Picture a conversation about politics at home or among friends. What begins casually heats up fast. The situation pressures you to take a clear for-or-against position on some issue or policy; and on that basis, you’re instantly classified—as a supporter or opponent of Modi or Siddaramaiah (or Rahul Gandhi). The debate curdles into a quarrel.

That moment captures a snapshot of a larger malaise pervading our society. Our compulsion to oversimplify—to see only two opposing choices in everything—reveals a flaw in our reasoning. By ignoring complexity and papering over nuance, this habit blocks a fuller understanding and dictates how we respond to, and engage with, out immediate political, cultural, social, and even global conflicts.

Consider the farmers’ protests of 2020–21. What unfolded was not merely a policy dispute but a profound illustration of a societal schism. The establishment, with help from supporters and media, framed the movement as an illegitimate insurgency, branding farmers “Khalistanis” or “andolan-jivis” (professional agitators). The narrative hardened into patriots versus traitors. In response, protesters cast it as a grassroots struggle against corporate overreach. It became a collision of two irreconcilable worlds, with no space for accommodation. The eventual repeal was not a dialogue-driven consensus but a strategic political retreat, highlighting a failure of the argumentative process.

This is a local face of a global phenomenon. We are trapped in an argumentation crisis. This is not a mere decline in civility but a systemic consequence of a deeply rooted human cognitive preference for binaries. This innate tendency is now dangerously supercharged by political ideologies and social technologies.

There is no logical or ideological inconsistency in condemning the barbaric killings in Pahalgam as acts of Islamic terrorism while simultaneously condemning the regime’s warmongering that exploits such atrocities. One can recognize that war can sometimes become unavoidable and still worry about it and oppose it. It is possible to raise one’s voice against both Israel’s Zionist government and Hamas, while maintaining real empathy for ordinary people on both sides. Our “progressive” credentials are not diminished if we share Palestinian poems alongside the stories of Israelis dragged into a war they did not want, or if we condemn the oppression faced by countless women like Ahu Daryaei in Iran.

And yet, we pick a side and cling to it. We posture to impress our peers, to avoid their ire.

This tendency to force everything into our preferred ideological frames and binary-based thinking is growing in our discussions on society, economics, culture, and literature. For example: individual vs community, Dalit vs Savarna, oppressed vs oppressor, capitalism vs socialism. These lenses aren’t wrong; in many contexts, they are right and necessary. They’re just not sufficient. They can’t explain or resolve everything.

Look at food debates—the vegetarian vs. meat eater (popularly known as, “non-vegetarian”) squabbles. Or education—where a shallow understanding of “medium of instruction” keeps the Kannada vs English false dichotomy alive even today. It is not unnatural to support a right to food and simultaneously worry about the ecological impact of rising meat consumption; or to fight for equality and social justice while remaining open to the benefits of globalization and free markets. It is the mark of an educated mind, as the saying goes, to be able to entertain a thought without accepting it. We can hold apparently conflicting ideas in view and reconcile them. Seduced by simplistic narratives, we seem to be losing that ability.

This problem isn’t new. Gustave Le Bon, a French physician and polymath, understood this long before many others. His book, The Crowd: A Study of the Popular Mind, was a foundational work in social psychology, first published in 1895. Perhaps what he observed during the French Revolution—and the ‘Reign of Terror’ that led to the republic’s collapse and the rise of Napoleon—helped him crystallize his theory.

The essence of his work is captured in the line: “Alone, we think. In a crowd, we react.”

In a mob, he argued, individuality dissolves and reason yields to emotion. People are swept up by a collective mind—easily led, impulsive, and prone to extremes. Our primal nature takes over. We lose restraint, because responsibility now belongs not to any individual, but to the mob. A hypnotic frenzy spreads like a contagion. A “crowd” need not even share a physical space; we see lynch mobs and troll armies on social media all the time. (To be clear, the consequences are not always destructive; crowds can be mobilized for positive, heroic outcomes, though that is harder).

In any era, those who grasp a subject comprehensively and think deeply are few. But unlike in the past, information has become radically accessible in the last two decades. It is true that the internet and social networks are part of a global democratization process. It is just as true that they are part of a systematic weaponization process. (Whether platforms controlled by a few giant corporations are truly “democratic” is another question entirely).

In an age where algorithms select fragments of information—many of them half-baked and bias-confirming—to build us comfortable echo chambers; when a complex problem becomes fodder for a social media poll; when “activism” shrinks to endorsing and sharing online petitions; when an entire field of study can be distilled into a few ‘Shorts’—what we face is not just a political or cultural crisis. This is a generational epistemic crisis. We must ask the fundamental questions: Do we truly know what we claim to know? What is the source of that knowledge? By what methods did we acquire it?

