For decades, the friction between India and Pakistan was largely contained within South Asia. Occasionally, it spilled into international forums, and at times its echoes reached the Middle East—though usually confined to cricket fields. That is now changing. In recent months, the Middle East has emerged as a primary arena for this rivalry. At the center of this shift is an informal alignment of four Islamic nations, with Pakistan playing a leading role.

This development stands in contrast to the formal Quad that India had invested significant strategic capital in. The Quadrilateral Security Dialogue—consisting of the United States, Japan, Australia, and India—was born from shared relief efforts after the 2004 Indian Ocean tsunami and eventually formalised to ensure a free and open Indo-Pacific. For New Delhi, it was a golden ticket to a high table where it could balance the rising influence of China. However, Donald Trump’s return to the White House and his administration’s isolationist “America First” stance, along with cooler India–US relations, have left it a largely dormant forum.

Even as the original Quad faded into the background, a new and more assertive formation began to take shape in West Asia. This informal Quad—bringing together Pakistan, Egypt, Turkey, and Saudi Arabia (PETSA)—has evolved from a collection of shared interests into a more coordinated alignment, sometimes described as a “West Asian Quad,” or “Islamic NATO.” Unlike the formal Quad, which has often moved cautiously, PETSA seems to be moving faster on key security and strategic issues. For New Delhi, the irony is hard to miss: this emerging alignment, which places Pakistan at its centre, appears to draw tacit support from the United States, the leader of the original Quad, and China, the very power the Quad was designed to counter.

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To understand this shift better, it helps to recall the optimism of the early 2020s. At the time, India was central to a new diplomatic architecture. The Quad was at its peak, holding high-profile summits and moving with a sense of purpose aimed at balancing China’s growing influence. It was in this atmosphere that the I2U2 (India, Israel, the UAE, and the US) also took shape. Often described as a “West Asian Quad,” it complemented the original Quad’s broader strategic outlook. Together, these frameworks reflected India’s attempt to project influence across both the Indo-Pacific and West Asia. But as the political climate in Washington shifted, the momentum behind this approach began to decline.

The emergence of the PETSA grouping can be traced to a series of events that reshaped regional calculations, most notably Operation Sindoor in May 2025. Launched by India in response to a terrorist attack in Pahalgam, the operation marked a shift from strategic restraint to a more assertive doctrine of deterrence. Pakistan, however, used the moment to reposition itself globally, strengthening its ties with the United States while also engaging more closely with major powers in the Muslim world—Turkey with its advanced military industry, Saudi Arabia with its vast capital, and Egypt with its control over the Suez Canal. In doing so, it sought to present the case that their interests were better served by working together during a period of regional instability.

A recent development added to Pakistan’s westward shift. The World Bank has moved Pakistan from its South Asia grouping to the Middle East and North Africa (MENA) region for the 2026 fiscal year. While this may seem like a bureaucratic adjustment, it changes how Pakistan’s economy is viewed globally. Instead of being compared with India or Bangladesh, it is now benchmarked against Gulf and North African economies. This suggests that Pakistan is beginning to operate in a different economic space—one increasingly shaped by Gulf investment and West Asian partnerships.

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The PETSA alignment is not a simple monolith; it brings together actors that, until recently, had strained relations. Turkey, Saudi Arabia, and Egypt are only gradually moving past years of diplomatic tension. In this context, Pakistan has emerged as a key connecting link, maintaining robust ties with every other actor in the group. More importantly, as tensions around Iran continue to shape the region, Pakistan remains the only member of the grouping with a functional backchannel to Tehran. This unique position makes Islamabad indispensable for the group’s current primary mission: de-escalating the potentially catastrophic Iran-Israel conflict.

Pakistan’s leadership within PETSA is further cemented by its nuclear capability and its deep defense partnership with Riyadh. The Saudi-Pakistan Mutual Defense Agreement (SDMA), signed in late 2025, is a historic “collective security” pact. It contains a NATO-like provision that treats an act of aggression against one as an act against both, effectively making Pakistan the primary security guarantor for the heart of the Middle East—a role once held exclusively by the United States. This alliance provides Saudi Arabia with the “boots on the ground” and a nuclear umbrella it has long desired, while providing Pakistan with the financial lifeblood it needs to sustain its economy.

No country can remain a passive observer to such shifts. With the formal Quad losing momentum, New Delhi has also been trying to expand its western partnerships. The most significant is the Strategic Defence Partnership framework with the United Arab Emirates (UAE). Initiated with a formal signing in early 2026, this partnership has deepened a relationship once centred on oil and labour into one with growing security and strategic dimensions. This has coincided with the UAE’s withdrawal from OPEC in early 2026—a move that signals Abu Dhabi’s willingness to pursue a more independent geopolitical path, rather than align fully with Saudi Arabia. For India, a more autonomous UAE provides an opening to secure long-term energy ties and strengthen its maritime connectivity in the region.

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At the heart of India’s competing vision is the India–Middle East–Europe Economic Corridor (IMEC), an infrastructure project linking Indian ports to Europe through the UAE, Saudi Arabia, Jordan, and Israel. It is intended to strengthen trade, connectivity, and supply chains, while offering an alternative to parts of China’s Belt and Road Initiative (BRI). This may encourage regional players to balance their security alignments with Pakistan against their economic partnerships with India.

