ONE WORD—"Idiot"—erupted in Parliament. Rahul Gandhi called the ruling dispensation exactly what their conduct had been inviting for years.

ANOTHER WORD—"Andh Bhakta"—he used for those who support idiots.
The House collapsed into chaos. Walkouts. Suspensions. Screaming matches. The treasury benches reacted as if they had been mortally wounded.
A THIRD WORD—"Cockroaches"—ignited millions of youth, students, and ordinary citizens weeks ago. It travelled from Parliament to campuses, hostels, and street corners. A nationwide agitation followed—not because the word itself was extraordinary, but because it detonated decades of accumulated rage against a system that had reduced political opponents to vermin.
Three words. Three eruptions. Each one exposing the fault line running through Indian politics.
But here's the uncomfortable question that no one wants to answer: If three words can cause this upheaval, what has been the cumulative damage of four words—relentlessly weaponised by the ruling establishment and its formidable digital army—on the psyche of this nation?
These are not political critiques. They are instruments of elimination—designed not to debate, but to destroy. They erase your very right to exist in the national conversation. They declare: You are not one of us. You are the enemy. You belong in jail. Or in Pakistan.
Falsehood, vituperation, and character assassination—when deployed in concert—do more than intimidate; they paralyse rational discourse. They transform political opponents into traitors, critics into conspirators, and societies into sectarian tinderboxes. This is a deliberate echo of a colonial strategy: first terrify, then use misinformation to poison inter-community relations, and finally, assassinate characters so thoroughly that populations abandon logic for lethal bigotry, mistaking it for piety or patriotism. Yet, tragedy has a way of poetic justice. As the adage goes, he who spits at the heavens invites the fall on his own face.

The Fall of the 'Purity' Narrative

Those who claimed a monopoly over probity in politics now find their own house in disarray. Consider the electoral arithmetic: the Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP), which secured 303 seats in 2019, crashed to 240 in 2024—a loss of 63 seats, despite a campaign buoyed by "400-paar" hubris. Conversely, the Congress party, despite being subjected to relentless vituperation, rose from 52 to 99 seats.
Electoral outcomes, of course, are shaped by multiple factors—economic distress, local dynamics, organisational strength, and caste arithmetic. Language is one variable, not the sole determinant. Yet the correlation is striking.
The electorate's verdict was a rebuke to this toxicity. The BJP and its National Democratic Alliance (NDA) secured approximately 28.3 crore votes, leaving nearly 70 crore voters outside its fold. When a majority of the electorate is routinely labelled "traitors," "Ram-drohis," or "urban Naxals," it is no surprise that societal discontent transforms into a potent political movement. The student protests, ignited by the dismissive epithet "cockroach," are emblematic of this phenomenon—a spontaneous combustion of youthful rage against institutionalised contempt.
The Congress, too, has historically paid a steep price for the intemperate language of its own leaders. But the current crisis is rooted in a longer history of vitriol propagated by the ruling dispensation's digital machinery. From union ministers to chief ministers, the constitutional dignity of public discourse has been systematically eroded.
The rot is institutional. The ruling party's IT cell, staffed by anonymous provocateurs, has flooded the internet with such vitriol that the entire political ecosystem is now choking on its fumes. Senior leaders, who maintained a strategic silence, are now bearing the burden of that complicity. The lesson is ancient and unforgiving: maunam svikriti lakshanam—silence is the sign of consent.
This is the Centennial Blunder. An organisation that traces its lineage to 1925, which aspired to celebrate its hundred years with grandeur, has instead witnessed its social credibility evaporate—not because of its ideology, but because it allowed mithya vachan (falsehood), vish vaman (poison-spewing), and charitra hanan (character assassination) to become the primary instruments of its political ambition.