To identify and correct the flaws in our thinking, we need to use the first principles, concepts, and tools from various fields like psychology, logic, economics, and game theory. They provide many useful mental models.

As mentioned, the symptom of binary classification that has now worsened is also a primitive survival strategy evolved for survival. When faced with a complex problem or danger, the brain evolved shortcuts and simple heuristics to process available information and make quick decisions. While these work effectively in many situations, in others they lead to our logical fallacies and prejudices, unconsciously shaping a black-and-white worldview.

Various cognitive biases work together to strengthen this kind of thinking.

• One is confirmation bias: the tendency to search for, select, and remember only that information, argument, or data that strengthens our existing beliefs, while ignoring what contradicts them.

• Another is negativity bias: giving far more weight to bad or unpleasant experiences than to good ones.

• A third is the availability heuristic: making universal judgments based on events that easily come to mind (often linked to recency bias). For example, one recent incident of an assault on a migrant (or an act of oppression by a migrant) can instantly overshadow countless instances of long-term, peaceful coexistence.

• Another such bias is the anchoring effect: an excessive reliance on the first piece of information offered (for example, the first set of leaked reports about the caste census) when making decisions.

There are dozens more such biases. Understanding them helps us identify the problems in our own thinking.

f cognitive biases and prejudices shape the structure of our limited thinking, Game Theory provides the terminology for it. Concepts like “zero-sum thinking,” “groupthink,” and “preference falsification” show how individual prejudices can aggregate to create collective paralysis.

A zero-sum game is a mathematical model of a situation (which could be a social relationship or an economic transaction) where the total sum of gains and losses of the participants remains zero. In such a case, one person’s gain comes at an equal loss for another. While this fits some situations, the real danger arises when this principle is unconsciously applied to most real-world problems. In most contexts, zero-sum thinking is a myth: a false perception that conflict is inherent in social relations and that one party’s victory is only possible through another’s defeat. This is deeply rooted in us.

This mindset denies the possibility of positive-sum outcomes—where greater value can be created for everyone when more people get opportunities. Instead of a mindset of cooperation and collaboration, it spreads bitterness, leading to unnecessary conflicts. This is glaringly visible in the debate on reservations. Even when there is strong evidence for the argument that true progress is possible only by including all sections of society and that this benefits everyone, the benefits received by lower classes are portrayed as opportunities directly snatched from the upper classes. We must instead realize that when more and more historically disadvantaged people get opportunities, it is possible, over time, to create more value for everyone. We must believe this can create a virtuous cycle. Along with this, we must also continue to think about how to increase the total quantum of opportunities, not just argue over dividing the current ones. Otherwise, we will only end up drowning in the for-and-against debate.

There is a direct and strong link between the socio-psychological concept of groupthink and zero-sum thinking. When a group’s desire for internal harmony and conformity becomes extreme, it begins to reject obvious truths and wisdom, becoming irrational and inert. When the world is perceived as a “us” vs “them” zero-sum war, group unity becomes the highest priority. There is no room for logic or factual assessment. The group turns inward, obsessed with its own purity and incapable of tolerating any dissent. This is accompanied by the demonization of opponents. Individuals belonging to the group will not express their doubts publicly, to avoid being “canceled” or ostracized.

The Turkish-American economist Timur Kuran, in a 1987 paper, put forward the concept of preference falsification. This refers to an individual hiding their true likes, dislikes, and opinions due to group or social pressure; or, performing a manufactured preference that is favorable to the group. For example, individuals who might privately hold a nuanced opinion—such as believing that the majority of Muslims in India are, like themselves, ordinary people with common aspirations who just want to live in peace—may suddenly sound like extremists on platforms like Twitter. Similarly, those who oppose a government policy stay silent, fearing the “anti-national” label. This silence of the majority, in turn, deepens political polarization.

Amartya Sen’s important work, The Argumentative Indian, begins with a reference to Krishna engaging in a detailed and lengthy philosophical discussion in the Bhagavad Gita. He then examines the questions raised by Gargi and Maitreyi and discusses the heterodoxy that has been embedded as a value in Indian civilizations since ancient times.

Even if dissent, pluralism, and heresy existed in our heritage, the reality is that they have been under assault for the last few decades. Not just dialogue, but the very possibility of it is diminishing, and we have become a “tongue-tied nation” (“ಮಾತು ಸೋತ ಭಾರತ”). Simplified perceptions and the zero-sum contest of easy binaries have taken hold.

To this, we must add a crucial counter-point. As Dr. B.R. Ambedkar argued, this celebrated “argumentative” tradition often co-existed with the oppressive hierarchy of caste—a rigid binary of “graded inequality”. The high-minded debate was largely the domain of a privileged elite, while the vast majority were systematically denied the right to even be heard.

