China Talks, India Walks: Two Asian Strategies for the Post-American Gulf

Iran and the United States were supposed to be done fighting. The June 17 ceasefire, backed by a memorandum in which Washington and Tehran pledged to respect each other's sovereignty, looked like a genuine off-ramp. It wasn't. Strikes on commercial vessels, fresh American attacks on Iranian military sites, and Iran's renewed threat to shut the Strait of Hormuz have dragged the region back toward open conflict — and dragged Asia's two biggest powers into an uncomfortable spotlight.

India and China face the same raw exposure: both are energy-hungry giants that need Gulf oil and open sea lanes, and neither wants an endless American military footprint destabilizing their neighborhood. But watch how differently they're playing it. China has turned the war into a megaphone for its worldview. India has turned it into a demonstration of restraint. One is trying to accelerate the decline of American primacy. The other is trying to make sure that decline doesn't just hand the keys to Beijing.

China's Pitch: We Told You So

Beijing hasn't been shy. Chinese officials have repeatedly blasted the US-Israeli strikes on Iran as unlawful, with Foreign Minister Wang Yi declaring that the attacks lacked UN Security Council authorization and had "clearly violated international law." China and Pakistan followed up with a five-point plan demanding a ceasefire, protection for civilian and nuclear sites, and safe passage through Hormuz — all wrapped in the language of the UN Charter.

This isn't really about Iran. It's about narrative. Every American bomb dropped in the Gulf is, for Chinese diplomacy, another data point in a story it has been telling for years: that Washington enforces rules selectively, reaches for sanctions and force too quickly, and leaves chaos in its wake while claiming to restore order. When the ceasefire briefly held, Beijing called it "a positive signal to the world" — generous praise for an agreement it had no hand in brokering, but useful praise all the same.

Here's the catch, though: China's support for Iran stops well short of anything resembling a commitment. As Reuters reported, Beijing's restraint reflects "a cold calculation" — jumping into Iran's corner militarily would mean a direct confrontation with the US and Israel, and would torch relationships with Saudi Arabia and the UAE that matter far more to China's economy than Tehran does. China sells Iran diplomatic cover. It does not sell Iran security guarantees.

The Real Prize: Watching America Fight

There's a colder logic underneath Beijing's moralizing, too. Every strike, every interception, every munitions shipment gives Chinese military planners a live feed of how the US fights — how it coordinates with Israel and Gulf partners, how fast it burns through precision weapons and interceptors against a barrage of cheap missiles and drones, how exposed its forward bases really are. 

None of this maps cleanly onto a Taiwan scenario — different geography, different alliances, different stakes. But analysts note China gains real value simply from watching US forces get tied down far from East Asia while its stockpiles and political patience are tested in real time.

And there's a bigger sales pitch happening in the background. China's message to the Global South is essentially: American alliances come with strings attached — and sometimes with retaliation, disrupted trade, and ballooning defense bills. China, by contrast, is selling infrastructure, trade, and a promise not to meddle. It's a pitch China has been building for years through its Belt and Road ties and its role brokering the 2023 Saudi-Iran rapprochement — and this war gives it fresh oxygen.

But the limits are real. China welcomed the memorandum; it couldn't save it. It backs Iran rhetorically; it can't make Tehran keep the Strait open, and it certainly can't order Washington or Israel to stand down. Beijing can amplify a narrative. It cannot yet direct outcomes.

India's Pitch: Talk to Everyone, Owe No One

India's approach looks almost boringly cautious by comparison — and that's the point. External Affairs Minister S. Jaishankar has kept the message simple: dialogue, de-escalation, protection of civilians and shipping. No condemnation of Washington. No endorsement either. When Iranian strikes hit Gulf states hosting American bases, Modi called Gulf leaders to condemn the attacks. In the same breath, he pressed Netanyahu for an early end to the fighting. That's not fence-sitting — it's triage.

India simply cannot afford to pick a side. Roughly 10 million Indians live and work in the Gulf. India imports close to 88% of its crude oil. Israel is a critical defense and tech partner; the US anchors India's strategic and economic future; Iran is India's overland gateway to Central Asia via Chabahar. Losing any one relationship to protect another isn't a strategy — it's a self-inflicted wound.

The clearest proof of concept came in the Strait of Hormuz itself. When Washington asked allies, India included, to help patrol the strait militarily, India didn't send warships — it sent Jaishankar to talk directly to Tehran. Two Indian-flagged LPG carriers made it through safely soon after. "Talking has yielded some results," Jaishankar said, adding that it's "better that we reason and we coordinate and we get a solution than we don't." That's the whole Indian doctrine in one line: quiet diplomacy over coalition-building, results over posturing.

Two Different Bets on a Post-American World

Strip away the diplomatic language and you're left with two genuinely different theories of power. China's bet is that American legitimacy is eroding and that Beijing should hurry that erosion along, positioning itself as the natural alternative center of gravity. India's bet is different — and arguably more radical in its own way. New Delhi isn't trying to replace Washington with itself, or with anyone. It's betting that no single power, American or Chinese, should get to dictate everyone else's choices — that real multipolarity means options, not a change of landlord.

Both approaches will find takers in the Global South. Plenty of countries share China's frustration with unilateral military action but are wary of trading American dependence for Chinese dependence. India's model — cooperate with Washington without saluting it, talk to Tehran without alienating the Gulf, engage everyone without joining a bloc — offers a less confrontational alternative that doesn't ask anyone to burn a bridge.

So Who's Actually Winning?

It's tempting to call this a clean win for China — cheap moral high ground, zero military risk, priceless intelligence on American capabilities. But Beijing is also bleeding from the same wound it's exploiting: a prolonged Hormuz shutdown hits Chinese energy security just as hard as anyone's, and its inability to translate rhetoric into protection for Iran raises uncomfortable questions for any state considering Beijing as a future security patron. Being a great trading partner and being a reliable ally are not the same thing, and this war is exposing that gap in real time.

India's gains are quieter but stickier. It hasn't won a single dramatic headline. What it has done is prove, transaction by transaction, that staying out of the fight can actually get things done — oil tankers through Hormuz, open channels in every capital that matters, no bridges burned. The risk is that neutrality reads as evasiveness, especially to those who'd like to see India take a firmer stand on international law. Whether that risk pays off will come down to results: safe citizens, steady oil, an open Chabahar corridor, and doors that stay open in Washington, Tel Aviv, Tehran, and the Gulf all at once.

China wants to be the next hegemon. India wants there to be no hegemon at all. As the Iran war grinds into its next uncertain phase, that difference — not the war itself — may be the more consequential story.

Russia's 3 strategic mistakes: Empire, retreat and the energy trap

History rarely punishes nations for a single decision. Great powers decline not because of one battlefield defeat or one failed policy, but because of compounding choices — each plausible in isolation, catastrophic in combination. 

Russia's current predicament: its war in Ukraine, economic isolation, demographic pressure, and deepening confrontation with the West, cannot be understood by looking only at the last few years. The roots reach into the final decades of the Soviet Union and the chaotic early years of what followed.

Conventional wisdom often cites the Soviet intervention in Afghanistan as the beginning of Moscow's unraveling. It is a tidy narrative, but a misleading one. Great powers absorb military setbacks all the time. Britain survived the Boer War. The United States survived Vietnam. Russia itself survived catastrophic defeats in the Crimean War and the Russo-Japanese War. 

A draining conflict on the periphery does not hollow out an empire — it is the choices made at the center that do.

Three decisions stand apart as genuinely consequential: permitting the Soviet Union to dissolve, withdrawing from Eastern Europe without extracting meaningful concessions, and building an economy on hydrocarbons — a strategy that generated enormous power while quietly constructing the conditions for Russia's encirclement. Each of these choices deserves serious examination.

The First Mistake: Surrendering the Empire

The dissolution of the Soviet Union in December 1991 was not merely a political event. It was one of the largest voluntary surrenders of geopolitical capital in modern history — accomplished, remarkably, without a serious military effort to prevent it.

Russia lost control over vast territories, industrial infrastructure, military installations, and tens of millions of ethnic Russians who woke up as citizens of foreign states. More fundamentally, it surrendered strategic depth. Russian security doctrine had always depended on buffers — the immense distances that had exhausted Napoleon and swallowed Hitler's armies. When the Soviet Union fractured, that buffer system collapsed overnight.

