I went to cover CJP protest. I left wondering why it felt like a festival

Published 26 July 2026 · india

The first thing that came out of my mouth while leaving the CJP student protest wasn't a political observation or a reporter's note. It was

The first thing that came out of my mouth while leaving the CJP student protest wasn't a political observation or a reporter's note. It was simply, "I'm going to miss these people." Before I entered the venue, I watched a water cannon push away the barricades outside, a reminder that this was, after all, a protest. But the moment I crossed onto the site, the atmosphere changed so dramatically that I couldn't help but laugh to myself. I genuinely felt like a newly married bahu entering her sasural for the first time. Read Full Story The only things missing were a pooja ki thali, someone applying a tilak on my forehead and Kabhi Khushi Kabhie Gham's title track playing in the background. Before I had even figured out where I wanted to begin reporting, a stranger handed me a bottle of water. There was no awkward introduction, no curiosity about who I was or where I was from. It was simply an instinctive act of kindness. I thanked him, walked a little further, and stopped to read one of the many handwritten placards being carried through the protest. While I stood there, another person quietly placed a packet of samosas in my hand. I politely refused, explaining that I didn’t need it, but he smiled and insisted. Only then did I notice that he wasn’t offering food just to me; he was carrying dozens of packets, making sure everyone entering the protest had something to eat. Then, two different people handed me mini packets of biscuits, each with a different flavour. All this happened within barely two minutes of entering the protest. The samosas and biscuits that found me before I found the protest. I’ll admit it, I love free food as much as the next person.

But somehow, accepting it that day felt different. It almost felt like cheating. The food somehow felt more theirs than mine, as though every samosa, every biscuit packet, and every meal had been bought with someone’s sacrifice or affection. It wasn’t hospitality in the traditional sense. It was people trying to take care of strangers because they believed everyone present was sharing the same journey. The only thing I accepted without hesitation was the water, because Delhi’s humidity had already declared war on all of us. And speaking of the weather, one small gesture stayed with me throughout the day. Everywhere I looked, people carried hand fans, not for themselves, but to cool strangers sitting beside them. Students noticed people sweating and quietly fanned them. Volunteers did the same. Nobody asked them to, and nobody expected praise. They simply saw someone struggling and tried to make the day a little easier. It was a small act, but it reflected the spirit of the protest more than any slogan from the stage. As I walked deeper inside, I noticed something else that seemed almost unbelievable. Delivery executives were constantly entering and leaving the venue. Food bags arrived one after another without a break. Curious, I stopped one rider and asked how many trips he had made that day. He laughed before answering, “This is my fifteenth round.” Fifteen deliveries to a protest by one delivery executive. That was when it truly dawned on me that this place had become its own little ecosystem, fuelled almost entirely by strangers looking after one another. The food itself deserved a separate story. One corner served proper North Indian meals, while another had burgers and fries stacked neatly. There was Italian food somewhere in between.