CJP came into existence as a satirical response to a Supreme Court judge’s throwaway quip about cockroaches crawling into the system with fake credentials. It hit a raw nerve among a section of society that had found refuge and sustenance in the corridors of certain institutions, bound together by a shared political leaning, a strong sense of group identity, and a radical, combative worldview.
Their predecessors—the student radicals (Marxists, anarchists, and other left-wingers) of Paris in May 1968, and the generations that followed—had gone on to occupy premier positions in corporate and academic institutions, amass incredible wealth and fame, and carry the guilt of lost revolutions along the way. Over time, an ecosystem emerged, capable of supplying a steady stream of political causes to fuel outrage across the globe, in places of its choosing. The luminaries of the media, academia, global prize committees, human rights commissions, and think tanks could swoop in at any moment to set a narrative in motion, thrust it into your eyeballs through algorithms, and amplify it into a crescendo. Whether they are architects, facilitators, willing accomplices, or merely beneficiaries of the system is a question best left to the evidence. The machinery, however, appears remarkably well-oiled.
Welcome to Chaos’r’us, where outrage is the product, moral indignation is the packaging, and political disruption is the service. The inventory is replenished continuously, the distribution network is global, and the customer is anyone with a political objective and a shortage of electoral success.
The roaches scuttling about in the backyards of student-wing party offices are merely cannon fodder for the agents of chaos descending upon vulnerable capitals—Colombo, Dhaka, and Kathmandu—with considerable success. Now New Delhi joins the list, alongside Paris and Munich, albeit with some deference to local sensitivities. The Marxists among them were let down by their elders, having been unceremoniously ousted from electoral politics in India and across much of the world. Their bedfellows, who conveniently and opportunistically exploited toxic varieties of welfare politics, caste loyalties, and parochialism, have been found wanting as well. When the old merchandise stops selling, it is time to rebrand the product. The slogans may change, but the business model survives.
Along came Rahul, the descendant of the longest-surviving political dynasty, working part-time to capture the imagination of the voting public, with or without the burden of a viable vision or idea—or perhaps merely anticipating his own ascendancy to power by virtue of anti-incumbency, or by waiting for the BJP to self-destruct. More than a decade away from power had perhaps made him desperate, frustrated at being outshone by a plebeian he had repeatedly insulted and sought to put in his place. Parliament, courts, due process—be damned. The upstarts who left the party because they thought they were his equals—be damned. He reserved the right to choose his lackeys, and it was time to hit the streets.
The firebrand girls from the Marxist camps could always name the campaign and summon the roaches when the hour cometh. Every movement needs a face, every campaign a slogan, and every slogan a new breed of revolutionaries—a tactically resourceful, irreverent, and abrasive bunch to whom no rules ever apply. They may sign bail conditions one day, only to break them the next. And God forbid they should be punished—they’ll cry foul and ride the next wave of outrage, drowning it all out in sound and fury.
The political leadership names the grievance, the activists supply the energy, the facilitators in the media guarantee the reach, and the institutional ecosystem flashes the moral certification. No need to convene a pre-agitation meeting. Everyone knows their part, and plausible deniability comes free with the package. It’s a win-win proposition: political dividends for some, almost no cost to the belligerents.
By the way, right-wing schmucks—watch out. There is a list. You will be picked out one by one. Sometimes a straw man might be enough, like the CEC. It wouldn’t matter if he’d been our guy when we ran the machinery. Make no mistake: the target is always you. Get the heck out, or else we’ll bring in the international moralists and prize winners, and they’ll name and shame you with a choice selection of epithets—fascists, religious bigots, idol worshippers. Name your pick. The vocabulary is settled, the outrage is brewed, and the distribution is worldwide.
No mercy! If you have any doubt, look at the skull-and-bones message on Ms. Bora’s T-shirt. It’s done, bro!
Chaos’r’us. We manufacture the outrage. You bring in the grievance. Our facilitators will take care of the rest. No refunds, no accountability, and no guarantee that the chaos you buy today won’t come back to haunt you tomorrow.
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