What is striking is not that the union was under pressure. By the late 1980s, economic stagnation, restless nationalisms, and political paralysis had created genuine instability. The argument that preservation was impossible is reasonable. But it is not decisive. States facing existential pressure routinely fight for their survival. China held together through the devastation of the Cultural Revolution. 

The United States fought the bloodiest war in its history to prevent secession. Russia itself waged two brutal campaigns in Chechnya rather than accept the loss of a single region. The Soviet leadership, by contrast, largely stood aside.

The question is not whether the union could have survived in its exact form — almost certainly not. The question is whether Moscow could have negotiated a looser confederation, delayed the fragmentation long enough to shape its terms, or ensured that newly independent states remained within a Russian-dominated political and security framework. 

Instead, Russia inherited the debts and obligations of the Soviet state while surrendering the geopolitical reach that had given those obligations meaning. It was the worst possible outcome: all of the liability, stripped of the power.

The Second Mistake: Leaving Europe Without a Settlement

If the dissolution of the Soviet Union was a strategic catastrophe, the manner of Russia's withdrawal from Eastern Europe was a diplomatic failure of nearly equal magnitude.

At the Cold War's end, Moscow exercised decisive influence over one of the largest spheres of influence in modern history — East Germany, Poland, Czechoslovakia, Hungary, Bulgaria, Romania. When this system unraveled, Soviet and then Russian negotiators withdrew without securing a comprehensive and legally binding security framework for the European order that would follow.

The most consequential concession was Germany. Soviet acceptance of German reunification fundamentally altered the European balance of power. 

A reunified Germany anchored in NATO was a transformative strategic outcome — and Moscow accepted it without obtaining enforceable restrictions on future alliance expansion or durable guarantees about the military architecture of post-Cold War Europe. What was offered instead were verbal assurances, whose precise meaning has been disputed ever since.

Western commentators correctly note that no formal treaty prohibited NATO enlargement, and that Eastern European nations sought membership voluntarily, driven by well-founded historical anxieties about Russian power. Both points are true. Neither addresses the core strategic question: why did Russian negotiators surrender leverage without converting it into durable, institutionalized security guarantees?

The answer may lie in the optimism of the moment. Some in Moscow genuinely believed that Russia would be integrated into a post-Cold War European order, or that the United States would exercise restraint as Russia recovered. That optimism proved catastrophically misplaced. NATO expanded through five successive waves. 

Countries that had formed the backbone of Soviet strategic depth — Poland, the Baltic states, eventually Romania and Bulgaria — joined a military alliance built to contain Soviet power. Russia found itself with a smaller security perimeter than it had possessed even at the moment of collapse.

Great powers negotiate from strength or they do not negotiate at all. Moscow had leverage in 1990 and 1991 that it would never possess again. It chose not to use it.

The Third Mistake: The Energy Trap

Russia's transformation into an energy superpower is usually described as one of its great post-Soviet achievements — and by conventional metrics, it was. Hydrocarbon revenues rebuilt the state's finances, restored military capacity after the chaos of the 1990s, and gave Moscow a potent instrument of influence over energy-dependent European markets. For roughly two decades, the strategy appeared to work.

But it contained a structural flaw that became increasingly visible as relations with the West deteriorated.

By embedding itself so deeply in global energy markets — markets that operate overwhelmingly through dollar-denominated transactions — Russia simultaneously increased its economic power and its economic exposure. The petrodollar system, consolidated after the collapse of Bretton Woods in the early 1970s, ensured that global energy trade reinforced demand for the dollar and, by extension, the institutional architecture Washington had built around it. Russia was not marginal to this system. It was one of its principal engines.

This created a paradox. The more indispensable Russia became as an energy exporter, the more visible and vulnerable its chokepoints became. When confrontation with the West escalated after 2014 and then dramatically after 2022, that vulnerability was weaponized. 

Sanctions targeted the energy sector. European countries, however slowly and painfully, reduced their dependence on Russian gas. Technologies Russia needed to develop its next generation of hydrocarbon resources were restricted. The revenues that had financed military modernization became a point of siege rather than a source of strength.

Russia had built its recovery on an industry that required deep integration with the very international financial system its foreign policy was increasingly challenging. It was not a position from which confrontation could be sustained indefinitely. The energy sector gave Russia power over European buyers while simultaneously giving Western financial institutions power over Russia. Neither side fully grasped the symmetry until it was too late to dissolve it cleanly.

Ukraine and the Weight of History

The war in Ukraine cannot be understood apart from these three failures. It is not simply a bilateral dispute over territory, nor is it simply a Western proxy conflict — though it has unmistakably acquired the character of one.

Ukraine represents the convergence of all three strategic errors. It is a former Soviet republic that Moscow failed to retain within a coherent political framework. It is a country on the edge of a NATO alliance whose expansion Russia failed to prevent or constrain. And it has become the primary battlefield on which Western sanctions, including those targeting Russia's energy revenues, are being wielded as an instrument of strategic pressure.

Reducing the conflict to great-power chess risks erasing Ukraine's own political agency — the genuine fears, aspirations, and choices of a nation that has been fighting, at enormous cost, for its survival. But it would be equally distorting to pretend that the geopolitical dimension is incidental. The war has accelerated precisely the trends Russia sought to halt: NATO has expanded, European energy dependence on Russia has collapsed, and Western defense spending has risen. 

Whatever the military outcome, Russia's strategic position in Europe is worse than it was before the invasion.

The Price of Miscalculation

Russia's current trajectory is not the product of one leader's decisions, or one bad year, or one miscalculated military operation. It is the accumulated result of choices made across three decades of extraordinary historical transition — choices that, taken together, left Russia with fewer strategic assets, a more exposed economic model, and a security environment it could neither accept nor effectively reshape.

None of this means that the alternative choices would have been simple, or that outcomes were ever fully within Moscow's control. The Soviet Union faced real contradictions. NATO enlargement reflected real choices by real sovereign governments. Energy development was, in many ways, Russia's most rational available path after 1991. The counterarguments deserve honest engagement.

But the pattern that emerges from the post-Cold War decades is consistent. At each critical juncture — the dissolution of the union, the withdrawal from Europe, the construction of an energy-dependent economy — Russia made choices that prioritized short-term stability or incremental gain over the kind of durable structural leverage that shapes international orders for generations.

The post-Cold War moment offered Russia a rare opportunity: to negotiate the terms of a new European security architecture from a position that, however weakened, still commanded serious attention. That window closed. The costs of its closure are now being paid in full.

The Great Indian Swadeshi Paradox: Why India remains dependent despite decades of swadeshi sloganeering & activism

The Gulf war crisis has exposed a vulnerability that should unsettle every Indian policymaker. For decades, the prevailing assumption in New Delhi was that dependence on West Asia was primarily an issue of oil. That assumption was comforting because it suggested the problem was narrow, manageable, and confined to the energy sector. The reality is far more disturbing.

India is dependent on the Gulf not only for crude oil and natural gas but also for a resource fundamental to the very survival of its agricultural economy: fertilizers. Nearly half of India's nitrogen-based fertilizer requirements—including critical inputs like ammonia and urea—are linked directly or indirectly to suppliers in Saudi Arabia, Qatar, Oman, and the United Arab Emirates.

This is not merely a trade statistic; it is a profound strategic vulnerability.

If a disruption in the Persian Gulf can simultaneously paralyze India's energy security and its agricultural productivity, then India is not merely import-dependent. It is structurally dependent. The question that follows is uncomfortable but unavoidable: what exactly has India been producing during its last three decades of vaunted economic growth?

For a country where more than half the population remains tied to the land, a systemic dependence on imported fertilizer inputs should have triggered national introspection years ago. Instead, India has quietly accumulated vulnerabilities across almost every major industrial sector.

The Ecosystem of Dependency

The deeper one looks into India's industrial ecosystem, the more difficult it becomes to identify sectors where the country possesses genuine technological sovereignty.

Consider the landscape: televisions are largely assembled using imported kits; mobile phones depend heavily on foreign semiconductors; and solar panels rely substantially on external supply chains. The story repeats in the wind energy sector, which requires imported critical materials, and in the tech sector, where rare earth processing is overwhelmingly dominated by foreign monopolies.

Even basic consumer goods—toys, furniture, and household electronics—are routinely sourced abroad, while indigenous commercial aircraft manufacturing remains virtually non-existent.