The inclusion of India in the ‘3+1’ summit with Israel, Greece, and Cyprus is also seen as useful in giving India access as far as the Mediterranean. This adds a secondary strategic axis, particularly with countries that have existing tensions with Turkey. Together, these partnerships reflect a wider network of economic and strategic ties—from the Arabian Sea to the eastern Mediterranean—linked to India’s long-term interests.

For decades, India projected itself as a restrained power and a champion of non-alignment. That position is now being recalibrated, most visibly through its deeper engagement with West Asia, including its strategic relationship with Israel and participation in emerging regional frameworks. Some critics argue this risks diluting India’s standing as a voice of the Global South. But New Delhi appears to be betting on ‘calibrated multi-alignment’ and ‘strategic autonomy’—seeking to balance hard strategic interests with its longstanding global image.

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The Modi government has convened a special three-day session of Parliament from April 16–18, 2026. The stated objective is to amend the Nari Shakti Vandan Adhiniyam (The 106th Constitutional Amendment Act) to fast-track the 33% reservation for women in the Lok Sabha by 2029.

However, a closer look at the timing and the legal fine print suggests that this move has less to do with gender justice and more to do with a strategic “delimitation” designed to secure a lopsided political advantage for the BJP.

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The first red flag is the schedule. The session is being held while West Bengal is in the middle of crucial assembly elections, with polling phases on April 23 and 29. By calling this session now, the government is forcing opposition MPs—particularly from the TMC—to choose between representing their constituents in Parliament or campaigning in their home state.

This isn’t just a logistical hurdle; it is a calculated attempt to disrupt the opposition’s momentum. If the government truly cared about the sanctity of the process, this exercise could easily have waited until after April 29.

When the Women’s Reservation Bill was passed in 2023, the law (under the newly inserted Article 334A) explicitly stated that reservation would only come into effect after two things happened:

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1. A new Census was conducted (post-2026).

2. A Delimitation (redrawing of constituency boundaries) was carried out based on that Census.

Now, the government is pivoting. They are reportedly seeking to bypass the wait for a new Census and use the 2011 Census data instead. Why the rush? The Registrar General has already indicated that a fresh Census could be completed by December 2027. By using 15-year-old data to redraw the map of India today, the government is signaling a desire to manipulate constituency boundaries to suit their 2029 electoral map.

Article 334A also says that delimitation can be carried out only for the purpose of implementing women’s reservation—that is, only to decide which seats will be reserved for women. However, the proposed amendment seeks to implement it through a “general delimitation” based on the old Census while also increasing the number of seats.

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This means that the government is using women’s empowerment as a shield for political engineering. We have already seen in Jammu and Kashmir and in Assam how delimitation was used for political purposes. No opposition can accept this.

The most dangerous aspect of this plan is that it would damage India’s federal structure. Delimitation carried out solely on the basis of population would completely upset the political balance between North and South India.

Consider the math: Uttar Pradesh currently has 80 Lok Sabha seats and Tamil Nadu has 39—a difference of 41. If delimitation is carried out as per the 2011 Census and the total number of seats is increased to the proposed maximum of 850, UP’s tally would jump to 140, while Tamil Nadu’s would only reach 51. The gap would widen from 41 to 89 seats.

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This essentially punishes Southern states for their success in population control and economic development. In a country as diverse as India, representation cannot be a numbers game that erases the voice of entire regions.

If the Prime Minister is genuinely concerned about the delay in women’s representation, the solution is simple: Grant 33% reservation within the existing 543 seats of the Lok Sabha today. All opposition parties would support such a move.

The fact that the government refuses to do this—and instead insists on a complex exercise—proves that the “Nari Shakti” narrative is merely a cover for a “Rajneetik” (Political) power grab. No member of the opposition should accept this assault on our federal structure. We must demand reservation without the strings of a biased delimitation attached.

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“Based on conversations with Prime Minister Shehbaz Sharif and Field Marshal Asim Munir of Pakistan, and wherein they requested that I hold off the destructive force being sent tonight to Iran… I agree to suspend the bombing and attack of Iran for a period of two weeks. This will be a double-sided CEASEFIRE!”

Donald Trump, the President of the United States, wrote on social media announcing the ceasefire between the US-Israel alliance and Iran.

In an official statement, Iran’s Foreign Minister Seyed Abbas Araghchi, responding to the “brotherly request of PM Sharif”, also declared the ceasefire on behalf of Iran’s Supreme National Security Council. He expressed gratitude and appreciation for his “dear brothers HE Prime Minister of Pakistan Sharif and HE Field Marshal Munir for their tireless efforts to end the war in the region.”

In the volatile weeks following the February 28 US–Israeli strike that killed Iran’s Supreme Leader Ali Khamenei, a quiet but profound role reversal unfolded in South Asian diplomacy. Pakistan—often dismissed as a rogue actor in world affairs—emerged as the most visible mediator in the Middle East crisis. India, with its centuries-old civilisational links to Iran, strong ties with both the US and Israel, non-aligned legacy, membership of the Quad, presidency of BRICS+, and reputation as a principled global voice, found itself largely on the margins—issuing measured calls for restraint while watching Islamabad take the lead in a conflict that affected not just a few countries, but much of the world.

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This is remarkable. Until May 2025, when Pakistan fought a four-day war (Operation Sindoor) with India, the country was widely seen as a pariah state. At the time, both Prime Minister Shehbaz Sharif and General Asim Munir were struggling to hold their positions and keep the country together amid deep economic and political crises. But Pakistan’s global standing and Shehbaz Sharif and Asim Munir’s domestic positions improved dramatically after that.

