How the Hedonism of Nihilism Is Ruining India

India, increasingly, has three kinds of people.

(i) Those who are easily manipulated and will support almost anything, provided it is presented to them by the right person, party, influencer or WhatsApp group.

(ii) Those who do not care about anything because they do not see how it affects their daily lives.

(iii) Those who question, oppose and challenge everything.

On the face of it, the third category appears to be the most dangerous. They are inconvenient. They ask questions when everyone else is applauding. They demand evidence when everyone else is repeating slogans. They point out contradictions when everyone else is celebrating. They are accused of being negative, anti-national, elitist, arrogant or, perhaps worst of all, “too intellectual”.

I would argue that they are actually the best of us. Perhaps that is because I belong to that category myself.

The problem is that this category is becoming smaller. That should frighten us considerably more than the existence of people who disagree with us.

The first two categories are fundamentally different, but the consequence is remarkably similar. One group is manipulated; the other is indifferent. One is told what to think; the other cannot be bothered to think at all. One consumes propaganda enthusiastically; the other scrolls past it because politics is “not their problem”.

Both are extraordinarily useful to a system that does not want to be questioned.

This is where what I would call the ‘hedonism of nihilism’ enters the picture.

Nihilism, in its most destructive modern form, is not necessarily the belief that nothing exists or that life has no meaning. It is the much more ordinary belief that nothing matters enough to require our attention.

Why care about corruption if I am not personally paying the bribe?

Why care about unemployment if I have a job?

Why care about a collapsing public hospital if I can afford a private one?

Why care about inflation if my salary increased?

Why care about freedom of speech if I have nothing to say?

Why care about a rape victim if I do not know her?

Why care about a farmer's distress if I live in a city?

Why care about what Parliament is doing if my favourite cricket team is playing tonight?

This is nihilism without the philosophy.

And the hedonism aspect comes from what replaces responsibility: entertainment, consumption, outrage, distraction and the endless pursuit of personal comfort.

We have created a culture in which being entertained is easier than being informed, being angry is easier than being profound and being tribal is easier than being intellectually honest.

Social media has accelerated this enormously.

A thirty-second reel can make someone feel that they are an expert on economics. An unverified WhatsApp forward can create the illusion of historical knowledge. A politician's carefully edited speech can be consumed as if it were objective analysis. An influencer can make an assertion to millions of people without providing a single source, and the assertion becomes “common knowledge” before anyone has had the opportunity to question it.

The frightening part is not that propaganda exists. Propaganda has always existed.

The frightening part is that we now voluntarily consume it and we reward those who produce it.

India does not have a shortage of intelligent people. It has a shortage of people willing to use their intelligence when doing so is inconvenient. That distinction matters.

An intellectual is not necessarily someone with a university degree, an impressive vocabulary or a bookshelf full of political theory. An intellectual, in the sense that matters here, is someone who is prepared to interrogate their own assumptions.

They ask: “What if I am wrong?”

That may be the most important question a citizen can ask.

Unfortunately, our politics increasingly encourages the opposite.

If I support Party A, I must defend Party A.

If Party A does something wrong, I must immediately find something Party B did wrong ten years ago.

If my country succeeds, I must celebrate.

If my country fails, I must explain why it is someone else's fault.

If a foreign newspaper criticises India, I must attack the newspaper.

If a domestic newspaper criticises India, I must attack the newspaper.

If someone from my ideological camp commits a crime, I must find a justification.

If someone from the opposing camp commits the same crime, I must demand utmost accountability.

This is not patriotism. It is tribalism.

Tribalism is the death of independent thought.

A country does not become stronger because its citizens defend everything it does. It becomes stronger because its citizens demand that it do better no matter what.

There is a fundamental difference between saying ‘India is great’ and saying ‘India can be great.’

The first is an assertion. The second is a responsibility.

If we are serious about becoming a developed country, let alone the greatest country in the world, we should be far more interested in the second.

India has genuine reasons to be optimistic. It is one of the world's fastest-growing major economies, has built substantial infrastructure, possesses extraordinary technological capabilities and has become an increasingly important geopolitical and economic power. Infrastructure spending has reached record levels, and the scale of India's development challenge is matched by the scale of its ambition.

However, acknowledging progress does not mean we should abandon constructive criticism. In fact, sustained progress requires increased criticism.

Growth is not the same thing as development.

A larger GDP does not automatically mean better schools. A new expressway does not automatically mean a functioning local road. A new airport does not automatically mean reliable public transport. A growing stock market does not automatically mean secure employment. A rising number of billionaires does not automatically mean a prosperous society.

A country can be simultaneously progressing and failing. That is the uncomfortable truth we seem increasingly unwilling to accept.

Look at women's safety. India registered 29,536 rape cases in 2024 according to NCRB data. Those are reported cases, not necessarily the true number of incidents, and statistics alone cannot capture the social circumstances surrounding them. But even the reported number should be enough to make any functioning society uncomfortable.