Yet, this is the same nation that has spent more than thirty years debating Swadeshi (self-reliance). This glaring contradiction deserves scrutiny. The tragedy of India's modern Swadeshi movement is not that it lacked a strategy; the tragedy is that it routinely substituted strategy with sentiment.

When the Swadeshi Jagran Manch (SJM) emerged in the early 1990s and gained prominence during the Vajpayee administration, it became a vocal critic of globalization, foreign direct investment (FDI), and multinational corporate influence. Leaders like Swaminathan Gurumurthy articulated valid anxieties about economic subjugation and the volatile nature of global supply chains—concerns that the experiences of many developing nations have since validated.

But opposing foreign participation is not the same as building domestic capability. The first is activism; the second is statecraft. India became proficient at the former while largely neglecting the latter.

• Activism (What India Did): Protests and slogans against FDI, ideological resistance, and protectionist tariffs.
• Statecraft (What Was Required): Nurturing domestic champions, R&D funding, and strategic global integration.

A serious self-reliance strategy requires patient, decades-long execution: identifying frontier sectors, mapping technological trajectories, selectively protecting infant industries, and aggressively integrating domestic firms into global value chains. Instead, the domestic discourse often degenerated into ideological resistance to economic reforms. The result was paradoxical: India restricted or delayed foreign participation without creating world-class domestic alternatives.

The consequence was not self-reliance; it was a state of insulated uncompetitiveness which led to inefficiency, decay and corruption.

The China Contrast

China offers a striking contrast to this approach. Unlike India, Beijing never engaged in a mass, emotionally charged ideological movement around economic nationalism. Chinese policymakers did not spend decades debating self-reliance as a philosophical concept; they simply pursued it through cold, transactional state capitalism.

While India debated whether foreign investment was ideologically pure, China was busy extracting technology blueprints from foreign investors, enforcing strict localization mandates, heavily subsidizing strategic sectors, and systematically climbing the value chain.

Chinese leaders understood a principle that Indian nationalists overlooked: economic sovereignty is not achieved by shutting out foreign companies; it is achieved by becoming capable of replacing them. China welcomed foreign firms, but it never intended to remain dependent on them indefinitely.

Today, the dividends of that pragmatism are undeniable. China dominates solar manufacturing, battery production, and rare-earth processing. It leads global telecommunications infrastructure, boasts a sophisticated aerospace sector, and has built globally competitive electric vehicle giants. Most importantly, Beijing built industrial depth across entire supply chains rather than isolated pockets of competence.

The irony is acute: India spoke endlessly about Swadeshi, while China quietly achieved it.

This asymmetry becomes painfully clear when examining bilateral trade. Despite intense military tensions and border disputes, Sino-Indian trade has scaled unprecedented heights. Indian imports from China outstrip exports by an astronomical margin. Entire sectors of the Indian economy remain utterly dependent on Chinese machinery, active pharmaceutical ingredients (APIs), components, and intermediate goods.

This exposure leaves India acutely vulnerable to sanctions, export controls, and geopolitical blackmail from not just China, but the United States, Europe, and global technology providers. This is not strategic autonomy; it is strategic exposure.

Moving Beyond Services

The software sector perfectly illustrates the nuance of this problem. For decades, India celebrated its status as a "software superpower." The phrase became a staple of political rhetoric. But while India undoubtedly built a world-class IT services industry that generated billions in foreign exchange, services are fundamentally distinct from product leadership.

The world's dominant operating systems, enterprise platforms, cloud ecosystems, semiconductor design tools, and foundational AI models did not emerge from India. Instead, India became the primary provider of high-skill, cost-competitive talent to Western technology conglomerates without establishing dominance over the core platforms themselves. A nation that provides services occupies a inherently subordinate strategic position to a nation that owns the platforms.

The ongoing Artificial Intelligence revolution highlights this gap. AI is fundamentally a contest of compute power, raw data, advanced algorithms, and infrastructure. While initiatives like the IndiaAI Mission are step-directions in the right direction, the scale gap remains vast.

China possesses an AI infrastructure powered by millions of high-performance accelerators backed by massive state capital. The United States retains an asymmetric advantage through corporate titans like NVIDIA, OpenAI, Google, and Microsoft. India’s ambitions are real, but slogans cannot substitute for massive capital expenditure, deep scientific research, semiconductor fabrication, and rigorous industrial execution.

The Path Forward

History offers an unyielding lesson: no country has ever achieved technological sovereignty through declarations and protectionist tariffs. Every nation that achieved leadership—be it Japan, South Korea, Taiwan, or China—did so through sustained state support, targeted public investment, and relentless execution. Even the United States, the self-proclaimed bastion of the free market, built its strategic tech and aerospace sectors on the back of massive military procurement and public R&D funding.

India's challenge is therefore intellectual before it is economic. For decades, public discourse conflated self-reliance with isolationism, and nationalism with actual competitiveness.

This does not mean India’s trajectory is fixed. India remains one of the few nations with the demographic scale, entrepreneurial talent, and institutional framework capable of becoming a genuine technological superpower. But realizing that potential requires dismantling three comforting myths:

• The Myth of Rhetoric: Slogans of Swadeshi or Atmanirbharta do not generate industrial capability.
• The Myth of Exclusion: Opposing foreign participation does not automatically fortify domestic industry.
• The Myth of Disconnection: Economic sovereignty cannot exist without technological sovereignty.

Ultimately, self-reliance is not a moral high ground or a political posture; it is a measurable objective outcome. A country is self-reliant only when it can feed its people, fertilize its fields, power its cities, fabricate its technologies, and withstand external geopolitical shocks without the fear of economic paralysis.

The Gulf crisis has merely stripped away a convenient illusion. The true challenge ahead for India is not whether it can revive the nostalgic language of economic nationalism, but whether it finally possesses the political will to do the grueling, generational work that genuine structural independence demands.

Marco Rubio claims $500 billion trade commitment amid official silence in New Delhi

The complex terrain of India-US trade negotiations took a dramatic turn during US Secretary of State Marco Rubio's visit to New Delhi in late May 2026. 

Rubio sparked immediate debate in diplomatic and financial circles by publicly claiming on social media that India had committed to purchasing an astonishing $500 billion worth of American goods over the next five years, specifically targeting energy, technology, and agriculture. 



However, this headline-grabbing announcement has run straight into an economic reality check. No minister or official from the Government of India has confirmed a binding commitment of this magnitude, exposing a widening gulf between Washington’s political grandstanding and the actual legal and macroeconomic realities governing global trade.



The central flaw in Rubio’s half-trillion-dollar claim is that the structural framework underpinning it has effectively collapsed. The purchasing target was originally tied to a proposed India-US Bilateral Trade Agreement (BTA) negotiated earlier this year, where Washington offered to lower proposed "reciprocal tariffs" on Indian exports in exchange for massive procurement intentions. 



That delicate architecture dissolved in February 2026 when the US Supreme Court struck down the legal basis for the reciprocal tariff framework, prompting the White House to pivot to a blanket, uniform 10% tariff on all global imports under Section 122 of the Trade Act of 1974. As the Global Trade Research Initiative (GTRI) pointed out, once this uniform global tariff erased India’s country-specific competitive advantages, the commercial rationale for New Delhi to guarantee such a massive purchase evaporated. 



India’s cautious silence mirrors a broader international pushback, occurring just two months after Malaysia completely walked away from its own US trade arrangement for similar reasons.

Furthermore, translating Rubio’s rhetoric into reality presents severe macroeconomic hurdles. 

With India's annual imports from the US currently hovering around $53 billion, a $500 billion quota demands an average of $100 billion annually—effectively forcing India to double its American imports overnight. Forcing such an artificial, dollar-denominated surge across the energy, aviation, and defense sectors would place immense pressure on an Indian Rupee already strained by high global energy costs, severely widening India's trade deficit and draining its foreign exchange reserves. 



This friction has already triggered sharp domestic political turbulence, with opposition leaders like Congress General Secretary Jairam Ramesh demanding to know why the government would entertain such hazardous concessions when other regional partners have actively renounced them. While Washington continues to frame this "Mission 500" initiative as a vital geopolitical tool to decouple supply chains from China, India's foundational instinct remains fiercely rooted in strategic autonomy. 



Until New Delhi issues an official confirmation detailing timelines, tariff protections, and financing mechanisms, Rubio’s $500 billion figure remains an ambitious piece of American political aspiration detached from the legal and economic ground realities of 2026.