The 'Traitor' Weapon and Its Boomerang Effect

And unfortunately, it continues. It must stop immediately. The workers and leaders of the ruling party routinely abuse the Leader of Opposition, Rahul Gandhi. India will never accept this now—the anger of youth has clearly conveyed this message.
Yet, history records a peculiar irony. While brandishing the "Urban Naxal" epithet to dismiss all critics, the BJP's own ascent to power in Delhi was facilitated by an alliance with the Communist Party in the municipal corporation elections. The first "Naxal," by this logic, was a foundational partner in the BJP's journey to power.
This inconsistency extends to financial allegations. The UPA government was destabilised by an orchestrated chorus of "chor, chor." The courts subsequently exonerated the Congress in matters ranging from the Commonwealth Games to the 2G and coal scams, and the National Herald case. Yet, the BJP has never retracted its accusations. This relentless propaganda machine allowed the party to obscure its own staggering list of scandals—from Vyapam and Electoral Bond controversies to the SEBI-Adani imbroglio and allegations of electoral funding irregularities to "Vote Chori" and "Sarkar Chori," as alleged by the Opposition Congress and INDIA Alliance leaders. The strategy was transparent: shout louder than the truth, and the truth becomes inaudible.

Diplomatic Duplicity and Global Perception

This falsehood has transcended domestic rhetoric to contaminate foreign policy, creating a spectacle of contradictions that undermines India's global standing.
On one hand, the public is exhorted to identify adversaries "by their clothes," while PM Modi himself speaks of sharing Eid delicacies with Muslim neighbours. A performative outreach of sending Saugat-e-Eid to millions is orchestrated with celebrity endorsements, belying the underlying communal tension.
On the international stage, the contradictions deepen. While beating the drum of hostility against Pakistan, the government has cultivated a diplomatic camaraderie with the even more radical Taliban. Historical ties with Iran—which etymologically gave India the name "Hindu"—have been sacrificed for an embrace with Arab states that are traditional allies of Islamabad. Saudi Arabia has now formalised a military alliance with Pakistan, meaning any future Indian action across the border could face an additional hostile front.
PM Modi's interactions with the United States have been particularly damaging. While Washington repeatedly disrespected New Delhi from public forums, the Indian leader responded with an obsequiousness that global media ridiculed. Donald Trump's description of India as a "hellhole" and his belittling portrayal of Modi as a supplicant illustrate how diplomatic discourtesy isolates the perpetrator, not the victim. This "melody diplomacy" has not only isolated India internationally but has significantly dented its credibility as a sovereign, non-aligned power.

The Student Protests

The student protests, ignited by the dismissive epithet "cockroach," are emblematic of this phenomenon—a spontaneous combustion of youthful rage against institutionalised contempt.
Let me be clear: I condemn the abuse and misogyny that emerged in these protests. Two truths must coexist. The anger was legitimate; the language was not. When the oppressed imitate the oppressor's vocabulary, they surrender the moral high ground. The misconduct of those in power may explain an intemperate response, but it does not make that response ethically defensible. A movement loses its moral strength when it begins to imitate the behaviour it is opposing.

A Plea for Mutual Restraint

In this fractured discourse, I would expect from the agitators—that you do not abuse the chair. You can criticise Modi or his ministers and their policies. The individual may be fallible, but the office deserves dignity. Tomorrow, you or your leaders may occupy that chair; its sanctity must remain inviolate.
Similarly, I suggest to the ruling establishment—rein in, with equal force, every voice in your ranks that deploys such language. If the PM is above reproach, so too must his party be above vituperation. The distinction is simple: one may criticise the policy, the performance, and the person in office—but the institution must be respected. Abuse, from any quarter, diminishes the abuser, not the abused.

