By Satish Aparajit
Just the other day, I was peacefully sipping my black Americano at a coffee shop, pretending to understand life, when a blood-curdling scream shattered the calm. A young woman—clearly one of those work-from-café professionals who own three laptops and one emotional support coffee—had suddenly sprung up from her chair as if auditioning for the Olympics high jump team. What was the cause of this public emergency?
A cockroach.
Not an army of cockroaches. Not a flying mutant species from a science fiction movie. Just one tiny fellow, minding his own business, probably scouting the café menu.
The young lady reacted as if national security had been breached. Chairs shifted, people gasped, coffee nearly spilled, and an impromptu search-and-rescue operation began. The tiny intruder vanished—as cockroaches often do—with the confidence of a seasoned intelligence operative. The girl, naturally, changed tables immediately, unwilling to negotiate with terrorism.
Now, cockroaches are fascinating creatures. They are among the hardiest survivors on Earth, capable of tolerating climates ranging from Arctic cold to tropical heat. Some scientists even suspect that if civilisation collapses, cockroaches will still be around, filing complaints about humans.
Which brings us, inevitably, to politics.
Somewhere in the vast jungle of public discourse, a harmless little “Cockroach” emerged—an anonymous creature merely indulging in a bit of banter, sarcasm, satire, and inconvenient commentary. A tiny digital insect buzzing around social media, poking fun at the mighty beasts of the jungle. But, oh dear. The lions were rattled.
“How,” they roared, “can this insignificant little bug challenge the supremacy of Jungle Raj?”
Emergency meetings were called. Senior members of the pride assembled, growled, frowned meaningfully, and concluded that the greatest threat to civilisation was apparently… one cockroach with Wi-Fi.
Immediate action followed.
Ban the handle.
Block the account.
Silence the insect.
Facebook, Instagram, X, Y, Z—anything remotely resembling free movement was to be sprayed immediately.
But the lions forgot one tiny biological inconvenience: Cockroaches multiply. Rapidly.
A single German cockroach can produce hundreds of offspring in a lifetime. In ideal conditions, one determined lady cockroach can theoretically produce descendants faster than bureaucracies produce committees. And so it happened.
This particular Cockroach, allegedly residing in the USA, gained followers faster than the pride gained excuses. Within days, popularity numbers began overtaking those of the ruling Pride.
Panic. Absolute panic in the den.
Suddenly, the harmless bug was declared a “security threat”. There were whispers of coordinated swarms. Sleepless nights followed. Somewhere, a committee probably debated whether cockroaches were foreign-funded.
Naturally, the pride reached for its oldest weapon:
Mr Baygon.
Spray the problem.
Eliminate dissent.
Problem solved.
Except cockroaches have a peculiar talent for survival. They relocate. They adapt. They disappear behind the refrigerator only to reappear confidently in the drawing room during family dinner.
One handle vanishes. Five emerge. Ban one account. Ten memes appear.
History, after all, suggests that suppressing cockroaches merely improves their networking skills. The pride then tried something ambitious: hacking the cockroach ecosystem. Unfortunately, technology has changed.
Today, a three-year-old child can teach us how to operate smartphones, download apps, recover passwords, and accidentally delete years of family photographs. Meanwhile, many powerful elders are still bravely wrestling with passwords like Admin123 and forwarding “Good Morning” messages before breakfast.
The digital jungle, sadly, no longer runs on push-button wisdom.
Meanwhile, the cockroaches themselves are restless. Too many young insects. Too few jobs. Too many degrees. Too little hope. One cannot survive forever on tea-stall biscuits and motivational speeches.
Young cockroaches want mobility. Cars. Opportunities. A future.
Instead, they face unemployment, exam-paper leaks, shrinking opportunities, environmental decay, and the unsettling possibility that AI may soon perform tasks better than they can.
No wonder the swarm is growing. And here lies the irony:
The harder the pride stamps, blocks, bans, suspends, demonises, and sprays, the faster the cockroaches multiply. Because frustration reproduces faster than censorship can react.
Perhaps the answer is not to fear the cockroach. Not every critic is an enemy. Not every sarcastic remark is rebellion. Sometimes, criticism is merely society scratching where it itches.
The wise jungle would listen, improve systems, fix genuine grievances, and perhaps even laugh at itself occasionally.
Because bulldozing a harmless cockroach may briefly satisfy the lions—but it rarely stops the swarm.
(Satish Aparajit is a retired Wing Commander and Shaurya Chakra awardee.)