The answer should not be to use those numbers as ammunition against a political opponent. The answer should be to ask why they exist, how many cases are investigated properly, how many result in convictions, why victims fail to report, what social conditions produce sexual violence and what can actually be done to reduce it.

That is what an intellectual does.

They do not ask, “How can I use this statistic to push my agenda?”

They ask, “What does this statistic really tell me?”

Take one figure from the same NCRB data. In 96.8% of the rape cases registered in 2024, the accused was known to the survivor. Not a stranger in a dark street, but a friend, a partner, a neighbour or someone else she knew. That single statistic tells us more about where the problem actually lives than the headline number ever could.

The same principle applies to corruption.

India's problem is not simply that corruption exists. Every major society has corruption. The deeper problem is the normalisation of it.

We have reached a point where “jugaad” has become a euphemism for circumventing rules, where knowing the right person can be considered more valuable than following the right process, and where amassing wealth through connections can attract admiration rather than suspicion.

The contractor who wins a questionable contract is not always treated as a disgrace.

Rather, they are looked up to.

The politician who displays enormous wealth is not necessarily asked where it came from.

They may be celebrated for having “made it”.

The bureaucrat who bends the rules for someone powerful is not always condemned.

They may simply be described as “practical”.

This is how institutions decay: not always through dramatic acts of corruption, but through millions of small compromises that eventually become socially acceptable.

And perhaps nowhere is this contradiction more visible than in the way we discuss government spending.

India absolutely needs infrastructure. We need roads, railways, airports, ports, hospitals, schools, digital infrastructure and government buildings. The construction of a new Parliament building, therefore, is not inherently evidence of waste. The Central Vista project itself includes numerous components, and the government has defended its costs and objectives.

The central question is not ‘Why did we build a new Parliament?’

The central question is:

‘Are we capable of building impressive things while simultaneously ensuring that ordinary citizens have the basic things they need?’

The two are not mutually exclusive.

A country capable of constructing a modern Parliament should also be capable of ensuring that a child in a rural district has a functioning school, that a woman can safely access menstrual healthcare, that a farmer has reliable infrastructure and that a citizen does not have to treat a government office like an obstacle course.

We should be capable of doing both. And when we fail at one, we should not use the existence of the other as proof that everything is fine.

The same intellectual dishonesty appears in our obsession with headline economic figures.

The rupee has come under substantial pressure in recent years. In August 2026, sterling was trading between roughly ₹128 and ₹131, while the rupee had also approached record lows against the US dollar, prompting intervention by the Reserve Bank of India.

But even here, the answer is not to scream that the government has “destroyed the rupee”.

Currencies move for complicated reasons: inflation differentials, commodity prices, capital flows, interest rates, global risk sentiment, trade balances and monetary policy, among other things.

A falling currency does not automatically equate to proof of an economic collapse. Nor is a rising GDP automatically proof of economic success reaching everyone.

The intellectually honest position is somewhere between the two. That is precisely what seems to be disappearing. We have become addicted to binary thinking.

India is either the greatest country in the world or a failed state.

The government is either brilliant or evil.

The economy is either booming or collapsing.

A person is either patriotic or anti-national.

A criticism is either “constructive” because we agree with it or “propaganda” because we do not.

There is no room left for “yes, but.”

And “yes, but” is where serious thinking begins.

Yes, India has made extraordinary progress.

But millions still struggle with inadequate public services.

Yes, India's geopolitical influence has grown.

But its immediate surroundings remain strategically challenging and China's economic and political influence across South Asia presents a serious challenge.

Yes, India's economy is expanding.

But growth must translate into productivity, jobs, wages, human capital, and living standards.

Yes, India has built impressive infrastructure.

But construction quality, maintenance, accessibility and equitable distribution matter just as much as ribbon-cutting ceremonies.

Yes, India has a legitimate claim to greater global influence.

But influence is not the same thing as power, and power is not the same thing as national wellbeing.

This is what a mature form of patriotism looks like. It does not demand that you pretend the country is perfect. It demands that you care enough to make it better.

And that brings me back to the issue of Parliament.

While the country faces enormous questions about the education system, economy, employment, healthcare, national security and social cohesion, Parliament has recently spent legislative attention on matters such as changing the constitutional name of Kerala to Keralam. The Kerala (Alteration of Name) Bill, 2026 was introduced in the Lok Sabha on 10 August and passed the next day, within minutes, without a single MP other than the minister speaking on it. The Rajya Sabha, by contrast, debated it for more than two hours.

There is nothing inherently wrong with a state wanting its constitutional name to reflect its preferred linguistic identity. In fact, I am all in favour of this alteration. But priorities matter. A government can do more than one thing at once. Parliament can debate a name change and economic policy in the same session. The existence of one debate does not make another illegitimate.

The larger problem is the disproportionate attention it commands, and the deafening silence that follows.

