'I came to remind Parliament that we exist’

“People think we came [for the march] because of one exam or one job. We came because every year it becomes harder to believe that our future matters,” says Chhotu Yadav.

The 27-year-old has travelled two days, crammed in the general compartment of a train from Siwan, Bihar to Delhi. “In our villages, young people are either forced to migrate or keep waiting for opportunities that never arrive,” says Chhotu.

“Chalo Sansad [March to Parliament]!” was sparked by a call of the Cockroach Janata Party (CJP) to take the concerns of India's youth directly to Parliament, where the monsoon session began on July 20, 2026.

The protest has now gone beyond the CJP and grown into a movement spanning cities across the nation.

Recurring examination paper leaks triggered a broader campaign against unemployment, delays in government recruitment, and what protesters describe as a deepening crisis of trust – in public institutions, the larger system and governance. The movement has become a platform to voice frustrations over shrinking opportunities, rising migration from villages, and the feeling that young people, particularly those from rural India, are being left out of decisions shaping their future.

“I came to Delhi because I don't want young people from villages like mine to lose faith in the future,” says Dheeram, a 25-year-old final year student of medicine at the Government Medical College in Pali. He travelled with his friend Ashu Ram, 24, a humanities student. The duo reached Delhi at noon on July 19, after an overnight journey of 15 hours.

“Growing up in Barmer [in rural Rajasthan] teaches you resilience. People survive droughts, distance and scarcity. But young people should not have to survive broken systems as well,” he told PARI as crowds milled around us. “We came to Parliament to remind those in power that our future deserves the same urgency as any other national issue.”

In Delhi, they were joined by their friend from Barmer, Prem Prakash, a medical graduate interning at the prestigious AIIMS Delhi.

“People often ask why a medical student is protesting. My answer is simple: I will spend my life treating patients, but I am also a citizen. The problems affecting young people don't end at the hospital gate. If we stay silent now, we will inherit institutions that fail everyone, including those we are trained to serve,” says the 25-year-old.

On the other end of the schooling system are young people like Anup Kumar from Gonda district in Uttar Pradesh. Fifteen years old but in Class 2, he began school much later as his parents who are manual labourers could not afford to send him to school. Anup has also been doing manual labour as a young child to help support the family.

"Even though I am only in Class 2, I have seen enough of the world to know what is right and what is wrong," he told this reporter. “I came here because one day I want to become a doctor. When I reach Class 12 and prepare for medical entrance exams, I don't want to worry that my future could be decided by a paper leak instead of my hard work."

Days before the historic march, thousands began gathering at the capital’s Jantar Mantar protest site. They came from small towns and villages across the country. For many participants, travelling to Delhi required days of planning and long journeys by train and bus. Some pooled money to buy tickets. Others travelled with groups of friends.

“I came to remind Parliament that we exist,” says Prankshit, a 17-year-old from Barhsera village in Uttar Pradesh's Aligarh district. This is his first time out of the village. “Most people from my village have never seen Parliament…but we grew up believing it represented us.”

Hari Krishan’s friends pooled Rs. 5,000 for him to travel from Kyoli Khurd village in Uttar Pradesh's Bulandshahr district. The 18-year-old son of agricultural labourers, he says this trip will cost him days of his earnings from wage labour.

“I don't know if this protest will change everything,” he says. “But if we don't raise our voices today, nothing will change tomorrow. I want to be able to say that I did whatever I could.” A notebook in hand, he is busy scribbling slogans which are picked up by others in the crowd.

Through Monday, July 19, 2026, protesters raised slogans, sang songs in different languages and listened to speakers. They held up placards on unemployment, the agrarian crisis, displacement, education, fascism and constitutional rights.

Alongside demands for transparent investigations into paper leaks, protesters also call for accountability for the growing number of students who have died by suicide amid the pressure, uncertainty and repeated setbacks surrounding competitive examinations.

“People think rural youth don't understand politics,” says Mohammed Golu. All of 19, he arrived in Delhi from Samastipur district in Bihar. Golu repairs electronic appliances for a living, a job he took up after his family's financial circumstances forced him to start earning.

