What happens when an alleged gang rape of a minor girl in a park turns, within minutes, from a demand for justice into a competition of rhymes?

​The cockroaches now crawling across India’s political landscape deserve close scrutiny. These self-appointed tribunes of ‘simmering discontent’ appear to have no clear programme or principles: only noise, invective and an appetite for disruption. Calling themselves the Cockroach Janta Party, they claim to speak for an outraged public. Critics, however, see them as a proxy for an opposition unable to defeat the Modi government at the ballot box.

If one day you find out that your city’s population has increased by millions, with school seats running out, long waits at hospitals, falling wages and increasing pressure on government programs, would you call it just a coincidence?

History does not change course every day. Occasionally, however, an election arrives that appears to mark the beginning of a new era. For supporters of the Bharatiya Janata Party, the party's sweeping victories in Assam and West Bengal this year represent precisely such a moment...

On 15 June 2005, India did not just pass a new law. It gave its citizens a power: the power to ask questions. Even more important, it gave them a legal right to demand answers.

In politics, change is necessary. But not every change necessarily brings improvement. Sometimes, when a system has achieved a measure of stability despite many challenges, changing it suddenly can itself become a serious risk.

“Jayati Jayati Bharata-Mata!” What a simple, sweet and deeply Indian invocation. Yet, after Independence, when the young nation was searching for symbols of its new identity, why did this beautiful Sanskrit song never make it to the national stage?

The clouds refused to come. Karnataka looked up at the sky. Then the government looked in two directions. One team turned to aircraft, weather data and atmospheric science. Another turned towards a temple, sacred fire and ancient mantras. And, believe it or not, both were official responses.

The nation was locked indoors. Streets were deserted, markets silent, factories shut. Fear had entered almost every Indian home, and nobody knew how long the invisible enemy would stay. Then came a voice on television.

Imagine the final scene of Shyam Benegal's celebrated film Ankur. A little village boy silently watches everything around him: the landlord's authority, the poor's helplessness, and the daily drama of injustice. Then, suddenly, he picks up a stone.