The shifting grammar of political protest in the age of optics

Purana Qila is believed to be one of the oldest surviving enclaves in what later became modern Delhi. In the 12th century, Prithviraj Chauhan, a Tomar Rajput, lost the fort to the invading armies of Muhammad Ghori.

While Ghori returned, his Turkish commander, Qutab-ud-din Aibak, stayed back. Aibak, the founder of the Slave Dynasty, re-edified the old fort built in red and yellow sandstone and added a few more monuments to the Delhi skyline.

Over the next millennium, successive rulers built new structures. Gardens were laid, mausoleums and tombs were raised in memory of the departed. And Delhi evolved into the capital of India.  

Tughlaqabad, on the south-eastern periphery of the city, was developed by Ghyas-ud-din Tughlaq in the 14th century. What is now called Old Delhi is, in fact, Shahjahanabad, built by the Mughal emperor Shahjahan.

Rulers—mediaeval monarchs, imperial traders or democratically elected leaders—are often guided by the urge to seek immortality in monuments. That, they believe, sets them apart from mere mortals. 

Indira Gandhi, fresh from victory over Pakistan in the 1971 war, decided to build such a shrine to showcase India’s march towards modernity. A fallow tract of land across the road abutting the southern wall of the Purana Quila was chosen as the site for a grand exhibition complex designed to accommodate halls, theatres, and restaurants. In 1972, Pragati Maidan hosted its first event – the Asia Trade Show.

When the BJP under Prime Minister Narendra Modi came to power in 2014, it decided that what Naya Bharat needed was a state-of-the-art destination to showcase and unleash the potential of a $5-trillion economy in the making.

The old structure was pulled down, and in its place sprang Bharat Mandapam. Since its inauguration, the mandapam has hosted marquee international events like the G-20 summit in 2023. When it came to showcasing India’s artificial intelligence prowess to the world at the 2026 summit, the Mandapam was the obvious choice for the venue.

The event was inaugurated with all the frills of a mega-conference. Everything was going as per the script when a purely organic claim on an artificial dog created a quandary of the most unexpected proportion.

In a country getting sharply polarised between dog lovers and baiters, someone should also have thought of the perils of introducing a canine element to the summit.  Not in the least, the young, enterprising reporter from the country’s public broadcaster, who thought the robot dog at the Galgotia University stall was a little hat-ke (different).

“It is indeed hat-ke,” acknowledged the professor of communication representing the institution. 

Delhi, the power centre, is also different. In the sense that being in the national capital, the stakes are high. And you are, whatever you do, under scrutiny. Which is why one needs to walk a little bach-ke (with caution). Always.  One mistake, if it gets picked, can trigger strong reactions, including semi-nude protests. 

Like the one organised by nine members of the Indian Youth Congress who barged into one of the pavilions at Bharat Mandapam. Taking off their shirts as a mark of protest against what they alleged was “betrayal” in the proposed India-US trade deal.

Congress allies begged to differ, both on the form and venue of the protest. But the Grand Old Party stood by its cadres.

The incident brings back memories of another protest carried out by the IYC in the heart of Delhi in the summer of 2003. Atal Bihari Vajpayee was prime minister, and Congress-ruled Rajasthan faced a severe drought.

The IYC, led by Randeep Singh Surjewala, now the party’s national general secretary, had requested the then Congress President Sonia Gandhi to flag off 50 trucks of food grain collected for drought relief. With permission from the Union Home Ministry—headed by Deputy PM L K Advani—not forthcoming, a group of party workers marched to the residence of the then state BJP chief, Vasundhara Raje Scindia, at 1, Sunhari Bagh Road, just a stone’s throw from the Parliament House, to make a point.

As a mark of protest, this IYC contingent emptied a couple of sacks of wheat at Scindhia’s doorstep. Newspaper reports suggest that the protesters were detained by police and later released.

The 2003 “grain rain” did not evoke as much media debate as the “shirtless” one. It passed off as just another protest
where IYC cadres wanted to make their presence felt.

Looking back, one recalls the larger political context of the protest. It was a time when the BJP was rearing to challenge and wrest back power from the Congress in four states – Delhi, Rajasthan, Madhya Pradesh, and Chhattisgarh.

A good performance in provincial polls would have laid the perfect foundation for the party to seek another term at the Centre under Vajpayee.

In the elections held in December 2003, the BJP indeed won all states except Delhi. It precipitated Lok Sabha snap polls, hoping to ride the India Shining campaign.

Congress, the challenger, was also doing its bit. Quietly testing the waters to assess public mood and reaction on the ground. The “grain-drain” protest was just one element of that strategy.