Mani Shankar Aiyar and the secular creed: When ideology and intellectualism outpaced politics

I had the opportunity to meet Mani Shankar Aiyar at the King’s Day celebration hosted by the Dutch Embassy—an encounter that prompted a reflection on the shifting relationship between leftist ideology, elitism, and electoral legitimacy in India.

Mani Shankar Aiyar once occupied a distinctive space within the ecosystem of Indian public life. In the years preceding the political watershed of 2014, he was widely perceived—particularly among the urban, English-speaking middle classes—as one of the most articulate exponents of the Congress Party’s ideology. 

His visibility across elite media platforms, policy forums, and international conferences lent him an authority that extended beyond formal party hierarchies. In many ways, he became a surrogate interpreter of what was often described in the progressive circles as the “idea of India,” articulating a vision rooted in secularism, socialism, and Nehruvian intellectual tradition.

Yet, the very attributes that elevated his stature also circumscribed his political effectiveness. Aiyar’s discourse was marked by a pronounced ideological clarity, frequently aligned with strands of Marxist and left-liberal thought. While this gave his arguments a theoretical coherence, it often distanced him from the lived realities and sensibilities of a broader electorate. 

India’s social fabric—deeply layered with religious, cultural, and regional complexities—has historically resisted reduction to singular ideological frameworks. In this context, Aiyar’s rhetorical style, at times overtly polemical, appeared insufficiently attuned to the nuances of mass political communication.

A pivotal moment in this trajectory came in January 2014, when he remarked that Narendra Modi would “never” become Prime Minister in the 21st century, adding that he could instead sell tea at party meetings. The comment, widely circulated and politically weaponised, came to symbolise a perceived disconnect between segments of the political elite and the aspirations of a rapidly transforming electorate. 

In retrospect, it crystallised a broader narrative that would come to define the electoral upheaval of that year.

The publication of his 2004 book, Confessions of a Secular Fundamentalist, offers another lens through which to understand his intellectual positioning. While the work itself may not have reached a mass readership, its provocative title entered political vocabulary with enduring effect. The phrase “secular fundamentalism” became, for critics, a shorthand to question the Congress Party’s ideology, particularly in relation to the Hindu majority. 

Whether fairly or not, it contributed to a gradual estrangement between the party and dominant sections of the mainstream electorate.

Following the ascent of Narendra Modi and the consolidation of a new political narrative, Aiyar’s role within the Congress ecosystem diminished. He was increasingly seen not as an asset but as a liability, with some within the party attributing electoral setbacks to his controversial interventions. His subsequent critiques of the party leadership further deepened this estrangement, leaving him politically isolated.

Today, Aiyar’s marginalisation reflects not merely the decline of an individual figure, but a broader transformation in India’s public discourse. The media landscape that once amplified his voice has undergone structural and ideological shifts. The urban middle class—once a receptive audience for his brand of intellectual politics—has diversified in its preferences and orientations. In this evolving milieu, figures like Aiyar, who thrived in an earlier era of ideology-driven politics, find themselves increasingly peripheral.

His trajectory thus raises a larger question: can leftist ideology, when insufficiently mediated by political sensitivity, sustain relevance in a democracy as vast and variegated as India? The answer, as his political downfall suggests, lies not only in the articulation of ideas, but in their capacity to resonate across the full spectrum of society.

Vali Nasr’s Iran’s Grand Strategy: The logic of power & the illusion of regime collapse

Vali Nasr’s Iran’s Grand Strategy: A Political History reads less like a conventional history book and more like a conversation with a country the West—particularly the United States—believes it understands, but often misreads.

What gives the book its force is not just the breadth of its insight, but the precision with which Nasr cuts through decades of noise, propaganda, and received wisdom surrounding Iran.

At one level, the argument is simple: Iran is not irrational. It is not driven solely by theology, nor propelled by blind expansionism. It is, instead, deeply strategic. Yet Nasr resists packaging this as a neat thesis. He builds his case patiently—through history, memory, and political behaviour—until a pattern begins to assert itself.

By the time one reaches the later chapters, the question shifts. It is no longer what is Iran doing? but why was it ever assumed that it was acting without logic?

One of the most compelling sections of the book revisits the Iran–Iraq War. In a region frequently reduced to rigid binaries, Nasr reveals a far more fluid strategic landscape. At the height of the conflict, Israel quietly extended support to Iran, even facilitating arms flows, because Saddam Hussein’s Iraq was perceived as the more immediate threat.

Here, the book strips away the illusion of fixed alliances and exposes the underlying calculus of power—where alignments are shaped less by ideology than by shifting perceptions of risk. The larger implication is difficult to ignore: Iran’s survival is not accidental. It is the product of strategic consistency.

That consistency becomes particularly relevant in the present context. The inability of sustained US–Israel pressure—even after prolonged military escalation—to decisively weaken Iran is not, in Nasr’s telling, a recent failure. It is part of a longer pattern. Iran absorbs pressure, adapts to it, and recalibrates its position.

“Iran does not break under pressure—it reorganises around it,” is a line that captures the essence of this argument.

Nasr explains this resilience in sociological terms. Over decades, the Iranian state has transformed resistance into identity. External threats are not merely crises; they are woven into the regime’s internal narrative. This makes the idea of externally engineered regime change profoundly complicated. One is not simply confronting a government, but a system that has learned to derive legitimacy from endurance.

Importantly, the book does not romanticise this resilience. Nasr devotes considerable attention to the internal fractures within Iran—the protests against the clerical establishment, the visible fatigue of a society under strain, and the widening gap between the state and its younger population. He is clear-eyed about the regime’s limitations: economic mismanagement, technological lag, corruption and the failure to expand social freedoms, particularly for women.

There is a quiet but unmistakable recognition in these sections that Iran’s strength externally is mirrored by unease internally. A generation that seeks integration with the world finds itself constrained by a system that defines itself through resistance to it.

The book ultimately delivers a sharper, more unsettling critique of Western policy. The tendency to oscillate between alarmism and wishful thinking—casting Iran as either an existential menace or a regime on the verge of collapse—is, Nasr makes clear, fundamentally flawed. Iran is neither. It is a hardened strategic actor—capable of the same cold calculation, patience, and, when required, ruthlessness that defines the conduct of the United States and Israel. 

What makes Iran formidable is not ideology alone, but its ability to endure, adapt, and prosecute its interests over the long arc of geopolitics with disciplined intent.

Fuel, finance and force: How oil and dollars sustained America’s global supremacy

The modern American narrative is constructed with remarkable elegance: a republic born in defiance of tyranny, consecrated to liberty, animated by markets, and propelled by technological genius. 

It is a story that has travelled well—across continents, classrooms, and institutions—becoming not merely a national myth, but a global grammar of legitimacy. Yet beneath this luminous self-description lies a harder, less romantic architecture of power—one that is geopolitical rather than philosophical, material rather than moral.

To interrogate this contradiction is not to dismiss the ideals America proclaims, but to examine the conditions under which those ideals acquired global reach. For empires do not endure on abstractions alone; they are sustained by systems of extraction, control, and strategic dependency. And in the case of the United States, the decisive pivot was not the Declaration of Independence, but the aftermath of the Second World War.

When the European colonial empires collapsed under the weight of war, debt, and anti-colonial resistance, a vacuum emerged—not merely of authority, but of global organisation. Into this vacuum stepped the United States, not as a conventional colonial power, but as the architect of a new imperial modality. It did not plant flags; it built institutions. It did not annex territories; it structured dependencies. Through Bretton Woods, the IMF, the World Bank, and NATO, it created what might be called an “invisible empire”—diffuse, networked, and deeply embedded.

But beneath this institutional superstructure lay a far more elemental foundation: energy. The empire of the twentieth century was not built on land—it was built on fuel.

The industrial order that emerged after 1945 was powered by petroleum. Oil was not merely a commodity; it was the bloodstream of modernity. Whoever controlled its flow could regulate the tempo of global production, trade, and military capability. America understood this with strategic clarity. Its global supremacy would not rest solely on military bases or ideological influence, but on its capacity to shape the geography of energy.

The Middle East thus became the silent axis of American power.