This reframes our modern crisis completely. The challenge is not simply to revive Sen’s argumentative ideal, but to truly realize it for the first time by infusing it with Ambedkar’s non-negotiable demand for structural equality. The goal, then, is to build a genuinely pluralistic and inclusive public square, one that honors the supposed civilizational values that both Sen and Ambedkar, in their different ways, championed.

To overcome our “tongue-tied” state and achieve this requires a two-fold path:

1. Individual Cognitive Labor: We must actively resist our mental shortcuts, slow down, and seek out the dissenting perspectives we have been conditioned to ignore.

2. Collective and Institutional Change: We must demand and build a public square—from our social media algorithms to our public institutions—that rewards nuance and protects inclusivity, rather than profiting from outrage.

The goal is not to end disagreement, but to elevate its quality by ensuring its inclusivity—to dismantle the false binaries and finally build a public square where the complex, truthful spectrum of all voices can be heard.

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If a book on the history of the islands were to be written, to paraphrase Pankaj Sekhsaria from memory, the entire history of British colonization would merit a page, while India’s administration would get a single paragraph. India, itself a victim of colonization, suffers from a cognitive dissonance—a denial of sorts—in not acknowledging its own role as a colonizer.

The post-independence era saw a period of fast-track colonization orchestrated by the Indian state. It all began with the plan of peopling the islands in the 1960s. Official government documents from the 1960s, as Sekhsaria points out, explicitly called them ‘Colonisation Schemes’. Indian colonization of the islands was a continuation of the cold chain as it were. It is hard to imagine the islands being part of Indian dominion had British not colonized it first. It was a gift from them in that sense. To encourage settlement, families from the mainland were offered a package that typically included 5 acres of paddy land, 5 acres of hilly land for cultivation, and a loan to procure cattle, in addition to the rights to timber for constructing a house.

This process continues today through the act of renaming. Today Port Blair is Sri Vijaya Puram. Havelock Island is now officially Swaraj Dweep, Neil Island is Shaheed Dweep, and so on. We must, of course, erase relics of our colonial past. Mustn’t we? But what about our colonial present? Do we, for instance, stop to think what the original inhabitants think of these strange names? Did they, by chance, have their own names for these islands?

Of course, they did. Havelock Island, for instance, was Thi-tar-siro, ‘the land near the open sea’. Port Blair is Lao-tara Nyo to the Great Andamanese, which translates to the ‘house of evils or foreigners’. Just as well.

The Andaman and Nicobar Islands have been home to some of the first migrants out of Africa. These communities have a long history of living in isolation. In the 19th century, there were about 5,000 indigenous people—the Onge, Great Andamanese, Sentinelese, Jarawa, Nicobarese, and Shompen. Today, their numbers have dwindled to under 500, with some groups, like several of the Great Andamanese tribes, having vanished completely, and their languages, like Pujjukar, becoming extinct. Once spread throughout the archipelago, they are now restricted to a few reservations while mainland settlers occupy the rest of their homelands.

The story of tribal communities is the same the world over, whether in South America, Central India, or the Andamans. Contact with the ‘civilized’ world brings an onslaught of infectious diseases; poachers and illegal mafias introduce alcohol and tobacco, leading to addiction and sexual exploitation. Then the state enters the picture—seemingly to help—and introduces another form of dependency by providing rations and supplies. Yes, there is access to healthcare, but one wonders if that need was created in the first place by the forced contact imposed on them.

The Great Andaman Trunk Road, cutting through the Jarawa Tribal Reserve, is a testament to this imposition. It connects Port Blair with northern towns like Baratang, Mayabunder, and Diglipur. This road was constructed despite numerous protests from activist organizations and resistance from the Jarawa themselves. Despite multiple orders from the Supreme Court to limit or close the road, it continues to be operational. The construction of roads and bridges continues unabated.

The name ‘Jarawa’ is an interesting one. It’s not a word in the language spoken by the people we call Jarawa. In fact, it’s a word in the language of the Great Andamanese, a neighbouring group, that meant ‘stranger’ or ‘the other’. What do the ‘Jarawa’ call themselves? Or do they? There’s a word in their language—Aong—which connotes ‘we’ or ‘us’ or ‘our people’. Now, is that a word used as an identity for the tribe, or is it just that, a word? I ask because, do you really need to identify and differentiate yourself when you are living by yourself? Isn’t identity more often than not a manifestation of external forces? Doesn’t it get asserted under conflict?

But I digress.

We were told that the travel through the Jarawa reserve (yes, I am a hypocrite, no question) is a great experience—you will travel through dense and beautiful rainforests. We were also told that the vehicles move in a convoy and are not allowed to stop; if we happen to come across the Jarawa people, we just move on, or else they might shoot us with arrows—absolutely no contact.

