Their videos lasted only a few seconds: lip-syncs, sarcastic reels and jokes filmed on the way to protests.

But while thousands of young people filled social media with memes and videos mocking Prime Minister Narendra Modi during one of India's biggest anti-government protest in years, many of the women behind those posts say they have paid a heavy price for speaking out.

The Cockroach Janta Party (CJP), a youth-led movement that helped force the resignation of India's education minister, relied as much on Instagram as it did on marches.

Memes, reels and viral videos became the movement's calling card, documenting everything from protest songs to the police crackdown when officers used tear gas and baton charges to stop demonstrators marching to parliament on 20 July.

Delhi police said 60 protesters and 118 police personnel were injured on the day, but the CJP said the number of injured protesters was significantly higher than the official count.

The posts reached hundreds of thousands of people, turning ordinary students into some of the movement's most recognisable faces.

Since the protests ended, police have opened criminal cases against some protesters.

But many women say another reckoning played out online. They describe rape threats, doctored images spreading on social media and strangers trawling through their photos and videos.

Some cases spilled into TV debates, police complaints and political statements. Many more unfolded quietly, as young women deleted posts, locked their accounts and stopped answering calls from unknown numbers.

The BBC spoke to four women and reviewed screenshots of abusive messages, posts and other material they shared. Their names have not been used to protect their identities.

I'm in my mid-20s. I had been posting about the protests from the beginning, but 20 July was the first time I attended one.

After the baton charge that day and the internet shutdown around the protest site, I went home and started sharing first-person accounts on Instagram.

I also helped organise food, aid and volunteers. I thought I was just helping and didn't think of it as political.

But the hate started almost immediately.

I was slut-shamed and I was attacked for questioning the prime minister's comments, external after the protest ended. [Modi said he forgave the children who had abused him, urging society to do the same rather than punish them or drag them through the courts.]

I have lost count of the number of messages I have deleted and people I have blocked. But the comments keep coming.

As a content creator, I already live with this feeling of constantly being watched. Every word I say is scrutinised, mostly by men.

When I first started creating content, I would block men if they made me feel uncomfortable. Over time, the algorithm started pushing my content towards more women. I believe that has shielded me from abuse compared with many other female creators.

And still, this happened.

My mother stopped reading the comments on my posts long ago. She said she couldn't bear the things strangers were saying about her daughter. I understood. What parent wouldn't be frightened by that?

As a woman in India, you grow up with fear. You're told not to stay out late, to watch where you go, who you're with and how you'll get home. You learn early that your safety is something you must constantly think about.

When you have a voice online, that fear doesn't disappear. It just follows you there.

I am 20 years old, and this was my first protest. I went because I believed the students were standing up for something important.

Before leaving the Metro station, I propped my phone against a railing and filmed a quick "fit check" [a video showing off her outfit before the protest.]

"Going to get beaten by cops, guys," I joked. That's the kind of light-hearted videos I usually make.

When police fired tear gas and charged protesters that afternoon, I kept filming. I was simply recording what was happening around me, as I always do. I never imagined those videos would reach far beyond my followers.

I was wrong.

One of them was shown on a national TV channel. Soon afterwards, my face began appearing in social media posts claiming protesters were being identified by the police. Someone even found out which college I attended. That's when I realised people weren't just attacking me online. They were trying to find me.

My inbox filled with anonymous messages. Some said they would report me to the police so I would be beaten or arrested. Men called me degrading names associated with prostitution, made sexually explicit remarks, mocked my body and threatened violence. Some said I should be "taught a lesson". Others simply warned: "Your turn will come."

What frightened me most wasn't the abuse itself, but what followed.

Relatives and acquaintances called my parents, urging them to make me delete my videos or face the consequences. Seeing them so frightened was devastating. That's why I don't want my name published. I've since removed or archived almost all my protest videos.

I worry less about what could happen to me than what they might do to my parents.

I have always spoken my mind online. I'm a student activist and a Muslim, part of a religious minority in an increasingly polarised India. None of that ever frightened me.

But after the CJP protests, everything changed.

My Instagram account is private now. I've muted most of my other social media because the abuse has been unrelenting. Every time I look at my phone, there's another offensive comment or message or post about me.

I went to the protest because I believed it was the right thing to do. I made a few satirical videos during the march. One mocked the prime minister. Others showed us singing on stage and chanting slogans. They were political, irreverent and the kind of videos I'd always made.

But they spread far beyond the people I knew.

One Instagram page edited a photograph to make it appear as though I was kissing a man to shame me. Another morphed my images and branded me an anti-national and a terrorist.

I was also called a hijra – using the term for South Asia's transgender community as an insult – and dismissed as a paid protester.

When my father, a journalist, read the comments, he panicked. He kept asking why I had spoken out. He said that once people saw my Muslim name, nothing else would matter. My parents have watched other Muslim activists investigated and arrested, and fear the same could happen to me.

We live under constant dread.

But I'm not going to stop speaking up. I still believe I was right to go to that protest. Now I just understand the cost much better than I did before.

I'm a student in [the state of] West Bengal, where political discussions are an integral part of college life. I've participated in those conversations on campus for years, so I didn't think much before posting online about the protests.

Although I first joined the Kolkata protest on 20 July, I'd already been helping online, organising supplies ranging from diabetic biscuits to masks for people worried about being identified. A friend and I also launched an Instagram fundraiser.

But on 24 July, the police started detaining protesters in the state and we began talking about it online.

That's when the hate really started.

People began leaving spiteful comments on my fundraiser post; they called me a prostitute in private messages. They did not stop even after the protest had ended – and eventually I deleted the post.

In the days that followed, the fear of being doxxed became real. I changed my name on social media, made my account private and blocked messages from people I didn't know.

What hurt most was that none of my male friends faced the abuse I did. They expressed similar views but weren't targeted over their sexuality or subjected to insults about their mothers. I was.

When it comes to women, the response quickly becomes about our gender. That's left me wondering why women can't express the same opinions as men online.