharashtra claims “the protesters are terrorists,” and shortly after, the state’s Chief Minister conveniently pleads ignorance to evade the truth. Backed by a massive social media machinery and subservient news channels, the state assumes the monopoly on deciding “exactly what happened.” Consequently, truth is no longer clear as daylight and collectively owned; instead, it is conveniently privatized.
Is this confined merely to the digital space? By shutting down the internet and closing metro stations, the government actively attempts to seal off Ground Zero. The state blockaded the exact alternative digital networks that birthed unprecedented movements like the Cockroach Janata Party, organized scattered youth, and gave students a rightful platform to voice their issues. Shutting down the internet and barricading roads were not merely security measures; they were cruel, institutional attempts to permanently sever dialogue by erecting an artificial wall between citizens and protesters, thereby choking their counter-public sphere.
The Formulaic Modus Operandi of Oppression
The baton charge on protesters was gleefully consumed by regime supporters. While executing the charge, the police visibly ‘enjoyed’ the moment—sometimes calculatingly, sometimes laughing, and sometimes resorting to despicable acts. It is naturally tempting to view a baton charge as a display of state power. However, renowned philosopher Hannah Arendt posited the exact opposite. According to her, power and violence are not merely distinct concepts, but inherent opposites. The foundation of true power rests on legitimacy and consent. When this power begins to wane, violence takes its place. A regime wielding genuine moral authority does not need to fire tear gas or swing batons at its own students. Such a government can listen to the pain and grievances of its citizens and provide answers. Therefore, the use of brute force is not an assertion of power, but a desperate admission of its collapse. It is here one acutely realizes that the government has lost the art of governance. Fundamentally, ‘Rajdharma’ is the democratic art of transforming conflict into peaceful compromise without resorting to destructive force. Unfortunately, this government does not hesitate to unleash violence on both physical and cognitive levels.
Sociologist Charles Tilly noted that conflict and repression eventually settle into a formulaic, repetitive modus operandi. To trace this government’s trajectory, one must review the major protests against it. During the 2020-21 farmers’ protests, Delhi’s borders were fortified with concrete walls, barbed wire, and iron nails driven into the roads. Internet around the protest sites was severed. Before finally bowing to a year of relentless pressure and repealing the laws, the state vilified these protesters as traitors and ‘Andolanjeevis’ (professional protesters). In 2023, the nation’s Olympic medal-winning wrestlers—protesting alleged sexual harassment by a powerful ruling party leader—were dragged through the streets and detained on the inauguration day of the new Parliament building. Meanwhile, the accused leader sat shoulder-to-shoulder with dignitaries inside. During the 2019-20 Shaheen Bagh protests, police stormed the Jamia Millia Islamia campus and brutally baton-charged students studying in the library. Maintaining silence until the situation deteriorates, deploying force over dialogue, eroding the moral legitimacy of protesters, and shirking all responsibility—this common thread weaves through every incident. Historically, suppressing dissent under the guise of religion, national security, or ideology was used as an exception. By 2026, however, it has become the standard operating procedure. When an oppressive tactic is used once, it causes a sensation; when it is used for the fourth time, it becomes state policy.
Had the concerned minister met the protesters in the very first week, or had the Prime Minister engaged with them directly, the political capital expended would have been limited to a single news cycle. Instead, dialogue was substituted with violent confrontation—but to what end? Injured students and police, destroyed public property, mounting criminal cases, indefinite fasts ending up in hospital wards, and the global humiliation of the world’s largest democracy cracking down on its own youth! The economics of this oppression is entirely flawed. A grievance unheard never simply vanishes into thin air; it festers, accumulates, and eventually strikes back at the regime with compound interest.
Witnessing this student protest in Delhi firsthand, one thing becomes strikingly clear: the contemporary Indian state has lost all three essential arts—dialogue, statecraft, and accountability. No democracy ever operates with 100% public consensus. Nor is any ruler born wearing the armour of political immortality. A regime’s maturity is measured by how it treats its opposition. Rulers must urgently internalize the fact that a dissenting questioner is also an active citizen in a democracy. A state unwilling to converse or reason with its own citizens has, ultimately, already lost its most vital asset—the mandate and legitimacy of the people.