“In mediating between these two parties, Pakistan pulled off one of its most resounding diplomatic victories in years. It is a stunning reversal of fortunes for a country that Mr. Trump once derided as offering ‘nothing but lies and deceit’ and that the Biden administration shunned,” wrote the New York Times, the world’s most influential media outlet, describing Pakistan’s role in the US-Israel-Iran ceasefire.

From India’s point of view, this is more than a one-off event. Some analysts see it as a sign of erosion in the country’s earlier international standing—a shift driven by the steady dilution of a brand that could assert self-interest without appearing selfish. That brand once allowed India to punch above its material weight.

On March 1 — the very next day after the US-Israel strike on Iran — Prime Minister Shehbaz Sharif issued a public statement on X. It offered “the most sincere condolences on the martyrdom” of Khamenei, expressed solidarity with the Iranian people, and explicitly criticised the strike as a “violation of the norms of international law” and the “age-old convention that Heads of State/Government should not be targeted.” It was a careful balance that sounded empathetic and principled, without naming the US or Israel. President Asif Ali Zardari and opposition voices reinforced the message. Within days, Pakistan turned this into concrete action.

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By late March, Pakistan was relaying messages between US and Iran. Islamabad convened backchannel summits with Saudi Arabia, Turkey and Egypt, floated practical ceasefire proposals, and positioned itself as the most desired mediator. When the fragile two-week ceasefire took hold on April 7–8, Pakistan was at the centre of attention.

Michael Kugelman of the Atlantic Council calls it “a large feather in the cap” for Pakistan. But he also points to another dimension: “Pakistan has been willing to engage in unconventional diplomatic tactics that score points in Washington — including excessive flattery and commercial opportunities with Trump’s inner circle.” Somewhat similar tactics involving China and Xi Jinping may also have worked in Pakistan’s favour. Trump may also have leaned toward Islamabad for mediation in part because it offered a level of flexibility that is hard to expect from most other countries.

During this period, India’s posture could hardly have been more restrained. The Ministry of External Affairs issued generic statements following the US–Israel strike, urging “restraint, dialogue, and de-escalation,” while placing strong emphasis on protecting the nearly 10 million-strong Indian diaspora in the Gulf and safeguarding energy routes. No high-level condolence message was issued by Prime Minister Narendra Modi or External Affairs Minister S. Jaishankar in the crucial initial days. It was only on March 5—five to six days later—that Foreign Secretary Vikram Misri signed the condolence book at the Iranian Embassy, using carefully neutral language referring to the “demise,” rather than the “martyrdom,” of Iran’s supreme leader, Ali Khamenei.

Opposition leaders—from Congress to regional parties—called the delay an “abdication, not neutrality.” Typically measured voices like Shashi Tharoor noted that, irrespective of condemnation, a timely expression of grief was the bare diplomatic minimum given India’s longstanding ties with Iran.

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The messaging gap widened when India strongly condemned Iranian retaliation against Gulf states and Israel and co-sponsored a UNSC resolution targeting Tehran, while remaining silent on the initial assassination’s breach of sovereignty norms and on the deaths of 168 schoolgirls in the US-Israeli strike. Domestic vulnerabilities — energy shocks from the Hormuz closure, remittances from the Gulf, and defence cooperation with the US and Israel — clearly drove the calculus. Yet the optics were unambiguous: a tilt toward transactional partners at the expense of visible solidarity with an old friend and old principles.

What India got wrong

Three interlocking miscalculations might have defined New Delhi’s approach during the Iran war.

First, an apparent over-optimism about Iranian regime fragility. After Khamenei’s death, initial assessments in Delhi (mirroring some Western thinking) seem to have expected the regime to collapse or at least become severely weakened. When the regime instead showed structural resilience, India was forced to change course — requesting safe passage for its ships through the Strait of Hormuz and resuming Iranian oil and LPG imports after a long hiatus. Returning to the “same regime” after early silence only reinforced perceptions of opportunism.

Second, by prioritising only immediate self-interest over broader signalling, India ceded the moral-diplomatic high ground that Pakistan skilfully occupied. Sharif’s Day One statement on norms instantly got Pakistan into Tehran’s good books without burning bridges in Washington. India’s silence on the assassination of Khamenei, by contrast, fed narratives that New Delhi had subordinated principles and old relations to its ties with the US and Israel. Narendra Modi’s visit to Israel exactly before the US-Israel attack also muddied the waters.

Third, the absence of proactive quiet outreach. While Pakistan flooded backchannels with proposals and venue offers, India explicitly ruled out any “go-between” role. No early public or private ideas to improve the situation were floated. The vacuum was filled by Islamabad.

A pattern, not an outlier

This did not emerge in a vacuum. It fits a recurring script of recent years — from Operation Sindoor to India’s deteriorating relations with Bangladesh.

In May 2025’s Operation Sindoor — India’s precision strikes on terror sites in Pakistan/PoJK after the Pahalgam attack — New Delhi emphasised unilateral success and bilateral resolution. Trump claimed he “stopped the war” via trade leverage and mediation. India’s categorical denial of any third-party role irritated Washington. Pakistan, more flexibly, gave the mediation credit and earned Trump’s goodwill. India could have handled this issue more deftly but did not.

