For years, Narendra Modi’s government has cultivated an aura of invincibility. It has weathered economic slowdowns, farm protests, pandemic mismanagement, and relentless criticism from civil society. It has controlled the narrative through a formidable media machine, crushed dissent with a heavy hand, and won elections with sweeping majorities. Yet, in the sweltering summer of 2026, that invincibility was pierced—not by a rival political party, not by a coalition of regional actors, but by a six‑word social‑media post and an army of angry, unemployed young people who proudly embraced the label “cockroaches.”
The story begins with an unguarded remark by India’s Chief Justice, Surya Kant. On May 15, while hearing a case about lawyers seeking senior designation, he observed: “Some young people are like cockroaches—they have no place in employment or in the profession. Some of them become journalists, some become social‑media activists, RTI activists, and then they attack everyone.” Within hours, the Supreme Court issued a clarification, insisting the Chief Justice was referring only to those using fake degrees to infiltrate the legal profession. But the damage was done. The insult had already been screenshot, memed, and shared a million times over.
What followed was utterly unprecedented. A young graduate named Abhijeet Dipke, recently returned from Boston University, wrote on his social media page: “What if all the cockroaches unite?” That single question gave birth to the “Cockroach Janta Party” (CJP). Initially, it was nothing more than a joke—a sarcastic retort aimed at an arrogant put-down.
Within four days, the account had amassed nine million followers—eclipsing the Bharatiya Janata Party’s (BJP) official Instagram handle. Within the next five days, it crossed ten million, surpassing even the 141-year-old Indian National Congress. By the end of May, the count approached fifteen million. All this with only 56 posts, compared to the BJP’s 18,000.
This was not a political party in any traditional sense. It had no constitution, no membership rolls, no local committees, no fundraising apparatus. What it did have was a generation’s collective rage, a wicked sense of humour, and an intuitive mastery of short‑form video. The CJP’s content was a blend of memes, sarcastic skits, and raw testimonials from jobless graduates. It spoke in the Gen Z language—meme references, slang, and ironic self‑deprecation. And it resonated because it articulated a truth that mainstream parties had long ignored: India’s much‑touted demographic dividend was turning into a demographic disaster.
The numbers are stark. According to the Centre for Monitoring Indian Economy, the unemployment rate for graduates under 25 hovers around 40 per cent. Over 20 million young people enter the job market each year, but formal sector jobs are growing at a fraction of that pace. The promise of “Make in India” and “Skill India” has failed to deliver decent livelihoods. Instead, young Indians are trapped in a brutal cycle of coaching classes, competitive exams, and perennial disappointment. And when those exams are repeatedly leaked—as was the case with the NEET-UG medical entrance test in May 2026—the sense of betrayal turns into fury.
The NEET-UG paper was leaked before the exam, forcing nearly 2 million candidates to retake it. Several students committed suicide, their families blaming the government’s inability to secure the exam process. It was a déjà vu of the 2024 leak, which had also gone unpunished. But this time, the CJP channelled that anger into sustained street action. They set up camp at Jantar Mantar, New Delhi’s traditional protest site, and demanded the resignation of Education Minister Dharmendra Pradhan. For weeks, the protests were small and largely ignored by the mainstream media. Then, on July 18, Delhi police forcibly removed education activist Sonam Wangchuk, who was on a hunger strike, and hospitalized him. Two days later, tens of thousands of young people—organized through CJP’s Instagram stories—marched towards Parliament. Police responded with baton charges and tear gas, and the images of bloodied students went viral.
That was the turning point. What might have fizzled out instead became a national movement. The government’s heavy‑handed response backfired spectacularly, drawing sympathy from middle‑class parents who had previously been ambivalent. On July 26, Dharmendra Pradhan resigned. It was the first time in Modi’s twelve‑year rule that a cabinet minister was forced out by sustained public pressure—not by a parliamentary no‑confidence motion, not by a coalition partner’s ultimatum, but by a loosely organized online campaign that spilled onto the streets.
Political analyst Nilanjan Mukhopadhyay, quoted by the Associated Press, called it “a major defeat for Mr. Modi.” CJP spokesperson Saurav Das put it more bluntly: “A government that had not blinked in twelve years was forced to blink when the youth stood united.”
But these cosmetic adaptations reveal more about the government’s anxiety than its strength. When the most powerful man in India starts making Instagram reels to court a demographic that has just humiliated his minister, it is a sign that the old tools of control—television, print, and even WhatsApp—are no longer sufficient. The state may still regulate other social media handles, but it missed the memo on Instagram. And that oversight cost it a cabinet portfolio.
The writer, based in Karachi, is a freelance contributor and investment banker. He can be reached at syedatifshamim@hotmail.com.
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