Political vocabulary often reveals more than political speeches. In the Narendra Modi era, it has produced a growing dictionary of insults aimed at dissenters. Students became the “Tukde-Tukde Gang.” Intellectuals and activists were branded “Urban Naxals.” Writers returning awards were dismissed as the “Award Wapsi Gang.” Farmers protesting government policies were labelled “Khalistanis,” “Maoists,” or “anti-national.” Modi himself coined “Andolanjeevi” to describe what he called professional protesters.
Now comes another term: “Dimagi Naxals,” or ideological Naxals. The question is not why a new label has appeared. The deeper question is why a government with overwhelming electoral, institutional and communicative power repeatedly finds it useful to label critics instead of answering them. And why this strategy may be losing its force among India’s younger generation.
Political communication has always used labels, but the past decade has produced an unusually rich catalogue. “Urban Naxal” gained prominence during the Bhima Koregaon investigations, even though the Union Home Ministry told Parliament in 2020 that the term was not part of official terminology. The same contradiction surrounds “Tukde-Tukde Gang”: an RTI response from the Home Ministry said it had no information about such a gang, even as the phrase became a powerful political weapon. Modi later used it against the Congress and the Opposition. “Andolanjeevi,” “Khan Market Gang,” “Lutyens’ gang,” “toolkit gang,” and “anti-national” followed.
Individually, these may seem like colourful insults. Collectively, they mark a shift: political disagreement is recast as moral suspicion. The critic becomes a Naxal. The student becomes part of a gang. The protester becomes a professional agitator. The journalist becomes a privileged elite. Eventually, the citizen asking uncomfortable questions risks being portrayed as aligned with the enemy. That is dangerous for any democracy.
India remains an electoral democracy, and the BJP itself lost its single-party Lok Sabha majority in 2024. But democracy must be judged not only by elections, but by what happens between them. Freedom House’s 2026 assessment rates India “Partly Free,” with a score of 62/100. Reporters Without Borders ranks India 157th out of 180 in its 2026 World Press Freedom Index. Human Rights Watch has reported pressure on activists and civil society organisations. One may dispute these findings, but dismissing every critical report as an anti-India conspiracy is not a democratic response. The appropriate response is simple: show the evidence.
The case of Umar Khalid illustrates the cost of dissent. Arrested in September 2020 under the UAPA in connection with the Delhi riots conspiracy case, Khalid has spent more than five years in detention without trial. Amnesty International reported in January 2026 that Khalid and Sharjeel Imam remained incarcerated while several co-accused had received bail. This does not mean journalists or politicians should declare anyone innocent. That is the court’s job. And that is precisely the point: in a democracy governed by the rule of law, a citizen should not effectively serve a sentence before guilt is established.
Another perception has damaged the Modi era: the allegation that the BJP functions as a political “washing machine.” The term must be used carefully. Joining the BJP does not erase a conviction, and not every politician who switches parties is guilty. But a documented pattern exists. An investigation by The Indian Express found that since 2014, 25 prominent opposition politicians facing corruption investigations joined the BJP; in 23 cases, the investigation stalled or went into cold storage. The same investigation found that 95% of prominent politicians investigated by the ED and CBI after 2014 were from the Opposition. This does not prove political motivation, but it raises questions that deserve scrutiny. If agencies are truly independent, the answer should be straightforward: publish the data, explain the disparity, and allow independent examination. Otherwise, citizens begin believing that the law is a weapon against enemies and a shield for allies.
The problem, however, is not limited to the BJP. India’s political system has a deep criminalisation problem. According to the Association for Democratic Reforms, 46% of MPs elected in 2024 declared criminal cases, and 31% declared serious criminal cases. Among the BJP’s 240 winning candidates, 39% declared criminal cases and 26% declared serious ones. These are allegations, not convictions. But they raise a fundamental question: why has India become comfortable with candidates facing serious criminal charges? And why does political morality bend so easily when electoral victory is at stake?
Parliament itself reflects the strain. PRS Legislative Research found that during the 17th Lok Sabha, only 16% of Bills were referred to committees for scrutiny, and 35% were passed with less than an hour of discussion. Parliament is not meant to be a voting machine. It is meant to question, examine, amend and demand explanations. That is what democracy requires.
Yet accountability has not vanished entirely. In February 2024, the Supreme Court struck down the Electoral Bond Scheme, ruling that non-disclosure of political funding violated citizens’ right to information. It also struck down provisions allowing unlimited corporate donations. Whatever one’s political affiliation, this was a profound constitutional intervention. It showed that a government can be powerful without being omnipotent, and that institutions can still act as checks.
Gen Z may be the biggest check of all. Unlike previous generations, it consumes politics through digital media. A statement can be instantly compared with an older one. A contradiction can be clipped and circulated. A label can be turned into a meme. Call someone “Tukde-Tukde Gang,” and they can ask: where is the evidence? Call them “Urban Naxal,” and they can ask: where is the official definition? Call them “Dimagi Naxal,” and they can respond: fine, now answer the question.
A young graduate preparing for competitive exams does not care whether a critic is a “Khan Market elite.” She wants to know when the recruitment exam will be held. A student who has spent lakhs on coaching wants to know why exam systems keep failing. A startup founder wants predictable regulations. A farmer wants a viable income. A journalist wants freedom to investigate. An ordinary citizen does not want to be told whom to hate. He wants the State to work.
India does not need a government that never makes mistakes. It needs a government capable of admitting them. Demonetisation caused disruption. Farm laws were withdrawn. Electoral bonds were defended until the Supreme Court struck them down. Changing course is not weakness; it is democracy functioning. The danger begins when governments treat every criticism as sabotage. A government that hears only praise eventually loses contact with reality.
India has changed dramatically since 2014. Digital payments have surged. Infrastructure has expanded. Startups have multiplied. India’s global economic weight has grown. These achievements should not be denied. But neither should they become a shield against difficult questions. Development is not just GDP. It is whether young people find dignified work, whether women participate safely in the labour market, whether journalists can investigate, whether activists can protest without being branded terrorists, whether accused persons receive timely trials, whether Parliament scrutinises laws, whether political parties disclose finances, and whether investigative agencies are trusted.
Above all, development is whether a citizen can ask “Why?” without being told that asking makes them an enemy of the nation.
The politics of insult that once shaped public debate is facing resistance. Labels like “Tukde-Tukde Gang,” “Urban Naxal,” “Andolanjeevi,” and “Dimagi Naxal” convert disagreement into disloyalty. But a younger, more connected generation is demanding evidence, not epithets. It wants employment data, exam schedules, transparency in political funding, and clarity on why accused politicians switch parties without consequence. It questions prolonged undertrial detention, pressure on journalists and NGOs, and the hurried passage of laws without scrutiny.
Most importantly, it asks why governments invest so much energy in defining enemies instead of solving problems. Narratives can be controlled for a time, but questions cannot be suppressed indefinitely. Beneath every label stands a citizen demanding accountability. That demand is not rebellion—it is democracy itself.
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Mohd. Ziyaullah Khan is a freelance content writer and editor based in Nagpur. He is also an activist and social entrepreneur, and co-founder of TruthScape, a team of digital activists fighting disinformation on social media
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