Mhonjan Kithan,
Department of Political Science, Modern College Piphema
It started with an insult. Or at least, what sounded like one.
On May 15, 2026, during a hearing on fake educational degrees, Chief Justice of India Justice Surya Kant referred to people using bogus credentials as "cockroaches" and "parasites". In the age of 10-second clips, context was a casualty. The clip went viral as "CJI calls unemployed youth cockroaches". The Supreme Court clarified that the remark targeted fraudsters, not India’s youth, but the internet had already moved on.
The following day, 30-year-old Abhijeet Dipke, a higher-studies student from Chhatrapati Sambhajinagar, Maharashtra, asked on X: "What if all cockroaches come together?" He created a Google Form, designed a parody logo, and opened an Instagram page: Cockroach Janta Party (CJP). Its tagline: "India's No. 1 party for the lazy, unemployed and forgotten."
The joke soon became a movement. Within 24 hours, CJP reportedly gained 3.7 million Instagram followers, and within 48 hours, its following surpassed those of major political parties. Its anthem, "Haan Main Hoon Cockroach", spread across streaming platforms. When its original X handle, @CJP_2029, was withheld in India after a government legal demand, Dipke simply pivoted to @Cockroachisback with the defiant bio: "Cockroaches don't die!"
Why did it explode? Because CJP recognised what legacy political parties refused to acknowledge: Gen Z do not hold press conferences; they weaponise memes. Its aesthetic was deliberately low-fi: rough-cut graphics, dark humour, self-deprecation, and fleeting Instagram stories. It called itself an "anti-establishment roach-squad". It sold nothing but belonging. When the CJI, even out of context, called them cockroaches, they didn't get offended. They got organised. Adding a cockroach emoji to their Instagram bio and writing #MainBhiCockroach became the new membership card.
Behind the satire is a serious political platform. CJP calls for restrictions on retired judges accepting political appointments, stronger anti-defection laws, 50% women’s reservation in legislatures, regulation of partisan media, and independent oversight of competitive exams.
The establishment soon reacted, which led the Bar Council of India (BCI) to ban all NALSAR 2026 graduates from enrolling as advocates. Similarly, the NLSIU Bengaluru cancelled its entire convocation after 700+ students and alumni objected to the presence of the CJI and BCI chairman. Then came the political response: a BJP leader in Karnataka staged a bizarre stunt where he brought a box with four live cockroaches and squashed them one by one on camera, saying this is what should be done to CJP. Despite these heavy-handed state tactics, the youth successfully reclaimed the slur as a badge of honour.
For readers in Nagaland, this is far more than a Delhi-centric media spectacle. We know this feeling of waiting intimately. We recognise the cycle of delayed examinations, opaque recruitment boards, and the exodus of our brightest minds to metropolitan hubs because of a hollowed-out local private sector. We are familiar with being told we are "too dependent on government jobs" in an economy that offers no alternatives. CJP's anger about paper leaks is our anger too. When a competitive exam in Nagaland gets postponed, or its answer key is questioned, the same helplessness spreads on our Instagram stories. The difference is, CJP gave that helplessness a funny, shareable meme.
It also holds a mirror to how we treat dissent. In Nagaland, we often dismiss youth satire pages like The Naga Memes or student protests as "not serious". When a young Naga puts a cockroach in his bio, he is not saying he is lazy. He is saying, "You called me useless, but I am still here, and I can bite."
The CJP may never become a traditional electoral party. Its founder Abhijeet Dipke insists it is a "political front of the youth, by the youth, for the youth" and not a party that will file nominations. And perhaps that is its strength. With little more than a Canva logo, a Google Form, and a collective wound, it has already forced institutions to respond.
The lesson is simple: You can squash four cockroaches in a box for the cameras. You cannot squash 21 million of them on Instagram.
They have, as their bio says, learned not to die.
