When the Curtain Fell: My Modi-to-Wizard-of-Oz Moment
I used to support Narendra Modi.
Not blindly, and certainly not because I thought he was perfect. But when he was elected in 2014, I genuinely believed India needed a shake-up. The Congress government had become synonymous with corruption, policy paralysis and political inertia, and Modi came across as someone who would actually get things done.
And, to be fair, during his first term there were things that looked like genuine progress. GST was a major reform. Financial inclusion through Jan Dhan, the expansion of digital payments, Swachh Bharat, infrastructure development and initiatives such as Ujjwala created the impression that India was finally moving with some urgency.
I remember thinking: Okay, this is what decisive government looks like.
But somewhere during the second term, things started standing out.
The treatment of minorities became increasingly difficult to dismiss as isolated incidents. Concerns around discrimination, religious polarisation, hate speech and the shrinking space for dissent have been raised repeatedly by human rights organisations and other observers.
Then there was the constant repackaging of government achievements.
There is nothing wrong with a government continuing, expanding or improving programmes started by a previous government. But there is a difference between building on existing work and creating the impression that everything began with you.
Over time, I started noticing how many initiatives were renamed, rebranded or presented as uniquely belonging to the Modi government, even when they had their origins in earlier administrations.
And then came the growing gap between the official narrative and what people were experiencing.
India can have strong GDP growth while simultaneously struggling with unemployment, underemployment and poor quality jobs. Yet the political messaging often seemed to reduce complicated economic realities to impressive headline numbers.
The same thing happened with institutions.
For years, I dismissed concerns about the weakening of democratic institutions as exaggerated opposition rhetoric. But when questions about investigative agencies, the media, elections, universities, civil society and even the judiciary keep surfacing, eventually you have to ask yourself whether you’re seeing isolated problems or a pattern.
And this is where 2026 feels different to me.
Because this year, the people pulling at the curtain aren’t just opposition politicians.
It’s students. It’s young people. It’s ordinary citizens who have become increasingly unwilling to accept the official version of events.
The Cockroach Janta Party, the satirical youth movement that emerged after the Chief Justice of India referred to unemployed young people as “cockroaches”, is perhaps the most striking example. What started as satire became a protest movement around exam leaks, unemployment and institutional accountability.
And there’s something almost poetic about that.
The government narrative says everything is progressing.
The young people experiencing the consequences are saying: No. Look at what is actually happening to us.
So maybe the questions we should be asking now are simple:
Where are the jobs?
Why are competitive exams repeatedly being compromised?
Why does criticism so often get treated as disloyalty?
Why are minorities increasingly anxious about their place in the country?
Why does the official narrative sometimes look so different from the reality people experience?
And perhaps most importantly:
If everything is working as well as we’re being told it is, why does asking these questions feel so uncomfortable?
I don’t regret supporting the idea of change in 2014.
I regret not questioning the person delivering that change more critically.
Maybe 2026 is simply the year the curtain started to fall.
And once you’ve seen what’s behind it, you can’t really unsee it.