So, picture this.
You wake up one April morning in 2025 with the vague sense that something is terribly wrong—like when you hear your neighbor’s blender at 3 a.m. and wonder if it’s a smoothie or a dismemberment. You check the news and, voila, India’s democracy has pulled another vanishing act, except this time it’s hiding behind a temple elephant wearing more gold than a Punjabi wedding.
Welcome to the Grand National Illusion: half parade, half purge—with the faint scent of incense masking the stench of authoritarianism.
The Prestige (Because Even Magic Tricks Have Steps):
India, the world’s largest democracy™, decided to run a dual program in April. On Channel A: elephants, drummers, and enough temple bling to make Versailles blush. On Channel B: raids, arrests, and a casual false flag operation in Kashmir. Spoiler: both channels had the same director, but only one got trending on Instagram.
Thrissur Pooram, Kerala’s grand temple festival, is where the government parked 4,000 police officers, deployed drones, facial recognition tech, and possibly a team of astrologers just in case Jupiter wasn’t aligned with police batons.
And somewhere far, far away—in that mystical, snow-dusted land known as “the inconvenient part of India”—Kashmir was bleeding quietly so as not to interrupt the fireworks display.
Now You See It, Now You Don't (The Sleight of Surveillance):
Here’s how the trick works. It’s not that complicated, which is honestly more insulting than impressive.
Stage a tragedy (the Pahalgam attack, 26 dead tourists, national mourning optional).
Blame Pakistan faster than you can say “WhatsApp forward.”
Leak nothing. Silence everything.
Drag every Kashmiri student into the spotlight, then beat them into the shadows.
Cue elephants.
It’s like burning your neighbor’s house and then organizing a block party to avoid questions.
Leaked RAW documents (yes, there are actual files, not TikToks) suggest the whole thing may have been staged. A self-inflicted wound in the name of patriotism. Because what’s a little blood when you’re selling nationalism wholesale?
And thus, while North India boiled in communal suspicion, South India danced to the beat of a thousand chendas. Kashmiris were harassed, detained, fired, and forced to chant slogans at knifepoint. And elephants? Elephants were pampered.
Security Priorities 101: Elephants > Students
If you’re an elephant in India, congratulations. You have more rights than a Kashmiri.
You get a welfare task force.
You get drone surveillance to ensure no one disturbs your vibe.
You get 4,000 police officers making sure you don’t get sad.
If you’re a Kashmiri Muslim student:
You get interrogated for texting your mom.
You get fired for your surname.
You get slapped around by vigilantes who believe WhatsApp more than Wikipedia.
In Delhi, a student was beaten until he bled the national flag. In Bangalore, an internship vanished faster than human rights at a Home Ministry press conference. In Dehradun, five were beaten by Bajrang Dal—then “rescued” by the police, which is like being mauled by a lion and then comforted by a crocodile.
And in response, the government said… nothing.
Literally. Nothing.
Media Chants and the National Gaslight
It’s not even subtle anymore.
India’s media went full “Look at the shiny thing!” mode. Channels screamed about tradition, glory, and elephants with better PR managers than most politicians. Meanwhile, the valley of Kashmir choked in silence.
No journalists allowed.
No protests permitted.
No internet, because democracy apparently needs Airplane Mode.
This is gaslighting, premium edition. The kind where you’re told the beatings are a coincidence, the detentions are for your safety, and the nation loves you—just not enough to treat you like a citizen.
Drums Over Dissent: A Tactical Overview
Now, let’s appreciate the genius.
Why silence criticism with water cannons when you can drown it in temple drums? Why admit failure when you can chant Vedic mantras over human rights abuses?
Thrissur Pooram became a government-issued fire blanket—smothering outrage, diverting eyeballs, and reminding everyone that, hey, elephants are cool.
There were more drones filming parades than there were monitoring unlawful raids. More facial recognition for sandalwood pilgrims than for masked mobs beating students.
India in 2025 doesn’t fix crises. It schedules festivals around them.
Government Accountability Report: Tumbleweeds and Crickets
Let’s check in with our trusty public institutions:
Prime Minister’s Office: Quiet as a yoga retreat.
Ministry of Home Affairs: Meditating, possibly on Mars.
Human Rights Commission: Currently vacationing in Narnia.
Instead, Kashmiri students were told to “avoid political discussions.” You know, because free speech is fine as long as you whisper it in an empty room while spinning a prayer wheel.
National Unity or National Costume Change?
Modi’s India loves to talk about unity. But it often looks more like cosplay.
You can be celebrated, elevated, and televised—so long as you’re in costume, dancing to the right drumbeat, and not questioning anything inconvenient like, say, fascism.
Unity, it seems, is a performance. And like any good play, there are protagonists (temples, flags, influencers) and antagonists (students, journalists, minorities). And a curtain—always a curtain.
Behind it? A nation quietly becoming unrecognizable.
The Festival That Ate the Constitution
By the time the last drumbeat echoed through Kerala and the last student was interrogated in Srinagar, the real takeaway became clear:
India isn’t ignoring dissent. It’s choreographing its absence.
The festival didn’t distract from the repression. It was the distraction. It was the saffron-colored confetti thrown over a gaping wound.
Because when you train a nation to cheer for elephants while ignoring bleeding students, you don’t just lose empathy—you outsource it.
Final Curtain Call: The Joke's Getting Old
Here’s the punchline no one’s laughing at:
Elephants never forget.
But democracies do.
Especially when forgetting is just so damn profitable.
India has become a place where celebration is compulsory, and empathy is subversive. Where questioning the narrative means you’re the problem. And where the worst crime is not violence—but being inconvenient to the vibes.
So, to answer the original question: What do you call a democracy that protects elephants better than students?
You don’t. Because by then, it’s already stopped being one.
You can’t dance forever with a fractured leg. And you can’t parade forever on a bleeding conscience.
Eventually, even the drums get tired.
And all you’re left with… is the echo.
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