During Operation Sindoor we also failed to present our side of the story effectively to the world, the way Pakistan did. While two women military officers — not fully equipped for the job — were left to put forward India’s case in a one-sided manner, and no prominent leader from the ruling administration was visible, Pakistan’s army, its political leaders and its lobbyists in America were doing everything possible on every important forum to present their viewpoint. India tried to rectify this mistake when it sent the all-party parliamentary delegations to different parts of the world. But the damage was already done.

The 2024 Bangladesh crisis is another case in point. While granting refuge to ousted Prime Minister Sheikh Hasina was an unavoidable necessity, India’s subsequent handling — marked by visa refusals, exclusion of Bangladeshi players from the IPL to pander to domestic politics, and the expulsion of the Bangladesh team from the T20 World Cup — escalated a difficult problem into a diplomatic disaster. These actions deeply bruised public sentiment in Bangladesh, isolating India in its own backyard. The optics are particularly jarring as Pakistan and China gain ground in a country that owes its very existence to India.

Even the Trump relationship carried self-inflicted costs. Narendra Modi’s enthusiastic “Abki baar Trump Sarkar” rallies in 2019–20 built personal rapport with Donald Trump, but might not have sat well with Joe Biden. During the 2024 US presidential campaign, Modi maintained a cautious distance from Trump and reportedly did not meet him despite his overtures. When Trump won re-election, the earlier hedging became problematic. This is what happens when a country aligns itself too closely with one political party in another country instead of cultivating bipartisan support.

All this seems to suggest that India is losing the strength that came from its principles, while at the same time not succeeding at the new transactional approach it is now pursuing.

India cannot indulge in what Kugelman describes as the “unconventional diplomatic tactics” of Pakistan. Its historic influence came not only from its size but from its non-aligned tradition — speaking up for sovereignty, standing with anti-colonial causes, and acting as a balancer. That brand made its voice matter far beyond its GDP or military power. But staying silent on big global issues now risks turning India into just another pragmatic deal-maker whose principles look changeable.

The April 10 talks in Islamabad are not yet final. A full US-Iran deal is still not certain. India still has strong cards: good working relations with all three — the US, Israel and Iran; its place in both QUAD and BRICS (India currently has its presidency); and an economy bigger than almost any other country except the superpowers. If India can use these advantages intelligently, it can still have its skin in the game.

India is too big and too important to be sidelined. But what counts the most for a country like India is the courage to speak at the right time without being seen as picking clear sides.

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On March 4, 2026, during a discussion at the Lowy Institute in Sydney, Canadian Prime Minister Mark Carney ended his remarks with an unusual gesture. Instead of waving or nodding, he briefly pressed his palms together to thank the audience.

It was a small, almost reflexive moment at the end of a high-stakes program that many might not have even noticed. But for those who did, it might have triggered a vivid memory of exactly six years ago.

It was March 2020, when the COVID-19 pandemic first tightened its grip on India, forcing a nationwide lockdown. At that time, the world was scrambling for ways to say “hello” or “thank you” without risking infection. Six years later, seeing one of the most educated leaders of the G7 fold his hands in a high-level forum in Australia suggests a deeper reality: India’s most widely used body gesture has moved beyond a cultural symbol to become a global symbol of hygienic, sincere, and refined etiquette.

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The Indian folded-hand gesture, called the Anjali Mudra, is rooted in the Vedas and the Natya Shastra. It has always served a multi-dimensional purpose: it is the posture of worship, the standard social greeting (Namaste), and a profound expression of gratitude. And these are not separate from each other. Whether you say “hello” or a heartfelt “thank you,” you also acknowledge a spiritual presence in the other person.

In the West, folded hands (palms together) were never a gesture of greeting. They emerged by the early medieval period and became widespread in the Middle Ages as a symbol of submission and loyalty. A weak vassal’s folded hands stretched toward a lord was a show of submission. This was later transposed into Christian prayer to signify submission to God.

In Jewish tradition too, folded hands appear in early descriptions of prayer. The Babylonian sage Rabba bar Nachmani is described in the Talmud as praying with folded hands, suggesting that the gesture was also known in parts of the ancient Middle East as an expression of reverence.

For centuries, these two versions lived parallel lives: the Indian one as a multi-purpose cultural symbol, and the Western one used strictly for addressing the divine.

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This was not the case in several other parts of the world, especially across Asia. Long before COVID-19, the Anjali Mudra had already become part of daily life in many societies. Between the 1st and 13th centuries, as Hinduism and Buddhism spread across Asia, the folded-hands greeting evolved into local forms: the wai in Thailand, the sampeah in Cambodia, the nop in Laos and gassho in Japan.

But until recently, Westerners mostly encountered this gesture as tourists or through the global rise of yoga and meditation. In the West, it was something “exotic” that you did at the end of a class or while experimenting with Indian spirituality. But they rarely folded their hands while meeting a bank manager, greeting a prime minister, or expressing gratitude.

The year 2020 changed the way humans interact. As the pandemic struck, the most fundamental Western social ritual—the handshake—was revealed to be a primary vector for disease.

Historically, Western discourse had often labeled Indian social habits as “unhygienic.” But as the world entered the COVID era, the script was flipped. Namaste was suddenly the world’s most hygienic greeting. It then saw rapid adoption by world leaders who had long been committed to the “firm handshake.” Donald Trump, Emmanuel Macron, and Charles III were all seen using the gesture during the height of the crisis.

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But when Mark Carney used the gesture at the Lowy Institute, he wasn’t being cautious about germs. He appeared to be using it as a natural cultural expression of gratitude. What makes this especially striking is that he did so at a time when India’s global voice appears deeply subdued.