This was not a traditional conquest. Instead, it was a choreography of alliances, interventions, and economic arrangements designed to ensure that oil flowed in a manner compatible with American interests. The most consequential of these arrangements was the petrodollar system—an agreement, most notably with Saudi Arabia, that ensured oil transactions would be denominated in US dollars. This transformed energy into a monetary instrument and the dollar into a global reserve currency backed, not by gold, but by oil.

Control the currency of energy, and you control the energy of the world.

Through this system, the United States achieved something unprecedented: it became the principal beneficiary of global petroleum consumption without directly owning the majority of reserves. Every barrel sold reinforced the dollar; every transaction deepened financial dependence. Energy and finance fused into a single architecture of dominance.

It is within this framework that American military engagements since the 1960s must be reinterpreted. The Cold War provided the ideological vocabulary—anti-communism, containment, freedom—but the underlying logic often intersected with the geographies of energy. From West Asia to parts of Latin America, interventions frequently occurred in regions critical to resource flows or strategic transit routes.

This is not to argue that every conflict was reducible to oil, but rather that oil formed the structural backdrop against which strategic decisions were made. Ideology mobilised consent; energy structured necessity. The rhetoric of freedom travels faster than the pipelines of power—but it is the pipelines that endure.

In the present moment, this architecture faces its most serious test. The evolving tensions around Iran are not merely about regime change, nuclear deterrence, or ideological confrontation. They are about the stability of a system in which the United States remains the central arbiter of energy flows in a region that still holds a significant portion of the world’s proven oil reserves.

Iran represents a unique challenge precisely because it resists integration into this system. It is not simply an adversary; it is an anomaly—a state that contests both the geopolitical and monetary logic of the American-led order. Its partnerships, its regional posture, and its attempts to circumvent dollar-based trade mechanisms all point toward a potential reconfiguration of the energy-financial nexus.

If such reconfiguration were to succeed, the consequences would extend far beyond West Asia. An empire does not fall when it is defeated in war; it falls when its organising principle ceases to organise.

For the United States, that organising principle has long been the convergence of energy control and monetary dominance. Should alternative arrangements emerge—whether through regional energy blocs, non-dollar trade systems, or shifting technological paradigms—the coherence of the American-led order would begin to erode.

Yet it would be analytically premature to declare an impending collapse. Empires rarely disintegrate in a single moment; they adapt, recalibrate, and often reinvent themselves. The United States retains formidable advantages: technological innovation, military reach, financial depth, and cultural influence. Moreover, the global energy landscape itself is undergoing transformation, with renewables, electrification, and new supply chains complicating the centrality of oil.

Nevertheless, the philosophical question remains. Can a nation sustain a universal moral narrative while operating within a system of material dominance? Or, more precisely: can the language of human rights coexist indefinitely with the logic of resource control? The paradox of power is that it must justify itself in the language of values, even when it operates through the calculus of interests.

The American project has long navigated this paradox with remarkable skill, presenting its strategic imperatives as extensions of its moral commitments. But as global awareness deepens and alternative centres of power emerge, this alignment becomes harder to sustain without scrutiny. The unfolding dynamics around Iran, therefore, are not merely a regional crisis. They are a moment of epistemic tension—a point at which the narratives of democracy and the realities of empire intersect with unusual visibility.

If the United States succeeds, it may prolong the existing order, reinforcing the structures that have underwritten its dominance for decades. If it falters, it may accelerate a transition toward a more fragmented, multipolar system in which energy, currency, and power are no longer monopolised. Either way, the outcome will not simply determine the fate of a conflict. It will shape the future grammar of global power.

The petrodollar trembles in the Iran war

The wars of great powers rarely produce only one battlefield. Beneath the thunder of missiles and the rhetoric of retaliation, another contest quietly unfolds—over currencies, energy markets, and the architecture of global power. 

In the current conflict involving the United States, Israel, and Iran, two spectators—Russia and China—are discovering that sometimes the greatest victories belong to those who do not fire the first shot.

At first glance, the war appears to be a confrontation between Washington, Tel Aviv, and Tehran. Yet the deeper economic tremors radiating from the Persian Gulf are redrawing the strategic map in ways that favour Moscow and Beijing.

The first arena of transformation is energy. The Strait of Hormuz, through which nearly one-fifth of global oil supply normally passes, has become the epicentre of the crisis after the U.S.–Israeli strikes on Iran triggered a wider maritime confrontation. Tanker traffic has collapsed, insurance costs have soared, and oil prices have surged beyond $100 per barrel, creating the largest disruption to energy markets since the 1970s oil shocks.

For Russia, this turmoil is not merely a geopolitical spectacle; it is a fiscal windfall. Russia’s economy remains deeply intertwined with hydrocarbon exports, and every spike in oil prices strengthens the Kremlin’s revenues. Analysts increasingly note that the ongoing conflict has turned Moscow into one of the “biggest short-term beneficiaries,” as higher prices replenish energy income that Western sanctions had sought to constrain.

War in the Persian Gulf thus performs an ironic function: it indirectly subsidises the Russian state. When energy markets panic, Moscow profits. When oil flows tighten, Russian barrels become more valuable. In the language of geopolitics, the Middle Eastern battlefield quietly finances Russia’s strategic resilience.

China’s advantage lies elsewhere—within the realm of currency and trade. Tehran has reportedly floated a dramatic condition for the partial reopening of the Strait of Hormuz: oil cargoes may pass only if transactions are settled in Chinese yuan rather than U.S. dollars.

This proposal is not merely a technical adjustment in payment mechanisms; it is a geopolitical signal. For decades, the global oil trade has been anchored to the U.S. dollar, creating the system known as the “petrodollar.” By tying energy shipments to the yuan, Iran would strike directly at that monetary architecture.

If even a portion of Hormuz-bound oil begins trading in Chinese currency, the symbolic implications would be profound. Energy markets have always been the bloodstream of the international monetary system. When oil trades in dollars, the dollar dominates global finance. When oil begins to trade in other currencies, the foundations of monetary hierarchy begin to shift.

In this sense, Tehran’s proposal could accelerate what Beijing has long pursued: the gradual internationalisation of the yuan. China has spent years constructing an alternative financial ecosystem—expanding currency swap lines, developing yuan-denominated commodity contracts, and promoting cross-border payment systems independent of Western institutions. The Hormuz crisis may now provide the geopolitical catalyst for that strategy.

There is another, subtler dimension to China’s advantage. Unlike many Western economies, Beijing has spent years insulating itself from energy shocks through large strategic reserves, domestic coal capacity, and a massive transition toward electrification and renewable power. This structural resilience allows China to endure high oil prices more comfortably than many competitors, positioning it to exploit geopolitical disruptions rather than merely suffer them.

Thus the paradox of the present war becomes clear. While missiles rain across the Middle East, the balance of global influence may be shifting thousands of kilometres away. Russia gains revenue from the oil shock. China gains leverage in the currency system.

Wars are often remembered for their battles and their generals. Yet history frequently reveals that the real winners were those who quietly converted chaos into opportunity. In the unfolding conflict around Iran, Moscow and Beijing appear to be doing precisely that—turning a regional war into a strategic dividend. In geopolitics, as in chess, the most decisive moves are often made by the players who seem least involved.

The limits of power: Why diplomacy and moral authority sustain empires

Empires do not fall merely because their armies weaken or their treasuries empty. They collapse when the world ceases to believe in their authority. 

Military strength can conquer territory and economic power can shape markets, but neither can sustain dominion without diplomacy and moral credibility. When an empire loses the capacity to persuade and the reputation to lead, its decline has already begun—even if its fleets still patrol the oceans.

History demonstrates a consistent pattern: durable empires are sustained by legitimacy. Rome ruled the Mediterranean not only through legions but through law, alliances and a reputation for order. Britain governed a vast imperial network not merely through naval supremacy but through diplomacy and the projection of institutional norms. 

Material strength created the framework of empire, but diplomatic skill and moral authority allowed that framework to endure. The contemporary United States increasingly risks losing these intangible pillars of power.

Diplomacy requires restraint, persuasion and respect for the dignity of other nations. Yet recent American political discourse—particularly during the presidency of Donald Trump—often replaced diplomacy with spectacle. International relations were conducted through abrupt declarations, confrontational rhetoric and impulsive messages delivered through social media. 

Foreign leaders were publicly mocked, alliances were treated as transactional burdens, and complex geopolitical questions were compressed into the language of confrontation. Such behaviour does not merely irritate allies; it erodes the legitimacy upon which global leadership depends.

