Channeling anger

The slogan arrived long before the television crews did. As protesters gathered at Delhi’s Jantar Mantar demanding accountability over alleged examination failures and calling for the education minister’s resignation, one refrain cut across the speeches… “Godi media go back.” 

When reporters from mainstream television channels eventually entered the crowd, some were heckled, others surrounded, and at least one journalist was assaulted.

The confrontation illustrated a paradox increasingly shaping Indian journalism. Demonstrators first accuse large television networks of ignoring dissent. When those networks finally arrive, they are greeted as adversaries. For many protesters, field reporters have become living symbols of a media ecosystem that has abandoned its primary democratic duty of holding power to account.

The phrase “godi media”—literally, media sitting in the government’s lap—has become one of the defining political labels of Narendra Modi’s decade in office. Popularised by the veteran anchor Ravish Kumar, it originally described television channels and newspapers perceived to have grown excessively subservient to the ruling establishment after 2014. 

Over time, however, the term has evolved from an institutional critique into a sweeping political identity assigned to almost any reporter holding a microphone from a major network.

That transformation resembles a pattern visible elsewhere in South Asia. During the uprising in Bangladesh that ended Sheikh Hasina’s fifteen-year rule, a similar rupture occurred between citizens and the mainstream press. The slogans and political contexts differed, but the accusation was virtually identical. 

Protesters charged television channels and newspapers as megaphones for official narratives. Outlets routinely described student demonstrators as conspirators or extremists while downplaying state violence. That journalism essentially legitimised killing by echoing state propaganda rather than scrutinising facts.

The comparison between the two countries is striking, even if the news environments are not identical. India retains a far broader and more pluralistic media market, where energetic digital outlets, regional publications, specialized media and investigative teams operate alongside dominant broadcasters. 

Bangladesh under Sheikh Hasina offered a far narrower space, constrained by systemic legal intimidation and state pressure that crushed editorial independence. Yet despite these structural distinctions, the popular reaction toward legacy broadcasters is strikingly similar. 

In both countries, citizens have ceased regarding major television channels as neutral chroniclers. Instead, they view them as partisan actors committed to defending the status quo.

This collapse of trust is an alarming development. In Delhi, conversations among protesters return constantly to the same grievances. Broadcasters, they argue, prefer theatrical conflict over genuine public problems. 

Rather than explaining why students took to the streets, reporters steer interviews toward polarising topics, seeking sensational soundbites to reframe protests around religion, nationalism, or subversion. When foreign outlets cover domestic unrest more thoroughly than local networks, citizens take the silence of home broadcasters as conclusive proof of political bias.

Such criticism cannot be dismissed as partisan whining. Indian media has earned scrutiny for its proximity to power. Primetime debates feature shouting matches, ownership is concentrated, and newsrooms depend heavily on government advertising. India’s poor standing in global press freedom rankings reflects a genuinely shrinking space for independent reporting. 

Economics explains much of this decay. As technology monopolies swallow digital advertising revenues, traditional newsrooms face severe financial strain. Legacy outlets become reliant on state advertising, corporate patrons, or government favours to survive, encouraging editorial caution. 

Yet alternative digital media offers no simple salvation. Independent commentators and online influencers operate under different, but equally distorting, incentives. Their business model relies on engagement algorithms that reward ideological certainty and righteous anger over nuance. 

While mainstream channels drift toward the government to protect revenue, digital commentators drift toward opposition outrage to feed their subscriber base. Neither environment breeds dispassionate journalism.

This dynamic fuels a curious hypocrisy–both in India and Bangladesh. Many protesters rightly reject mainstream channels for political subservience, yet unthinkingly consume highly partisan digital content that tells them precisely what they want to hear. They mistake confirmation bias for objective truth. 

Plurality enriches public debate, but democracy suffers when citizens define objectivity solely as agreement with their own worldview.

The experience of India and Bangladesh holds a sobering lesson for all the countries. Once media credibility breaks completely, rebuilding institutional trust is far harder than ousting a government. New leaders inherit a broken public square where every newsroom is suspected of serving hidden masters. 

The question of whether press outlets act as watchdogs or lapdogs is not just about holding incumbents accountable today. It is about whether journalism can maintain its standing as an independent referee tomorrow. When reporters are seen not as neutral witnesses but as political combatants, the press loses its democratic mandate. 

Once that bond of public trust is severed, it is almost impossible to restore.

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Faisal Mahmud is the Managing Editor of Daily Waadaa