It may signify something more as well. In a world where Carney argues that middle powers must increasingly set the agenda, adopting the greeting of the world’s most populous democracy becomes a powerful symbol—signalling a shift toward a multipolar world that treats others with humility and respect.

So far, the West has adopted only the “base version” of India’s folded-hands gesture for safety and gratitude. It has yet to learn its grammar. Many may not realise that when palms are joined at chest level, it signals equality, while a slight forward bend makes the greeting more respectful.

They may also learn that folded hands touching one’s forehead can signal extreme respect. With subtle variations, the same gesture can even express sarcastic submission—or, in certain postures, quiet arrogance.

Perhaps that last variation might even make the gesture attractive to the Donald Trumps of the world—who may not find its humble versions as appealing in normal times as they did during the pandemic.

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Wars are rarely judged only by what they do to the country being targeted. They are also judged by what they do to the wider balance of power. The recent U.S.—Israel confrontation with Iran may well weaken Tehran in the short term, but the deeper strategic question is whether it simultaneously opens opportunities for America’s larger geopolitical rivals, particularly Russia and China.

The stated objective of the campaign against Iran has been clear. Washington and Israel argue that reducing Iran’s military capacity will limit its ability to threaten regional partners such as Israel and project influence across the Middle East through allied militias and political networks. Iran’s military infrastructure and economic resources are under pressure, and that in itself could curb Tehran’s regional ambitions for some time. From this perspective, the war is presented as a strategic necessity — a move intended to prevent a more dangerous future confrontation with a nuclear armed Iran.

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But wars produce consequences that cannot be contained by military superiority. As of early March 2026, the conflict has plunged the region into near-total energy paralysis. The Strait of Hormuz remains effectively closed to commercial traffic despite the U.S. military’s efforts to reopen the waterway. With more than 150 tankers currently idle in the Gulf of Oman and major refineries in Saudi Arabia and Qatar declaring force majeure, the global economy is no longer merely anticipating an energy shock — it is living through one.

There is also a striking irony emerging from this blockade. For much of the past two years, the West sought to isolate Russia economically, pressuring countries like India to reduce purchases of Russian crude. But the closure of the Strait has fundamentally flipped the script. With roughly a fifth of the world’s oil and LNG supply trapped in the war zone, Russian oil — once the pariah of global markets — has suddenly become an essential stabilizing supply.

For Moscow, the conflict is an unexpected lifeline. As Brent crude surges past $100 per barrel, Russia finds its economic leverage restored and its previously “discounted” oil has now become highly sought-after. It is one of the paradoxes of global geopolitics: a campaign intended to weaken Tehran has inadvertently eased the economic pressure on Moscow.

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China’s strategic calculus is different but equally important. Beijing has deep economic ties with the Middle East and depends heavily on energy imports from the region. Instability there is not ideal for China in the short term. Yet the geopolitical picture is more complicated. The central strategic competition for the United States in the coming decades is widely expected to revolve around China, particularly in the Indo-Pacific region. A prolonged conflict involving Iran risks drawing American military resources, diplomatic attention and political capital back into the Middle East — a region Washington had been trying, for years, to step away from. Every major crisis that pulls the United States back into the Gulf potentially gives China more strategic breathing space in Asia.

There is also a diplomatic dimension to this shift. When the United States becomes directly involved in unilateral military action, it allows China and Russia to portray Washington as a source of global instability, even as they position themselves as advocates of restraint and negotiation. In an international system where narratives increasingly matter as much as military strength, this framing can shape how countries in the Global South perceive and respond to the conflict.

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None of this means the war will automatically weaken the United States. If it remains limited and short, Washington and Israel may succeed not only in curbing Tehran’s ambitions but also in deriving strategic advantage. If it becomes prolonged or destabilizes energy markets for an extended period, however, the conflict could produce a paradoxical outcome: a weakened Iran, frustrated and fatigued U.S. allies in the Middle East, a stronger Russia, and a more strategically comfortable China.

There is an additional dimension to consider. The unilateral character of the U.S.—Israel campaign can also hand Russia and China potent rhetorical tools: Moscow can equate its “preemptive” actions in Ukraine to Washington’s strikes on perceived Iranian threats, while Beijing gains narrative leverage to frame potential moves on Taiwan as defending sovereignty against similar “aggression.” Moreover, the U.S. entanglement in the Middle East diverts its attention and resources completely from the Ukraine war, while surging oil revenues—fueled by Hormuz disruptions— can bolster Russia to intensify its aggression there.

In the end, the most important question is not simply whether Iran loses. It is whether the United States has won its military “victory” at the cost of its strategic goals elsewhere.

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News that a United States submarine had torpedoed and sunk the Iranian warship IRIS Dena about 40 nautical miles off Sri Lanka this week took many observers by surprise. An attack like this so far from the Persian Gulf – and in a key trade route connecting China to the Middle East – suggests the arena of this war may be widening.

But the incident also highlights something rarely well understood outside military and legal circles: the law of naval warfare. Many have wondered: was this attack lawful? And who was under an obligation to rescue survivors?

When does the law of naval warfare apply?

The law of naval warfare is a subset of the law of armed conflict. It sets out permissions and protections for combatants, civilians and neutral actors engaged in conflict at sea.

Importantly, it applies regardless of whether the resort to force was lawful. In other words, you’re supposed to follow the law of the sea even if your whole justification for war in the first place isn’t legal under international law.

