The Men in Plain Clothes: Honey Dagar and the Lathi Charge That Sparked Outrage in Delhi
On July 20, 2026, as thousands of students and young people attempted to march from Jantar Mantar towards Parliament under the banner of the Cockroach Janta Party’s “Chalo Sansad” call, the streets of central Delhi turned chaotic. The protesters, many of them demanding accountability for repeated NEET examination paper leaks and the resignation of Education Minister Dharmendra Pradhan, were met with a determined police response involving lathi charges, tear gas, and physical confrontations. Within hours, a different set of images began circulating widely on social media—videos showing not just uniformed officers, but men in ordinary shirts, trousers and slippers wielding police batons and striking demonstrators. One face in particular quickly became the focus of public anger and political questioning: a man identified as Honey Dagar.
The videos triggered an immediate and intense debate. Who were these men in civilian clothes operating alongside the Delhi Police and Rapid Action Force? Why were they carrying lathis without any visible identification? And what did the presence of such personnel say about accountability during crowd-control operations in the national capital?
According to multiple reports and social media investigations that gained traction the following day, the man most prominently featured was Choudhary Honey Dagar, also referred to in some posts as Honey Singh Dagar. He was identified as a constable with the Delhi Police. A publicly available transfer order linked him to the 8th Battalion of the Delhi Armed Police. Social media profiles associated with the name indicated that he had joined the force around 2020, lived in the Bahadurgarh area, and at times described himself as connected with a commando unit. Some accounts further suggested links to special staff or units that typically operate in plain clothes for intelligence and undercover work.
YouTuber Amit Kilhor was among the first to name him publicly, sharing video footage and stating that the constable had obtained his job on compassionate grounds after the death of his father. Filmmaker Anurag Kashyap amplified the identification on Instagram, posting a screenshot and urging followers to identify others involved. Trinamool Congress MP Mahua Moitra took the matter to X, directly tagging Delhi Police and asking for clarity on Honey Dagar’s identity, residential details and the circumstances under which he was seen beating protesters alongside uniformed personnel. “So @DelhiPolice, can you come clean on Honey Dagar?” she wrote, reflecting the broader demand for transparency that spread across opposition circles and civil society voices.
Delhi Police officials did not deny the presence of plainclothes personnel. Senior officers acknowledged that the men visible in the videos were indeed members of the force, drawn from special staff and teams not usually deployed for routine law-and-order duties. They described the deployment as a logistical response to the scale of the gathering rather than an illegal or unprecedented measure. Specialised units, they explained, often work in civilian clothes as a professional necessity—whether for undercover operations, intelligence gathering within crowds, or rapid reinforcement when situations escalate. “The absence of a uniform is a professional necessity,” one senior officer was quoted as saying. “They even keep a beard and wear T-shirts and jeans because of their work profile.”
Yet the operational explanation did little to calm the criticism. Protesters and onlookers captured in the videos can be heard questioning the men directly: “Who are you and why are you not wearing a uniform and a name badge?” In several clips, the confrontation continued even after such questions were raised. The lack of visible identification created a sense of ambiguity that many found deeply troubling. When police personnel cannot be clearly recognised as such, the line between authorised force and unaccountable violence becomes blurred in the public mind. This concern was compounded by reports that some uniformed officers had also removed or were not displaying name badges during the operation.
The controversy intensified further when details of a mistaken identity case emerged. A gym owner in Ghaziabad who shared the name Honey Dagar found his personal information, address, mobile number and gym details circulating online. People assumed he was the man in the viral videos. He and his family began receiving death threats and abusive messages. The gym owner publicly denied any connection to the Delhi Police or the protest, stating that he had never even visited Jantar Mantar. Local residents and a Rashtriya Lok Dal leader corroborated that he was not the person seen in the footage. Police later provided him security and he filed a complaint regarding the threats. The episode illustrated how quickly online identification can spiral into real-world harm when names and faces are shared without rigorous verification.
Beyond the individual identification of Honey Dagar, the larger question centred on the practice itself. Retired police officers offered differing perspectives. Some defended the use of plainclothes personnel as a standard tool for monitoring large gatherings, assessing the mood of a crowd, and identifying potential troublemakers who might otherwise be alerted by the visible presence of uniformed forces. Others expressed discomfort. A former senior officer noted that trained policemen usually handle batons in a distinctive manner during dispersal, and that the aggressive style visible in some videos raised doubts about whether all those involved were experienced in crowd control. Human rights organisations and independent observers also flagged the broader pattern of force used that day, including allegations of batons with nails (which Delhi Police denied), injuries to protesters, and inappropriate handling of female demonstrators in certain videos.
In the days that followed, Delhi Police issued internal directions requiring all personnel deployed at Jantar Mantar to report in uniform. The instruction was a clear response to the public backlash. It signalled an acknowledgement that, whatever the operational rationale, the optics of unidentified men wielding lathis had damaged trust. The force maintained that the overall action on July 20 became necessary after some protesters allegedly threw stones, breached barricades and attacked personnel. Officials described the force used as “mild” in internal assessments, though hospital reports and eyewitness accounts spoke of significant injuries among demonstrators.
The episode sits within a longer pattern of debates in India about police identification during protests. Courts and human rights bodies have repeatedly stressed the importance of name badges and clear accountability so that excesses can be investigated. When officers operate without visible markers, complaints become harder to pursue and public confidence erodes. At the same time, police leadership points to genuine constraints—manpower shortages during large mobilisations, the need for specialised units to remain effective, and the risk of anti-social elements infiltrating protests. Striking the right balance remains contested.
As of late July 2026, the specific service records and current posting of the constable identified as Honey Dagar have not been fully detailed in official public statements. Other names, including one circulating as Yashwant, also appeared in connection with similar footage. Political pressure for a fuller accounting continues, with opposition leaders framing the incident as evidence of a heavier-handed approach towards student and youth protests. Supporters of the police action argue that maintaining order near Parliament on the opening day of the monsoon session required decisive measures.
What the viral videos ultimately exposed was not merely the identity of one individual, but a structural tension in how modern policing manages large, emotionally charged gatherings. Plainclothes deployment may serve legitimate tactical purposes, yet when it coincides with aggressive physical force and a lack of clear identification, it fuels precisely the kind of public suspicion that democratic policing seeks to avoid. The images of men in ordinary clothes swinging lathis at students will linger long after the specific names fade from the headlines—serving as a reminder that legitimacy in crowd control depends as much on visibility and accountability as on the ability to disperse a crowd.
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