An empire that commands through insults and threats resembles less a statesman and more a schoolyard bully. Bullying may intimidate weaker actors, but it rarely secures lasting loyalty. Diplomacy, by contrast, creates networks of trust that transform power into influence. Without this transformation, raw power becomes brittle.

Equally damaging has been the erosion of moral authority. For decades the United States positioned itself as the guardian of a rules-based international order—built upon institutions, treaties and norms that Washington itself helped construct after the Second World War. Yet credibility evaporates when a state selectively obeys the rules it champions.

When power ceases to respect the laws it created, the world ceases to respect power.

This contradiction has become visible in repeated military interventions whose outcomes have undermined the very principles they were meant to defend. Across large parts of Asia and the Middle East, American interventions did not produce the promised stability or democracy. Vietnam remains a symbol of strategic miscalculation; Afghanistan revealed the limits of prolonged military occupation; Iraq and Libya demonstrated how regime change can fracture societies into prolonged instability.

The paradox is striking. The most powerful military in history has repeatedly struggled to impose political order once the battlefield victories end.

This pattern reflects deeper historical characteristics. The United States is a young nation shaped by frontier expansion and continental conquest. The experience of settling vast territory cultivated a martial ethos—an instinctive readiness to confront challenges through force. Such instincts may succeed against weak adversaries but prove less effective when confronted with resilient societies and complex political realities.

Asia presents precisely such complexity. Unlike settler societies formed through colonisation, many Asian civilisations possess millennia-old political traditions rooted in their own landscapes. Their populations did not migrate to create new homelands; they have inhabited these regions for thousands of years. Political endurance in such societies often derives from cultural continuity rather than military superiority.

Force alone rarely reshapes such deeply rooted structures. The battlefield can defeat an army; it cannot easily conquer a civilisation.

In the decades since the Second World War, American military power has often succeeded in destroying regimes but has struggled to build stable political systems in their place. Democracies rarely emerge from foreign intervention unless supported by indigenous legitimacy. South Korea stands as a partial exception, yet even there the peninsula remains divided, with North Korea existing as one of the world’s most rigid authoritarian states.

Thus the dilemma confronting the modern American empire becomes clear. Its military remains formidable and its economy still commands global influence. Yet empires cannot survive on material strength alone.

Power without legitimacy eventually encounters resistance. Wealth without diplomacy breeds resentment. And military dominance without moral authority becomes a temporary advantage rather than a durable order.

History offers a simple verdict: when an empire begins to rely solely on brute strength, it has already entered the twilight of its power.

Holi and the pagan tradition: Why we still celebrate nature as sacred

Civilizations are often remembered through their monuments, their wars, and their scriptures. Yet the deeper measure of a civilization lies in the cosmology it creates—the way it interprets the universe, nature, and the human place within it. 

By that measure, Hinduism occupies a singular position in world history. It can plausibly be described as the last great surviving civilization of the ancient pagan world: a spiritual tradition rooted not in a single prophet or revelation, but in a vast and evolving dialogue between humanity and nature.

For most of human history, societies practiced forms of religion that modern scholars broadly describe as pagan or polytheistic—traditions that revered the multiplicity of nature. Rivers were sacred, mountains were divine, forests housed spirits, and the cosmos itself was seen as a living organism. In such cultures, religion was not a system imposed upon life; it was life itself.

Over the last two millennia, however, the global spiritual landscape underwent profound transformation. Vast regions of Europe, West Asia, Africa, and the Americas gradually embraced the Abrahamic traditions—Judaism, Christianity, and Islam—which emphasized monotheism, prophetic authority, and revealed scripture. 

In the twentieth century, a second transformation occurred. Large parts of the world came under the influence of ideological movements—communism, Maoism, and militant forms of atheism—that sought to replace religion altogether with political doctrine.

The result is that the ancient pagan civilizations that once flourished across continents—from the Norse and the Greeks to the Celts and the Egyptians—have largely vanished as living traditions. Their myths survive in literature and archaeology, but their rituals are no longer practiced by entire societies.

India represents a remarkable exception.

Despite centuries of interaction with Abrahamic faiths and the ideological currents of modernity, a substantial portion of the Indian subcontinent continues to sustain a spiritual worldview that predates recorded history. Hinduism is not merely a religion in the doctrinal sense; it is the civilizational continuation of a worldview in which the cosmos is inherently plural, sacred, and interconnected.

The antiquity of this worldview is staggering. Many historians believe that the Rig Veda, one of humanity’s oldest surviving texts, was composed over five millennia ago. Its hymns speak not of abstract dogma but of the living forces of nature—Agni the fire, Indra the storm, Varuna the cosmic order. The Upanishads probe the philosophical depths of existence, while the Puranas weave mythological narratives that connect the human world with the cosmic.

In this sense, Hinduism preserves something that has disappeared elsewhere: a civilizational memory of humanity’s earliest relationship with nature.

It is within this framework that festivals like Holi acquire their true meaning.

Holi is often described superficially as a “festival of colors.” Yet at a deeper level, it is a celebration of a worldview in which life itself is understood as a play of colors. Water, pigment, flowers, laughter, and music become instruments through which society reenacts its harmony with nature.

Only a civilization deeply rooted in natural abundance could have imagined such a festival. Holi presupposes a culture in which water is plentiful, seasons are celebrated, and the diversity of life is not feared but embraced. It transforms the social space into a temporary cosmos of color, where distinctions dissolve and the vitality of nature becomes the organizing principle of human interaction.

In that moment, theology becomes ecology.

If monotheistic civilizations often emphasize transcendence—the distance between the divine and the world—Hindu civilization often emphasizes immanence: the idea that divinity permeates the universe itself. The colors of Holi are therefore not merely festive decoration; they symbolize the manifold expressions of the sacred in nature.

One could say that Holi is a civilizational memory disguised as a festival. It reminds us that long before humanity organized itself around rigid doctrines or ideological systems, people understood themselves as participants in a vibrant and sacred universe. In celebrating Holi, India is not simply preserving a cultural custom—it is sustaining one of the oldest surviving conversations between humanity and nature.

Sacred soil, shared blood: The implacable logic of Middle Eastern wars

Of all wars, the most relentless are civil wars; of all civil wars, the most implacable are those between brothers. History does not merely record this truth—it laments it. 

When kinship turns adversarial, reconciliation becomes treachery and compromise a form of betrayal. Brotherhood deepens rivalry because it intensifies memory. It is not distance but proximity that breeds the longest hatred.

The Middle East today is not merely a theatre of geopolitics. It is, in civilisational terms, a struggle among three brothers — Judaism, Christianity, and Islam — children of a shared patriarch, inheritors of overlapping sacred geographies, custodians of a single God articulated through rival revelations. The soil they contest is not just territory; it is theology made terrain.

These traditions emerged from broadly similar historical and socio-economic conditions in late antiquity and the early medieval period. They share prophets, narratives, and moral vocabularies. Yet it is precisely this shared origin that sharpens their contest. The closer the creed, the deeper the quarrel. The rivalry is not about difference alone; it is about precedence, authenticity, and finality. Each claims not merely to exist, but to complete and supersede the other.

From the suppression of early Jewish revolts under the Roman Empire, to the Byzantine – Persian conflicts infused with religious undertones, to the Crusades, to the sectarian fractures within Islam itself, to the imperial rearrangements of the Ottoman collapse, the region has witnessed a recurring pattern: faith translated into sovereignty. 

Even modern nationalism has not erased the sacred from politics; it has merely clothed it in the language of the state. The flags may change, the weapons modernise, but the metaphysical stakes endure.

To characterise the current conflict as merely technological or strategic is to mistake surface for substance. Missiles and drones are instruments; memory is the engine. The struggle is over land because land embodies covenant. It is over history because history legitimises destiny. It is over narrative because narrative authorises power.

In fraternal wars, exhaustion does not guarantee peace. “A brother does not forget; he waits.” As long as each of the three retains the capacity — material or moral — to wage struggle, the conflict will smoulder, if not blaze. Deterrence may pause the violence; it cannot dissolve the claim.

For India, this civilisational contest presents not a battlefield but a dilemma. India is not a participant in the Abrahamic sibling rivalry; it is an observer from a different metaphysical lineage. Hindu civilisation — arguably the last surviving large-scale Pagan religious tradition — did not emerge from the desert crucible of exclusive monotheism. Its philosophical grammar is plural, cyclical, and accommodative. It does not seek final revelation; it accepts layered truths.