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What’s more, the conduct of operations at sea is regulated by the law of naval warfare whether or not war has been formally declared.

The law of naval warfare also takes precedence over the United Nations Convention on the Law of the Sea (where the two come into tension). This reflects the principle of lex specialis in international law, meaning the more specific body of law applies.

These rules have developed over centuries as states sought to regulate the conduct of conflict at sea while still allowing navies to operate effectively.

So, was it legal for the US to sink the Iranian warship?

Yes, it was a lawful target.

Under the law of naval warfare, warships belonging to a state engaged in an international armed conflict are military objectives by nature. The rules say they may be lawfully targeted.

Such attacks may occur within the 12 nautical mile territorial waters of the states that are party to the international armed conflict (the belligerents) or anywhere on the high seas. This means, effectively, that such an attack could happen anywhere outside the 12 nautical mile territorial waters of neutral states.

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If the Iranian warship was within Sri Lankan waters (that is, within 12 nautical miles of the Sri Lankan coast) at the time, the attack wouldn’t have been lawful. But in this case, IRIS Dena was reportedly operating outside Sri Lanka’s territorial waters and therefore constitutes a lawful military target.

What does the law say about rescue of survivors?

The law of naval warfare also sets out obligations regarding the rescue of survivors. Under the Second Geneva Convention of 1949, parties to a conflict must – after each engagement – take all possible measures to search for and collect the shipwrecked, wounded and sick.

These rules require belligerents, so far as military circumstances permit, to assist survivors at sea. In practice, however, submarines face particular challenges in fulfilling this obligation. Surfacing to rescue survivors may expose them to significant risk. You also can’t usually fit a large number of survivors on a submarine.

If a submarine cannot safely surface to rescue survivors, it may instead facilitate rescue by reporting their location to other vessels or authorities. This practice has been noted in some key legal commentary on submarine warfare.

The swift response of the Sri Lankan navy, which rescued 32 sailors from IRIS Dena, suggests authorities were informed quickly of the incident. (Sri Lankan officials say 87 bodies were also retrieved).

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Given the damage suffered by IRIS Dena and the reported casualties, the ship’s crew was unlikely to have been able to transmit their location themselves. This may also explain why early reports suggested a submarine had sunk the vessel, before the US confirmed its involvement.

It is also unlikely the crew of IRIS Dena would have immediately known they had been struck by a submarine-launched torpedo. Such a torpedo would typically be fired from very far away, beyond the detection range of a ship’s hull-mounted sonar.

A lawful military target

While debate continues over the legal justification for the United States entering the conflict with Iran, the conduct of hostilities at sea is nonetheless governed by the law of naval warfare.

Under that framework, IRIS Dena therefore constitutes a lawful military target, and efforts to facilitate the rescue of survivors are consistent with those obligations.

Jennifer Parker is an Adjunct Professor at Defence and Security Institute at The University of Western Australia. She is also, an Adjunct Fellow at Naval Studies, The University of New South Wales, Sydney.

This article was first published on The Conversation.

In a landmark decision that has sent shockwaves from the White House to New Delhi, the United States Supreme Court ruled on February 20, 2026, that President Donald Trump lacked the legal authority to unilaterally impose sweeping global tariffs under the International Emergency Economic Powers Act (IEEPA). For India, which had been pushed to the brink of a trade war with effective tariffs as high as 50%, the ruling is more than a legal victory—it is a validation of New Delhi’s strategic patience.

As other nations like Japan, Vietnam, South Korea, the UK, and the EU rushed to secure trade deals with the U.S. under the shadow of “Liberation Day” threats, India stood its ground. Now, with the legal floor of Trump’s trade policy falling through, the “almost ready” India-US trade deal is in a state of flux. The question for New Delhi is no longer how to mitigate a 50% tariff, but why it should settle for 18% when the legal basis for those threats has been declared invalid.

The 50 percent pressure cooker

The trade friction began on what President Trump dubbed “Liberation Day”—April 2, 2025—when he announced a 26% “reciprocal tariff” on Indian imports, later adjusted to 25%, citing a national emergency over trade deficits. By August 2025, the pressure intensified. Citing India’s continued imports of Russian oil, the administration slapped an additional 25% “punitive duty” on Indian goods, bringing the effective tariff to a staggering 50%.

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This “double-whammy” forced India into a corner. For months, Indian negotiators faced a binary choice: accept a permanent, albeit lower, tariff regime or watch their export competitiveness evaporate. Under this duress, a breakthrough was announced on February 2, 2026. According to U.S. officials, in exchange for India committing to stop Russian oil imports and purchasing $500 billion in U.S. energy, technology, and defense products, the U.S. agreed to roll back tariffs from 50% to an “interim” rate of 18%.

While Indian officials acknowledged the trade deal and welcomed the tariff cuts, they did not officially accept the American version of its commitments to purchase these products or completely halt Russian oil imports. The 25% punitive duty related to Russian oil was removed after this announcement by an Executive Order on February 7, 2026. This left only the 25% “reciprocal” tariff in place—until the Supreme Court struck it down.

The Supreme Court ruled 6–3 that IEEPA does not grant the President the power to “adjust imports” through taxes or tariffs. The Court emphasized that the power to tax—which includes tariffs—belongs exclusively to Congress under Article I, Section 8 of the Constitution. By applying the “major questions doctrine,” the Court argued that such a massive shift in economic authority requires clear congressional authorization, which IEEPA lacks.