Consider what else happened in that same Monsoon Session. The Lok Sabha functioned for just 15% of its scheduled time, its lowest since 2016. Question Hour, the hour in which ministers must answer to the House, lasted nine minutes in the Lok Sabha across the entire session. Two of the 380 listed questions were answered orally. In the Rajya Sabha, the debate on renaming Kerala ran roughly as long as Question Hour did for the whole session. And nine of the eleven bills the Lok Sabha passed went through without a single MP, other than the minister, speaking on them.

Now that the name change has been passed, where is the fierce debate on the decay of our education system? Parliament did spend around 18 hours on a tougher anti-paper-leak law, but only after students had taken to the streets and the Education Minister had resigned. Punishing those who leak exam papers is not the same as fixing what happens inside the classroom.

Where is the parliamentary outrage when citizens are harassed for protesting nationwide for the bare minimum? In fairness, there was outrage. The session was paralysed by it. But the government and the opposition could not agree on how to discuss the police response to students protesting at Jantar Mantar, and so the discussion never took place. Slogans were shouted. Questions went unanswered.

Where is the emergency session to address the fact that the air we breathe is killing us slowly? Forget an emergency session. In December 2025, even an ordinary, scheduled Lok Sabha discussion on air pollution was dropped when the Winter Session collapsed into uproar.

Plenty of outrage. Almost no scrutiny. Because the glaring, pressing issues that keep us awake at night do not seem to bother our parliamentarians even a fraction as much as staying in power does.

Why are we so easily distracted?

Why can a symbolic question consume our attention while substantive questions receive comparatively little public pressure?

Why do we spend more energy arguing over the spelling of a place than over the quality of the school, hospital or road in that place?

This is because symbolic politics is easy. Structural reform is difficult.

It is far easier to argue about identity than productivity. Easier to fight over language than judicial reform. Easier to debate nationalism than education quality. Easier to make a reel about patriotism than to call out those in power. Easier to label someone anti-national than to rebut their argument.

This is where the hedonism of nihilism becomes politically useful.

Keep people entertained.

Keep them angry.

Keep them divided.

Give them an enemy.

Give them a slogan.

Give them a scandal.

Give them something to argue about.

And, above all, make sure they never develop the patience to ask the uncomfortable question: What actually changes?

Because that is what governments, corporations, institutions and political parties fear most. Not anger. Not outrage. Not even protest.

Persistent scrutiny.

The angry citizen can be distracted. The tribal citizen can be redirected. The apathetic citizen can be ignored. But the citizen who reads the budget, checks the statistics, compares policies, understands institutions, remembers promises, questions politicians from their own side and demands measurable outcomes is considerably harder to manipulate. That citizen is powerful. That is exactly why we need more of them.

I do not want an India in which everyone agrees with me. That would be terrifying. I want an India in which people disagree intelligently. An India where a supporter of the government can acknowledge its failures without feeling that they have betrayed their country. An India where an opponent can acknowledge a government's successes without feeling that they have betrayed their ideology. An India where patriotism means demanding better rather than applauding louder. An India where young people aspire not merely to become wealthy, famous or powerful, but competent. An India where success is not measured only by the size of one's house, car or bank account, but by the value one creates. An India where being informed is not considered pretentious. An India where changing one's mind after encountering better evidence is considered intellectual strength rather than weakness.

Most importantly, I want an India where citizens understand that democracy is not a spectator sport.

You cannot outsource your citizenship to a politician.

You cannot outsource your thinking to an influencer.

You cannot outsource your morality to a political party.

You cannot outsource your conscience to a WhatsApp group.

And you certainly cannot complain about the country while refusing to take responsibility for the culture that sustains it.

If you have read this far, you might have noticed a deliberate omission.

This piece does not mention a single political party. It does not mention religion. It does not touch upon the deep, ideological polarisation that dominates our television screens and WhatsApp groups every single evening.

That is not an oversight. It is the entire point.

We have been conditioned to believe that those divisions are our biggest hurdles. They are not. They are merely the most visible symptoms. The actual disease—the rot holding us back—is this cultural normalisation of apathy.

It does not matter which party is in power. It does not matter which ideology claims the moral high ground. If the underlying culture rewards blind tribalism and punishes intellectual honesty, the republic suffers equally. The hedonism of nihilism does not discriminate by voting preference or religious identity. It feeds on all of us.

The first category will always exist. The second category will always exist. What we cannot afford to lose is the third.

The people who ask why. The people who ask how. The people who ask what next? The people who refuse to confuse criticism with hatred. The people who refuse to confuse patriotism with obedience. The people who refuse to accept that because something has always been done one way, it must continue to be done that way.

Those people are not anti-national. They are among India's greatest assets. And if there is one thing we should be afraid of, it is not that India has too many critics. It is that one day there may not be enough of them.

A country does not decline when its citizens criticise it. A country declines when its citizens stop caring enough to criticise it. That is the real danger of the hedonism of nihilism.

Not that people believe nothing matters. But that they have become so comfortable, distracted and entertained that they no longer care whether anything does.

That is a far more dangerous condition.

Once a population stops asking questions, almost anything can be done in its name. And by the time people finally decide to care, it may already be too late.

OPEN YOUR EYES.