Dimagi Naxal and Naraaz Fufa

(The Unofficial Guide to India's Most Confusing Political Phrases (And the People Who Use Them)

By

Sham Misri

The Curious Case of the "Dimagi Naxal":

A Story of Words, Wars, and Wit

Introduction: A Boy from Vadnagar

Once upon a time, in the dusty lanes of Vadnagar, Gujarat, a young boy named Narendra would stand beside his father at a modest tea stall near the railway station. Little did anyone know that this chai-wallah's son would one day invent a phrase that would send the entire Indian political ecosystem into a tizzy—half of them applauding, clapping and congratulating, the other half anxiously and agitatingly googling whether they themselves might be one.

But we're getting ahead of ourselves.

Young Narendra was, by all accounts, a delightful storyteller. He would wander into villages and hold audiences intent and captive with tales of heroes and mythology. His teachers remembered him as a gifted debater, a passionate swimmer, and a theatrical soul who loved portraying larger-than-life characters on stage.

One might say he was preparing for a lifetime performance.

At seventeen, driven by spiritual curiosity, he left home and wandered the Himalayas, visiting ashrams and seeking directions. He returned to Gujarat, joined the RSS, and eventually found his way to politics—where he discovered that the biggest stage of all awaited him.

And on that stage, decades later, he would introduce two phrases that would baffle linguists, energize supporters, and give opposition parties a collective migraine: **"Dimagi Naxal”* and **"Naraz Pupha."**

Xxx

This is the story of the first one.

Chapter 1: The Speech That Launched a Thousand Debates

The date was **15 August 2026**. India was celebrating its **80th Independence Day**. The Red Fort stood glorious, magnificent and brilliant , the tricolour fluttered proudly, and Prime Minister Narendra Modi stood at the ramparts, ready to address the nation.

The speech covered many topics—development, unity, youth mobilisation, and the glorious achievement of having largely eliminated armed Naxalism from the forests. The nation nodded approvingly. The forests were safer. The guns were quieter. Democracy, it seemed, had prevailed.

And then, with the skill and style of a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat, the Prime Minister introduced a new character to the national narrative:

**"Dimagi Naxal."**

The phrase hung in the air like a philosophical riddle wrapped in a political enigma, a riddle, a puzzle.

"The *hathariya* Naxals are gone," he declared, referring to the armed insurgents. "But the *dimagi* Naxal mindset still exists."

The nation paused. Tea stalls across India—including, one imagines, a certain stall near Vadnagar Railway Station—buzzed with confusion.

*Dimagi* meant "mental" or "intellectual." *Naxal* referred to the Maoist insurgents. Together, they formed a phrase that sounded like an upset designed by a committee of psychologists and political scientists.

The Prime Minister elaborated: these "Dimagi Naxals" were embedded in public life, in institutions, even in government committees. They were, he warned, looking for opportunities to create violence and unrest, to drag society down the wrong path.

His call to action was clear: **"We must identify these Dimagi Naxals, isolate them, and bring the youth into the mainstream."**

The phrase was launched. The missiles of interpretation were fired. And the battle of definitions began.