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By:

C.S. Krishnamurthy

21 June 2025 at 7:45:51 pm

A Spade Has No Party

There is something reassuring about a spade. It does not ask who is holding it before doing its job. It digs where it is told to dig. A hole made by a government worker is no different from one made by an opposition worker. The earth, fortunately, has no political affiliation. That simple image offers a useful way of looking at the Cockroach Janata Party, or CJP, a youth-led movement that has emerged around concerns over education, employment and accountability. Its significance may...

A Spade Has No Party

There is something reassuring about a spade. It does not ask who is holding it before doing its job. It digs where it is told to dig. A hole made by a government worker is no different from one made by an opposition worker. The earth, fortunately, has no political affiliation. That simple image offers a useful way of looking at the Cockroach Janata Party, or CJP, a youth-led movement that has emerged around concerns over education, employment and accountability. Its significance may ultimately lie less in whether it becomes a political force and more in what its emergence says about the changing relationship between young citizens and traditional politics. The CJP story reportedly began almost as a joke. But jokes sometimes possess an inconvenient habit of revealing truths that solemn speeches avoid. What began as satire attracted digital attention and developed into youth mobilisation. Beneath the humour lies something more serious: a generation that may not want another political flag, but wants existing flags to pay attention. A New Language Established political parties appear increasingly uncertain about how to speak to Gen Z. The problem may not be a lack of communication, but its direction. Traditional politics has often spent too much time speaking at the young and too little time speaking with them. Gen Z’s concerns are hardly confined to the digital world. Education, employment, security, dignity and accountability remain real-life concerns. Social media may provide the vocabulary, but the grievances are not virtual. Digital platforms have simply provided a meeting ground where concerns that conventional political structures may have failed to accommodate can find expression. This does not automatically make CJP a political party, nor does every participant necessarily subscribe to a common ideology. Its significance may instead lie in its ability to provide a forum for a generation-based articulation of concerns. We use the word “political” rather carelessly. Anything involving public affairs, government or collective decision-making is political in the broadest sense. But political does not necessarily mean partisan. A citizen demanding better examinations, employment opportunities or accountability from a minister is participating in democracy. He need not be preparing an election manifesto. This is where CJP becomes interesting. Its real test is whether it can remain an independent voice without eventually becoming another conventional political formation. Imagine a movement saying: we will criticise the government when it is wrong, the opposition when it is wrong, and ourselves when we are wrong. That would be an unusual political creature. It would also be a useful one. The real test of non-partisanship is not what a movement says about neutrality. It is whether it applies the same yardstick to everyone. If a government mishandles education, question it. If another government does the same, question it again. If a political party demands accountability in opposition but forgets the principle in power, call that out too. A spade should remain a spade even when somebody paints it in party colours. The Cricket Test The temptation to choose sides is understandable. Political discourse increasingly resembles cricket played by spectators who have forgotten that the scoreboard exists. A batsman from our team can edge the ball and we call it bad luck. The same edge by the other team becomes evidence of cheating. The problem is not cricket. It is our loyalty to the shirt. Democracy suffers from the same habit. We become so invested in who said something that we forget to ask whether it is true. An independent political voice must therefore be prepared to disappoint its own supporters. That is easier said than done. Digital technology has made mobilisation remarkably easy. But digital reach is not democratic depth. Followers are not necessarily volunteers, and viral outrage is not sustained civic engagement. The CJP’s challenge, therefore, is to convert attention into participation and measurable accountability. Every movement born outside established politics eventually encounters the gravitational pull of politics. Remaining independent is considerably harder in practice than in principle. CJP’s credibility will depend upon whether it can resist becoming what it criticises. Yet there is another, more interesting measure of success. If, a year from now, political parties begin placing education, employment and youth concerns more prominently at the centre of their agendas because they fear ignoring younger citizens, the CJP may have achieved its purpose without becoming a conventional party. Perhaps that is the deeper relevance of CJP that it may remind political forces that citizens are not permanent spectators in the democratic arena. (The writer is a retired banker and author. He can be reached at krs1957@hotmail.com. Views personal.)

Chain-Pulling Captain: The Wedding Day Rescue Mission

The ‘Chain-Pulling Captain’ saved the day, proving that action beats delay.