The ruling effectively invalidates the very foundation of the “Liberation Day” tariffs. Because the reciprocal tariffs were levied under IEEPA authority, they are now legally void.

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The gamble that paid off

While countries like the U.K. Japan, South Korea, Malaysia, Bangladesh, Argentina and Taiwan signed trade agreements in 2025 to secure “exemptions” from these tariffs, India’s refusal to rush into a trade deal with Washington now looks strategically astute. By holding out, India avoided locking itself into a deal signed under duress to escape a 50% threat that has now vanished.

Had India signed the deal, it might have been legally bound by treaty or executive agreement to the 18% rate, even after the underlying IEEPA tariffs were struck down. By delaying and remaining in the “almost ready” phase, India preserved its leverage. The country no longer needs to negotiate to escape a 50% penalty; it can now negotiate from a much better position.

Despite the ruling, President Trump remains defiant, stating that “The India deal is on.” However, the reality on the ground has shifted. When it was announced, the 18% tariff seemed like “relief.” In a post-ruling world, it looks like an unnecessary burden. If the 25% reciprocal tariff is illegal, India’s exports should technically face the much lower standard Most Favored Nation (MFN) rates.

Trump has attempted to bypass the Supreme Court ruling by announcing a new 10% global tariff under Section 122 of the 1974 Trade Act, which allows temporary tariffs of up to 15% for 150 days. The immediate threat has thus fallen from 50% to 10%, weakening Washington’s leverage. The administration could also pivot to Section 232 of the 1962 Trade Expansion Act, or use other tools such as Sections 201 or 301 of the 1974 Trade Act. But all require formal investigations and findings, making them far more cumbersome. These procedural hurdles give New Delhi months of breathing room to negotiate from a position of strength.

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Even if the Trump administration seeks explicit Congressional authorization to restore presidential tariff authority, it is unlikely lawmakers would delegate powers as sweeping, flexible, and rapidly deployable as those previously claimed under IEEPA.

The fate of the ‘almost ready’ deal

The “almost ready” deal seems to be back on the drawing board. India will now likely adopt its time-tested policy of “wait and watch.” If the temporary tariff is the only legal weapon Trump has left, India might push for its 18% “agreed” rate to be slashed significantly. Furthermore, India could raise the issue of refund claims for exporters who paid duties under a regime now declared unlawful. This adds another layer to India’s changed position.

Regarding the insistence on halting Russian oil imports, that pressure was built on the threat of a 50% tariff. With that threat gone, New Delhi can re-examine its energy strategy, balancing its national interest against a weakened Washington.

Much will depend on how the Trump administration, U.S. Congress and Modi administration respond in the coming weeks. But for now, the collapse of emergency tariff authority has altered the negotiating landscape — and India appears better positioned than it did a few days ago. It might not have to choose now between the “Bad” (18%) and the “Worse” (50%), but between the “Pre-2025 Status Quo” and a fair partnership.

1. Made for everyone, not just trained voices

Unlike many national anthems, Jana Gana Mana stays within a comfortable vocal range and moves mostly step by step. Set in a simple and calm scale (Raga Alhaiya Bilawal), its melody is very easy to sing for trained singers and ordinary crowds alike.

The US national anthem, The Star-Spangled Banner, sits at the other extreme. It is notoriously difficult to sing—even for professional singers—which is why it is often performed, lip-synced, or played instrumentally. Vande Mataram, too, is musically more demanding and suits trained voices better than mixed crowds.

Globally, Jana Gan Man ranks among the easier national anthems to sing, alongside Japan’s Kimigayo, Canada’s O Canada, Israel’s Hatikvah and Denmark’s Der er et yndigt land. It is far more accessible than many other anthems such as The Star-Spangled Banner, France’s La Marseillaise, or Italy’s Il Canto degli Italiani or even UK’s God Save the King.

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2. A collective song, not a solo performance

Many of us who have regularly sung Jana Gana Mana in our schools can easily recall that it is meant for collective participation, not individual performances. It sounds dignified even when sung imperfectly by large groups and discourages vocal artistry or unnecessary personal touches to the poem. This quality makes Jana Gana Mana suitable for schools, stadiums, state ceremonies, and international events.

Many national anthems are more suited as performance pieces, where soloists try to own the song rather than guide collective singing. Such songs find a limited role in the everyday singing of normal citizens.

Vande Mataram also invites individual interpretations due to its construct and emotional history. It gets associated more with powerful solo or choral renditions than with uniform, standardised singing. This performative quality is part of its appeal—but also why it works better as a national song than as a national anthem.

Jana Gana Mana, by contrast, is meant to sound more or less the same wherever it is sung, allowing everyone to participate equally rather than turning it into a performance.

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3. Perfect length and structure for public life

At around 52 seconds, Jana Gana Mana is long enough to feel solemn and short enough to fit naturally into public events. It has a clearly defined beginning and end, with a simple melody and uniform tempo that remain consistent across settings.

The Star-Spangled Banner has four stanzas, but only the first is commonly sung. The remaining verses are rarely remembered or performed, creating a gap between the official anthem and the version that exists in public practice.

Vande Mataram might have faced a related difficulty had it been chosen as the national anthem. Quite apart from the well-known debates around its religious imagery, the full song is long, musically demanding, and linguistically dense, which could have made it difficult to sing, remember, and practise regularly in everyday public life.