The Mythological and Historical Warning

Our epics scream a warning: character assassination and vile language are the greatest harbingers of ruin.
In the Mahabharata, the Kaurava dynasty's destruction was not merely over land, but over hubris expressed through language. The disrobing of Draupadi in the royal court—a crime of words as much as deeds—sowed the seeds of a war that annihilated an entire lineage. The Bhagavad Gita (17.15) defines the austerity of speech as words that cause no distress, are truthful, pleasant, and beneficial. The Panchatantra warns that a wound from an arrow or an axe heals, but a wound caused by cruel speech never heals. These are warnings, not mere aphorisms.
History is replete with this pattern. The British East India Company did not conquer India solely through firepower; it thrived by implanting mutual suspicion and slander among communities. Similarly, the fall of the Roman Republic was precipitated when the Senate's dignity gave way to invective. Cicero's use of ad hominem attacks against his rivals ultimately led to his own demise and the republic's fall. The Mughal court's decay was accelerated by the shift from Adab to cynical mockery. Edward Gibbon was right: when the Roman senate lost its moral authority to abuse, the empire collapsed.
Ad hominem—the logical fallacy of attacking the person rather than the argument—has been the ruling dispensation's primary political tool. When you cannot defeat the policy, you assassinate the character. When you cannot answer the criticism, you brand the critic a traitor. This is not politics; this is intellectual bankruptcy dressed in the garb of patriotism.

A Ray of Light

In this poisoned environment, Tamil Nadu's youthful Chief Minister Joseph Vijay has drawn a clear line. His directive to his digital warriors to temper their language on social media has been met with a rare, cross-partisan sigh of relief. The welcome is not for the novelty of the appeal, but for its sheer timeliness. The global polity is exhausted by the miasma of rhetorical filth. When politics weaponises language to demonise opponents, its terminus is invariably catastrophic.
Unlike the older generation of leaders who either indulged in or remained silent about the toxic discourse, Vijay has drawn a clear line. He did not merely ask for restraint; he redefined the metric of success for his IT wing. "When people speak of our digital warriors," he declared, "let them say this is a force defined by civility and dignity."
This is not a trivial distinction. It represents a fundamental shift in political strategy—the recognition that in the long arc of history, credibility outlasts virality. Vijay has understood what his seniors have forgotten: that abuse is not strength but evidence of ideological bankruptcy. When language loses its restraint, relationships fracture; when relationships fracture, policy dissolves into the gutter.
The contrast could not be starker. While the old guard allowed its digital army to become an instrument of chaos, Vijay has chosen to transform his into an instrument of persuasion. This is the difference between politics that endures and politics that merely survives.
This critique applies equally to the me and to everyone. If we demand civility from power, we must model it ourselves. The pen that names injustice must never become a sword. For in the final analysis, the battle is not merely against falsehood—it is for the soul of our public life. And that battle cannot be won with weapons forged from the same poison we seek to neutralise.
Perhaps the protestors used this to justify their abuses—"Sathe Sathyam Samacharet"—but I recommend not following their path; they have already proven wrong. All democratic people must speak truth with kindness. Truth without kindness is cruelty; kindness without truth is cowardice. The challenge of our times is to hold both together: to speak with courage and with dignity, to name evil without becoming evil, and to fight for justice without surrendering to hatred.

The Inevitable Reckoning

The message is clear. Empires are not lost on battlefields alone; they are forfeited in the gutter of public discourse. Whether it was the Kauravas of Dwapara, Caesar's Rome, or any modern political dynasty, whenever power and its adherents have spewed poison through their tongues, the people have eventually shown them their rightful place.
The rulers of today made a Centennial Blunder. They took an organisation founded on discipline and ideological conviction and reduced its public face to a digital mob armed with falsehood, vituperation, and character assassination. They mistook volume for victory, abuse for strength, and fear for respect. The electorate has spoken. The students have spoken. And history will record that they were warned—by their own scriptures, by their own epics, and by the very ideals they claim to uphold.
The tongue, when sharpened into a weapon, invariably cuts its master. Joseph Vijay has understood this timeless truth. It remains to be seen whether the rest of the political class will learn the same lesson—before history teaches it to them.

Email:--------------------------------editoronkar@gmail.com