I asked our driver as we were entering the reserve if we might see the Jarawa. (Yes, I did want to see what our earliest ancestors, the first humans of India still extant, might have looked like. I’m sorry.) “If you are lucky,” he remarked coolly. Well, yes. Recent estimates say they are all of 400-odd individuals. Could we really ‘spot’ them in these thick rainforests? As it turned out, by the end of our round trip, we had seen the whole range—so much so that I remarked, ‘Looks like we have met most of the clan.’ I was trying to make a joke of it, but I felt a strange sensation of guilt and shame. A sadness. What have we done here? Until a few decades ago, the Jarawa did fiercely resist intrusion. But since the late ‘90s, they have—especially the younger generation—been coming out. Today, they come to the road, wait there, and can be seen asking for food. Biscuit packets get thrown at kids who scramble for them and jump with joy.

This stands in stark contrast to their profound indigenous knowledge. As described in Sekhsaria’s book, the Onge have a method of extracting honey from the hives of the giant rock bee. To ward off the bees, they don’t use fire or smoke but simply chew the leaves of a specific plant, tonjoghe, and smear the greenish pulp over their bodies. This repels the bees without harming them, allowing for a sustainable harvest. And famously, no one from these tribes died when the 2004 Tsunami hit; their acute environmental awareness and traditional warnings passed down through generations helped them move inland and to higher ground. What have we done to people who possess this kind of ecological wisdom?

Travelling, apart from being an enjoyable and relaxing experience, widens your horizons and gives you a better understanding of the world; but it also often leaves you with an acute sense of guilt. I suddenly remembered a brief note I had written a few years ago during a trip to Meghalaya. I remembered it as we were travelling on the bumpy and often non-existent road towards Diglipur. The feeling was familiar.

“Selfie Danger Zone and Landslide Ahead”

As we move gently along the curving roads carved on the East Khasi hills en route to Mawlynnong, there’s fog everywhere, slowing us down further. The fog set in quite early yesterday, much before sunset, as we headed out of Sohra (Cherrapunji). It’s a heavenly sight all around, with boundless valleys and streams flowing every which way one looks. From time to time, at a location where you get a panoramic, unobstructed view of the valley, one finds signage that says, “Selfie Danger Zone”. Pretty soon you start seeing the ugly profile of mined hills and mining trucks everywhere. Signage warning of potential “Landslide Ahead” follows soon after. Gorgeous valleys on one side with their selfie danger zones; butchered hills on the other with their landslide alerts.

I’m looking out the window of my cab trying to process all this. At first, man discovers these bounties of nature and settles down. Eventually, he invents something called tourism that helps people from distant lands partake in this joyous experience. People start flocking, needing more and bigger roads, homestays, resorts, restaurants, plastic, more everything—including more landslides. In a parallel thread, man invents photography, invents social media, puts tiny yet highly powerful cameras inside smartphones. Someone discovers the idea of a “selfie”. It spreads like a virus, eventually leading to selfie danger zones.

I know I’m rambling as I’m still trying to process all this. Selfies, social networks, tourism, landslides, plastic, and a myriad of other things are inexorably intertwined in my mind. I’m struggling to disentangle them so I can get some clarity. To see through the fog, as it were.

And the irony of I, a tourist, making these observations is not lost on me.

That same paradox was playing out on this Andaman road. The same dumper trucks, concrete mixers; dug up hills, reinforcement bars sticking out like sore thumbs. A thumbs up to development.

The government of India wants to increase tourism here tenfold. One can only imagine the consequences. What might that mean for the ecology of the place? What would that mean for the tribal communities?

Pankaj Sekhsaria has been fighting for the cause of the islands. He has been documenting this for decades, his writing often carrying the exhaustion of fighting a losing battle. You can sense a feeling of one step forward, two steps back in many of his essays.

As I read his book intermittently during my travel, I couldn’t help but think: had I read this before I embarked on that long journey on the Great Andaman Trunk Road, would I still have done it? I’m not completely sure. But that’s no longer the most important question.

Islands in Flux is a niche book. It’s extremely unlikely that I would have come across it or read it had I not travelled to the Andamans. But I’m glad I did. It’s an eye-opener. Not only in regard to these islands but in general to the destruction we are causing in the name of development and tourism.

The irony, I realize now, is not just that I was a tourist observing a tragedy; it’s that by participating, I was a part of it. Reading the book didn’t provide a solution, but it clarified the problem. It turns the question from a simple ‘Would I still have gone?’ to the far more unsettling ‘Now that I know, how do I carry this knowledge?’