This difference is not merely theological; it is strategic. India has everything to lose and little to gain from entanglement in a war of brothers. The prudent course is neither indifference nor partisanship, but calibrated engagement with all sides. In a quarrel of brothers, the outsider who chooses sides inherits the enmity of the other two. Strategic autonomy, not moral grandstanding, must guide policy.

India’s interests — energy security, diaspora safety, trade corridors, and defence partnerships — demand a functional relationship with Israel, the Arab world, and Iran alike. This is not opportunism; it is civilisational realism. A country of continental scale and plural ethos must resist being drawn into exclusive blocs forged by theological memory.

The Middle East’s tragedy is that shared ancestry has not yielded shared destiny — Brotherhood there has become a battlefield. India’s wisdom lies in recognising the depth of that fracture without presuming it can mend it.

Let the brothers negotiate, reconcile, or exhaust themselves. India’s task is different: to endure, to balance, and to preserve its own civilisational equilibrium in a world where ancient rivalries still write modern headlines.

Israel, Taiwan, Ukraine: Strength as the currency of American support

History has a paradoxical affection for small nations that refuse to behave like small nations. 

In the shadow of vast empires and continental powers, three states—Israel, Taiwan, and Ukraine—have exercised influence far beyond their demography. Each stands at the frontier of a larger civilisational contest. Each lives beside an adversary that is not merely stronger, but implacable. And each depends on the patronage of the United States.

The sentimental narrative claims that America supports them because they are democracies. The realist reading is less romantic. Great powers do not subsidize virtue; they subsidize utility. Washington’s support has always been contingent on a calculation: do these states enhance American leverage in their respective theatres? If yes, they are fortified. If not, they are liabilities.

An empire does not ask, “Who is right?” It asks, “Who is useful?”

This is not cynicism; it is structural logic. Empires preserve themselves. They align with actors who expand their strategic depth, technological edge, and economic access. Israel is a technological powerhouse embedded in a volatile region; Taiwan is the epicentre of advanced semiconductor manufacturing; Ukraine became a forward buffer against Russian resurgence. Their value is geopolitical capital.

But geopolitical capital must yield returns. The United States will back a partner so long as that partner demonstrates resilience, competence, and the will to prevail. Power respects power. It has little patience for dependency without performance.

In Ukraine’s case, the early months of resistance generated admiration in Western capitals. The narrative was one of heroic defiance. Yet wars are not won by narrative alone. As the conflict dragged on, domestic political fatigue in Washington intensified. Within the Republican Party, influential voices began to question the strategic dividend of continued aid. The moral vocabulary remained, but the arithmetic changed. When support becomes costlier than the advantage it yields, empires reassess.

Support born of interest survives only as long as interest survives. The European Union’s resolutions have not translated into direct military engagement against Russia. That restraint reveals the limits of solidarity when confronted with escalation risk. Moral outrage is abundant; strategic risk appetite is scarce.

Taiwan presents an even starker dilemma. It is indispensable to global technology supply chains, yet defending it against China would require a confrontation between the world’s two largest powers. The ambiguity in Washington’s posture reflects a profound strategic anxiety: can deterrence be sustained without triggering the very war it seeks to prevent? If Beijing were to escalate decisively, the question would not be about democratic values but about the balance of costs in a Sino-American conflict.

Israel, by contrast, has projected unambiguous resolve. Its military campaigns against Hamas have signalled both capacity and political will. In a region defined by volatility, Israel presents itself not as a ward of American power but as a force multiplier. That distinction matters. An ally who demonstrates battlefield dominance enhances the patron’s prestige; an ally who falters imposes reputational and financial burdens.

Empires do not abandon strength; they abandon weakness.

The lesson for small but strategically exposed states is unsentimental. Survival under the American umbrella is not guaranteed by shared ideology. It is guaranteed by sustained strategic relevance and visible competence. To remain indispensable is to remain supported. In geopolitics, virtue may inspire speeches. Victory secures alliances.

Survival with dignity: India’s place in a mercurial American strategy

India does not occupy a permanent seat in America’s grand strategy; it occupies a fluctuating utility. That is the uncomfortable truth beneath decades of rhetorical warmth between New Delhi and Washington. 

From Jawaharlal Nehru to Indira Gandhi, from Rajiv Gandhi to Atal Bihari Vajpayee, and now under Narendra Modi, Indian leaders have proclaimed closeness to Washington. Yet proximity is not centrality. In the architecture of American power, sentiment is incidental; strategic value is decisive.

The United States does not construct its grand strategy around affinities but around interests. Its National Security Strategy and National Defense Strategy—whether under Donald Trump or his predecessors—signal reprioritization rather than romantic alignment. 

The Indo-Pacific rises or recedes in importance depending on calculations about trade routes, supply chains, and the balance against China. India matters because of geography, demography, and its capacity to complicate Beijing’s ambitions. It does not matter because it is a democracy that speaks English and holds elections.

India’s democratic identity, often celebrated in joint statements, is strategically secondary. Democracies are unpredictable; they argue with themselves. India is a noisy republic with a free press, coalition pressures, and electoral volatility. For a superpower accustomed to transactional clarity, it is far easier to negotiate with centralized autocracies where leverage can be concentrated at the top. 

Democracy is morally admired in Washington, but autocracy is often administratively convenient. That paradox has shaped American conduct across regions. American power operates most smoothly where institutional friction is minimal. India, by contrast, insists on friction. It negotiates, hedges, delays, and recalibrates. This is sovereignty in action—but it also limits India’s elevation within any American grand design.

Yet India cannot afford strategic estrangement from the world’s preeminent military and financial power. Moral indignation is not a substitute for geopolitical leverage. Surrounded by nuclear rivals, burdened by internal development gaps, and dependent on global capital flows, India must ensure it is not positioned as an adversary in Washington’s worldview. 

American presidents can afford mercurial rhetoric; they command alliances, reserve currencies, and expeditionary forces. India commands resilience, not dominance.

If a U.S. administration adopts abrasive trade policies or unpredictable diplomatic tones, New Delhi’s response must be calibrated endurance. States do not have the luxury of emotional reactions. They have interests. India’s strategic task is survival with dignity, not posturing with defiance. 

In a hierarchy of powers, prudence is the first virtue of the rising state.

Equally important is intellectual honesty. Many of India’s constraints are domestic: regulatory inertia, infrastructure deficits, uneven education outcomes, episodic strategic incoherence. Externalizing blame onto Washington obscures internal reform. A nation that aspires to shape the Indo-Pacific must first discipline its own political economy.

The end of elite journalism: Why The Washington Post’s reckoning was inevitable

The early-February 2026 layoffs at The Washington Post, reportedly affecting more than 300 journalists, have been read by many as a tragedy for a venerable institution. I read them differently: as a belated recognition that an old compact between media power and political power has collapsed. 

Institutions survive not by sentiment but by relevance, and relevance is never guaranteed by pedigree alone.

Ownership matters. When Jeff Bezos acquired the Post in 2013, from the Graham family, the transaction was widely romanticised as a benevolent rescue of journalism by a visionary technologist. That narrative obscured a harder truth: elite media has rarely been sustained by profit alone. It has been sustained by access to policymakers, opinion-shapers, donors, regulators, and the cultural prestige that circulates within ruling coalitions. 

For a time, the Post was a central node in a global ecosystem of progressive power. Its newsroom was not merely reporting on the world; it was embedded in the ideological grammar of a world that believed itself permanent. That world is gone.

The 2010s were an era in which liberal-progressive consensus appeared hegemonic across Washington, Brussels, London, and even New Delhi. In that context, elite newsrooms could plausibly claim to ‘speak for democracy’ while addressing a narrow audience of the already convinced. The Post’s journalism often conflated moral certainty with explanatory depth, advocacy with analysis, and globalism with inevitability. What was lost was the discipline of persuading readers outside the ideological circle.

The political realignment of the 2020s shattered this arrangement. In the United States, the return of Donald Trump and the consolidation of an ultraconservative MAGA movement did not merely change electoral outcomes; they delegitimised an entire epistemic class that had treated dissent as pathology. Across Europe, conservative and nationalist movements have gained power by rejecting the language and priorities of progressive transnationalism. In India, Narendra Modi has normalised an assertive, unapologetic nationalism that no longer seeks validation from Western liberal opinion.