At 25 years and eight months, my Red-Letter Day was near—I was to marry on 8 November 1993 in Jodhpur. After four years as an officer cadet and four and a half as a young officer, I put all my planning skills to use. On annual leave at my parents’ government quarters in South Delhi, we were to catch the 9 pm Jodhpur Mail from Old Delhi station on 7 November. With four suitcases and two rucksacks, my father hired a minibus from his BSF Headquarters. A former Gunner officer, he had passed on his planning knack—partly by DNA, mostly by example.


We planned to leave by 6 pm and reach Old Delhi by 7:30, allowing for traffic. Boarding was set for 8 pm, giving us an hour’s buffer. Or so we thought—until the real test began, an "Agni-Pariksha" before my “Agni-Pheras.” The journey was smooth until a few kilometres from the station, where faulty traffic signals at busy junctions caused sudden congestion. The minibus slowed to a crawl.


Time slipped away. At 7:45 pm, still 600–700 metres from the station, we were stuck in a sea of jostling vehicles. Patience wore thin. The train felt distant. My mother cursed the Delhi administration, police, and chaotic traffic. Something had to be done—fast.


The commando in me kicked in—I volunteered for a “One-Man Special Mission”: reach the station on foot and delay the train until my parents boarded safely. The seasoned BSF officer, with IMA Dehradun and Mountain Regiment roots, approved. With a rucksack and two heavy suitcases (wheeled bags weren’t common then), I set off on a “Mission Impossible.” My father followed in the minibus with my mother, assisted by Sham Lal, his trusted aide, helping with luggage.


I weaved through jammed traffic, dodging honking cars, angry drivers, and confused cops, inching towards the station. Hauling heavy bags over rough roads and footpaths, I was drenched in sweat. Training had built my stamina—but not for sprinting in Kolhapuri chappals, a long kurta, and churidar pyjamas. The groom was dressed for style, not the challenge ahead!


By 8:10 pm, I reached the First Class bogie, third or fourth from the engine, and stowed the suitcases under our seats. Finding no TTE, I rushed to the driver, asking for a 15–20 minute delay due to traffic. “The train will depart on time,” he replied. Undeterred, I ran to the guard at the rear—same request, same answer. Then to the station master—again, no help. Frustrated, I warned I’d pull the chain at 9 pm for stranded passengers. He ignored me.


I turned to the Railway Police, but they were powerless. As a last resort, I begged the Delhi traffic police at the station gate to intervene. “Not our jurisdiction,” was the curt reply.


By 8:50 pm, the minibus was still nowhere to be seen. I rushed back to the first-class coach, where some passengers had boarded. Many, like my parents, were likely stuck in traffic. Seeing the TTE, I pleaded for a 15-minute delay. No luck—the Jodhpur Mail had to leave at 9 pm sharp. “Japanese punctuality for my Jodhpur Mail today,” I muttered, frustrated. Disgusted, I warned I’d stop the train if it moved.


At 9 pm sharp, the Jodhpur Mail began to move. I lunged for the nearest chain and pulled it. As the train screeched to a halt, relieved passengers boarded. The guard and railway police, aware of who’d pulled it, warned me, “Don’t do that again, or action will follow.” “I will, if needed,” I replied—my parents were still missing. After a 7–8 minute delay, the train was ready to move. More passengers had arrived. Just before departure, I spotted my breathless parents and Sham Lal aboard, bags in hand.


They’d jumped off at the gate and dashed to the platform. Once seated, we sighed in relief. The special mission had succeeded, and my sweat-soaked new kurta was proof.


My hour of uproar earned me the nickname “Chain-Pulling Captain”, thanks to whom hundreds boarded. Many thanked me, though few knew what truly drove my “heroics”. The TTE, smiling as he checked tickets, said I’d done the right thing. The wedding went ahead without drama. I never wore Kolhapuris, kurtas, and pyjamas for train journeys again.


This anecdote teaches the OODA Cycle—Observe, Orient, Decide, Act—and the need for speed, especially in the military. Without timely observation of traffic, proper orientation of time and space, quick decisions, and decisive action—from leaving the bus to requesting a delay and pulling the chain—the train would have gone.


Before mobile phones, life held more suspense. I wonder if such an event would be as thrilling today.


 (The writer is an Indian Army veteran and Vice President CRM, ANSEC HR Services Ltd. He is a skydiver and a specialist in Security and Risk Management. Views personal.)

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