Central Delhi transformed into a roaring sea of banners and unyielding youth. Choking every major artery leading into the capital’s heart, thousands of students flooded the streets. The massive rally demanding Education Minister Dharmendra Pradhan’s resignation and wider examination reforms, in a show of force by the Cockroach Janta Party (CJP) online movement felt less like a standard political demonstration and more like an approaching storm.
As a journalist on the ground, stepping into that crowd was dizzying. Yet, beneath the thick haze of tear gas and the deafening wall of slogans, the real story wasn’t the fury. It was a quiet, unexpected grace. While television cameras focused entirely on the friction, I witnessed three firsthand moments of deep empathy that never made the nightly news.
The Human Shield at Jantar Mantar
The day began at Jantar Mantar, India’s historic epicentre of dissent, where the air practically crackled with tension. As hours ticked by, exhaustion gave way to raw frustration. A few aggressive factions boiled over, clashing violently with police barricades and turning their hostility toward the media crews, including myself.
Before the chaos could spiral out of control, the true character of the crowd took over. A group of student protesters instantly formed a human wall between the agitators and the press. They physically de-escalated the confrontation, pulling back their peers and resetting the tone of the march. We are here for justice, not violence,” one student firmly shouted, defusing the immediate threat.
In that tense moment, it became clear: even in their deepest anger, this generation fiercely protects the integrity of their cause.
Lifelines Through the Tear Gas
By afternoon, the epicentre had shifted toward Raisina Road, and the atmosphere turned volatile. The demands had grown heavier – the youth were now calling for a total overhaul of the education policy. To break up the swelling numbers, the police deployed tear gas. Blinded, choking, and struggling to keep my camera rolling as the stinging smoke rolled in, I was entirely helpless. Suddenly, two young women materialised out of the white haze. Without saying a word, they slipped a fresh mask into my hand and poured clean water over my burning eyes. While everyone else was running for cover, these two strangers paused to rescue a journalist. On the scalding asphalt of Raisina Road, humanity outlasted the smoke.
Sanctuary in the Monsoon
The final chapter of the protest wasn’t written by political rage, but by the monsoon skies. As it rained, the demonstrators refused to break, and neither did my broadcast. Drenched, I desperately tried to shield my recording equipment with my clothes, failing miserably. Then came a young protester, no older than twenty-five. She was completely soaked, yet she walked up and held out her umbrella. When I tried to wave her away, she just smiled. “You are telling our story to the world,” she said simply. “You need this more than I do”. Later, I couldn’t locate the girl, and felt guilty because I wasn’t able to return her umbrella to her.
(Kanika Katiyar is a Special Correspondent at NDTV)
Disclaimer: These are the personal opinions of the author