In this new environment, the Post’s ideological utility for its owner diminished sharply. A media organisation that once functioned as a passport to elite consensus now offers diminishing strategic value. Maintaining a large, highly paid newsroom that produces content misaligned with prevailing political realities is not patronage; it is indulgence. Capital eventually asks a brutal question: what purpose is being served?

This is not an argument against journalism as a craft. It is an argument against journalism as a self-regarding class. A press that speaks only to power will eventually be judged by power. The layoffs puncture the myth that elite newsrooms are indispensable regardless of performance. They expose a deeper failure: the inability of a once-great institution to re-imagine its audience beyond a shrinking progressive enclave.

Bezos’s decision, stripped of sentiment, is therefore rational. He did not buy the Post to underwrite a permanent opposition salon; he bought it at a moment when elite alignment promised influence. Influence has migrated. The cost structures remained. The correction was inevitable.

The geopolitics of Artificial Intelligence: How India, the US and China compete

Artificial intelligence has moved decisively from being a technology domain to becoming an instrument of statecraft. 

For India, the United States, and China, AI is no longer only about productivity gains or commercial advantage; it is about power, resilience, and long-term geopolitical positioning. The differing strategies adopted by these three countries reveal not just contrasting policy choices, but deeper philosophies about how states relate to markets, citizens, and the international order.

The United States approaches AI primarily as an extension of its innovation ecosystem and industrial strength. Its dominance rests on an unparalleled concentration of frontier research, venture capital, cloud infrastructure, and semiconductor capability. The American state plays an enabling role rather than a commanding one, focusing on sustaining the conditions under which private innovation can scale rapidly. 

Recent policy shifts suggest an increasing willingness to prioritise speed and global adoption over precaution. The emphasis is on ensuring that US-designed chips, models, platforms, and standards become the default global stack. 

In geopolitical terms, this is a strategy of technological entrenchment: if the world runs on American AI, American influence follows. Export controls and supply-chain interventions are deployed selectively, less as tools of global governance and more as instruments to deny adversaries strategic advantage.

China’s approach is structurally different. AI development there is embedded within a broader vision of state-led modernisation and national security. Long-term planning, coordinated investment, and regulatory control are tightly integrated. The Chinese state treats AI as a dual-use technology from the outset, one that must simultaneously drive economic growth and reinforce political stability. 

Governance frameworks are explicit, statute-driven, and enforcement-oriented, ensuring that algorithmic systems remain aligned with state priorities. Internationally, China seeks to export not just AI products but entire digital ecosystems—cloud infrastructure, surveillance technologies, data standards, and financing mechanisms—particularly to developing countries. 

This model positions China as a provider of turnkey digital sovereignty, albeit one that deepens dependence on Chinese technology and norms. AI, for Beijing, is both a domestic control mechanism and a vehicle for reshaping global technological governance.

India occupies a more complex and intermediate position. Unlike the United States, it does not possess first-mover dominance in frontier AI research or hardware. Unlike China, it does not deploy AI primarily through a command-and-control framework. Instead, India’s strategy reflects its experience with digital public infrastructure: build shared foundations, enable wide participation, and regulate progressively. 

The emphasis is on access rather than exclusivity—shared compute, open datasets, interoperable platforms, and language inclusion. This approach is shaped by India’s scale and diversity, where the political legitimacy of technology depends on its social reach. AI is framed less as an instrument of surveillance or dominance, and more as a multiplier for governance capacity, service delivery, and economic inclusion.

Geopolitically, these divergent strategies have significant implications. The United States is betting that innovation leadership will translate into normative power, allowing it to shape global standards informally through market dominance. China is pursuing a more explicit contest over governance models, offering an alternative digital order that prioritises state authority and security. 

India’s pathway suggests a third possibility: that AI leadership in the coming decades may not be defined solely by who builds the largest models, but by who demonstrates scalable, trustworthy use at population level. This has particular resonance for the Global South, where the challenge is less about frontier research and more about applying AI to development, administration, and inclusion.

Yet India’s position is not without constraints. Limited high-end compute capacity, uneven data availability, and shortages of advanced research talent remain binding challenges. Without sustained investment and institutional reform, India risks becoming a sophisticated user rather than a shaper of global AI trajectories. At the same time, its relatively open, democratic approach to AI governance offers strategic credibility. In an era of growing distrust around technology, legitimacy itself becomes a geopolitical asset.

What emerges from this comparison is that AI is reinforcing a multipolar technological order. The United States seeks supremacy through innovation velocity, China through scale and state coordination, and India through systemic inclusion and governance design. 

None of these strategies is fully sufficient on its own. The geopolitical contest around AI will therefore not be decided by capability alone, but by which model proves resilient, exportable, and politically sustainable. In that sense, AI is not merely transforming geopolitics; it is revealing how different states understand power itself.

At the hinge of history: R. Venkataraman and the Republic in turbulent times

Yesterday’s meeting and conversation with Ms. Lakshmi V. Venkatesan, Founder and Managing Trustee of the Bharatiya Yuva Shakti Trust, unfolded less as a formal meeting and more as an intellectual passage through time — where memory, history, and contemporary purpose converged with uncommon clarity. 

It was a dialogue anchored in ideas, but animated by lived experience, shaped equally by inheritance and independent conviction.

As the daughter of Shri Ramaswamy Venkataraman, President of India from 1987 to 1992, Ms. Venkatesan stands at a unique vantage point in the story of modern India. Those five years of her father’s presidency were not merely a constitutional interlude; they were a hinge in history. India, in that brief span, crossed from one social, cultural, moral and economic imagination to another. 

In 1987, the republic still largely spoke the language of socialism, egalitarian restraint, and state stewardship. By 1992, it had begun to articulate a different grammar—of markets, aspiration, cultural nationalism, and a newly assertive middle class.

Four Prime Ministers—Rajiv Gandhi, V. P. Singh, Chandra Shekhar, and P. V. Narasimha Rao—passed through office during that single presidential term. Rarely has the continuity of the Republic been tested amid such political volatility. Yet, as history would later reveal, turbulence was not a sign of decay but of transformation. Democracies, after all, often renew themselves through disorder.

The early 1990s compressed multiple revolutions into a single moment. The Rath Yatra of 1990 reconfigured India’s cultural and political discourse, bringing questions of faith, identity, and nationhood into the electoral mainstream. 

The economic reforms initiated by Prime Minister P. V. Narasimha Rao in July 1991 dismantled the old command economy and set India on the path toward liberalisation, competition, and consumerism. In 1992, the demolition in Ayodhya irreversibly altered the tone of political mobilisation, embedding cultural nationalism as a feature of democratic contestation.

Together, these events did not merely change policies or parties; they reshaped the Indian psyche. The Congress party, once the natural party of governance, entered a long decline, while the Bharatiya Janata Party began its steady ascent. 

Looking back, it is evident that Shri Ramaswamy Venkataraman’s presidency spanned the most tumultuous and consequential phase of post-Independence India—when old certainties dissolved and new forces gained legitimacy. Ms. Venkatesan’s reflections on this period were marked by nuance rather than nostalgia. She spoke of history not as a sequence of victories or failures, but as a series of choices made under constraint. 

Her insights moved effortlessly from India to the wider world — from the political churn in the United States to the shifting moral and economic frameworks of Europe — suggesting that national destinies are increasingly shaped by global currents, even as they remain rooted in local realities.

It is precisely this synthesis of historical consciousness and practical engagement that animates her work at the Bharatiya Yuva Shakti Trust. Through BYST, she has devoted herself to nurturing grampreneurs and micro-enterprises — those quiet architects of economic resilience who operate far from the glare of stock markets and policy summits. 

In her view, grassroots entrepreneurship is not a peripheral activity but a civilisational necessity. “A nation does not grow only from its capitals,” she implied, “it grows from the confidence of its smallest producers.” If the economic reforms of the 1990s unleashed markets, the challenge of the present is to democratise opportunity. By mentoring young entrepreneurs from underserved communities, BYST affirms a deeper truth: that economic dignity is the most sustainable form of social justice. 

In a country still negotiating the meaning of growth, Ms. Venkatesan’s work reminds us that history is not only something we inherit — it is something we actively build, enterprise by enterprise, choice by choice.