“We understand [politics] every time a school has no teacher, a hospital has no doctor, or a recruitment exam is cancelled. Politics is not something we watch on television. It decides whether we get an education, a job or a chance to build a better life,” he told PARI.

He says travelling to Delhi was his way of making sure that the concerns of young people from villages were heard inside the country's political centre, even if only for a day.

The crowd included people from regions that rarely appear together in the same political space, yet are facing similar challenges despite living hundreds of kilometres apart. They had travelled overnight, spent more than a day on buses and trains, carrying backpacks, water bottles, rolled-up banners and food packed by their families. They had left behind farms, forests, classrooms, their businesses and construction sites. Many had never been to Parliament before. They were children of farmers and manual labourers, Adivasi youth, first-generation graduates, wage workers and others.

They are asking, after years of studying, waiting and hoping, what kind of future awaits them?

Spearheading the movement is the Cockroach Janata Party (CJP) which takes its name from the word "cockroach," reclaiming a slur used for unemployed youth by a sitting judge. It has become a symbol of resilience, a refusal to be silenced.

The immediate demands of the protest include the resignation of the Education Minister Dharmendra Pradhan, a transparent investigation into examination paper leaks, accountability for those responsible, timely government recruitments, and reforms to restore confidence in the country's examination and recruitment systems.

The protest also drew support from education reformer and climate activist Sonam Wangchuk, who began an indefinite hunger strike at Delhi's Jantar Mantar in solidarity with the movement. On July 18, after nearly three weeks without food on a hunger strike, Delhi Police forcefully took Wangchuk to Safdarjung Hospital, saying doctors had warned that his deteriorating health required urgent medical intervention.

Coming in from Hapur in neighbouring Uttar Pradesh are Owaish who dropped out of a B.Tech programme and Zaid who left school after Class 10 because his family could no longer afford his education. He now works with Owaish to support his household.

“I don't want the next generation to lose their education for the same reasons I did. They should have opportunities that I never had,” says Zaid.

For both Owaish and Zaid, the hardest part was convincing their families to let them go.

“They were scared because we are Muslims,” he says. “My mother kept telling me not to go because she has seen what happens during protests – Muslims are the first to be targeted whenever things go wrong.”

“I asked her, ‘what if I have a daughter one day and she loses her future because an examination paper was leaked? What if she studies for years and still doesn't get a fair chance?” he says with a sad smile.

Despite their families' concerns, the two friends left for Delhi the next day, believing the risk of staying silent was greater than the risk of making the journey.

On July 20, 2026 – the day of the march to Parliament – protesters were stopped after Delhi Police imposed restrictions in the area; many were detained, and some were injured. The police used lathis and fired tear gas shells to disperse demonstrators, but protesters regrouped at multiple locations.

The rush of young people from rural areas has taken many by surprise.

A young man from rural Uttar Pradesh, Abhishek Kumar says, “Ab ho gaya hamara [now we are done]. We didn't expect this from the government. They treated us as if we had no dignity. As if we don't matter at all." Abhishek and his friends were near the front of the march when police fired tear gas shells. They also were injured during the lathi charge that followed.

The 24-year-old Abhishek is preparing for government recruitment examinations and has travelled to Delhi with his friends Karan, 25, and Rohit Kumar, 20, from Fatehpur in Agra district of Uttar Pradesh. They arrived in the capital at 4 a.m. on Monday to join the protest and left that evening.

“We are carrying home injuries and a sense of disillusionment,” Karan told PARI.

Later, two CJP representatives met Union Minister J.P. Nadda to submit a memorandum of demands.

“Now that we have shed our blood, I am not leaving until our demands are fulfilled. We deserve better,” says Amlesh. A 22-year-old B.Sc. student from Fatehpur in Prayagraj district, Uttar Pradesh.

“We were marching carefully and peacefully. We even offered flowers to the police. But they still used violence against us,” he adds.

Despite the crackdown, Amlesh says he will remain at the protest. “If I have to die for this, I am ready.”