Jana Gana Mana avoids these issues. The version adopted as the national anthem is complete in itself, easy to sing, and naturally suited to repeated public use. This explains why it has remained consistent and durable across generations.

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4. Restraint for unity

Many national anthems are meant to stir strong emotions—defiance, pride, or triumph. Jana Gana Mana takes a quieter route. It affirms unity without asking citizens to feel a specific emotion.

This restraint is important in a diverse country like India. The anthem encourages everyone to stand together rather than being tied to any single identity or ideology. It seems perfectly compatible with the core values of a modern constitutional republic.

Vande Mataram, by contrast, is emotionally charged by design. Its imagery and tone might have worked spectacularly during a phase in the freedom struggle, but a progressive democracy benefits better from a song that can be sung daily without causing emotional or ideological tensions.

India’s choice aligns with restrained anthems like Japan’s Kimigayo, rather than the more martial anthems of countries like France or Russia.

5. Elevated language that remains accessible

Jana Gana Mana uses Sanskrit words, but they are used in a very simple manner. It avoids complicated metaphors, and even when the words are not fully understood, its tone and structure make it very easy to follow and understand.

Vande Mataram, by contrast, uses a mix of Sanskrit and Bengali. Its poetic and devotional words give it strong emotional power, but they also make it harder to understand and sing.

Many national anthems struggle to strike a right balance. Some rely on strong historical, religious, or military words, while others are tied to specific events. Jana Gana Mana avoids these problems by keeping the words neutral and suggestive—one reason it has remained relevant across generations.

Vande Mataram remains an important national song, deeply linked to India’s freedom struggle and collective memory. It gave voice to a nation rising in protest and hope. Jana Gana Mana, however, best serves a different purpose. It is a daily, shared expression of unity in an independent, diverse, and constitutional republic. It gives voice to a nation that chose to live together—quietly, equally, and over time.

For a prime minister whose politics thrives on performance and nationalism, speaking in Hindi on the world stage is both identity and instrument. It also reflects a pragmatic reality — English is not a language in which Narendra Modi is most at ease. That should not be surprising in a country like India and, in fact, reflects the strength and inclusiveness of its democracy. But when it comes to international affairs, it might carry a cost.

When world leaders meet, what they say behind closed doors — the hints, jokes, reassurances, and quick clarifications — often matters as much as the formal communiqués that emerge later. Direct communication in a shared language is the most efficient path to trust. When someone understands both your words and the tone and non-verbal cues behind them, doubt diminishes, while comfort and credibility expand.

Narendra Modi’s public camaraderie with Donald Trump — from Houston’s “Howdy Modi” to Ahmedabad’s “Namaste Trump” — served clear political purposes for both men. These events created a spectacle of affinity. But can such orchestrated moments substitute the quieter, candid one-on-one diplomacy that happens when no one else is listening? Optics can be manufactured; genuine, unscripted conversation between two leaders, without any intermediaries, is far harder to replicate.

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In any communication, interpreters introduce friction. Nuances are filtered, jokes misfire, the rhythm of give-and-take slows. Diplomacy often advances in the interstices — the hallway chats, the phone calls, the whispered clarifications during discussions that never become public. Leaders who can pick up the phone and speak without an intermediary enjoy a kind of conversational currency. When conversation is mediated, that currency is downgraded. When we speak to someone only for transactional reasons achieving those very aims often becomes harder.

Paradoxically, the interpretative buffer can also be deliberately useful. In a press conference where a sensitive question lands, replying in Hindi and letting an interpreter render the answer creates a protective layer of insulation. Follow-ups are less likely, and small slips or nuances can be managed. That tactical opacity has value. But when persuasion is the goal — moving a foreign audience, convincing a skeptical counterpart — intermediation dilutes impact. A carefully crafted, emotionally charged sentence from a leader like Narendra Modi invariably becomes flat prose when filtered through even the best interpreter.

There is also a psychological dimension to this. In India, English is more than a language — it is a social credential that often confers power, privilege, and influence. Narendra Modi, however, has built his authority on vernacular politics, drawing immense capital from speaking to the masses in their own tongues.

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Abroad, this strength turns into a subtle dissonance. Entering rooms filled with Western leaders, diplomats, and other power brokers — where English is the natural language of rapport and informal exchange — places Modi within the very elite world he has long positioned himself against. Speaking firmly in Hindi in such settings may be an assertion of identity, but it is also a marker of distance.

Such tension can produce two related behaviours. One is control: keeping interactions tightly scripted and choreographed to minimise the risk of conversational vulnerability. The other is compensation: substituting casual rapport with spectacle — the long hugs, dramatic handshakes, and public declarations of friendship.

For leaders such as Vladimir Putin, Xi Jinping, or Japan’s prime ministers, the use of interpreters is routine and not seen as a diplomatic limitation. With Western leaders, however, the expectation of speaking freely in English is far stronger. For them, English is not merely the language of the developed world. It is a shared space of humour, cultural references, and everyday expressions. It helps build informal trust and personal rapport, not just exchange information.

Some leaders connect even without perfect English because they communicate tone and intent with clarity. Ukraine’s President Volodymyr Zelenskyy is a striking example. His English may be imperfect, but his body language, directness, emotional openness, and ease with imperfection make him as effective as even the most powerful native speaker.

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Atal Bihari Vajpayee offers a more instructive Indian contrast. Like Modi, he was a Hindi orator of rare grace, but he never treated English as an adversary. When addressing Western audiences or meeting American presidents, his English — careful, measured, and occasionally poetic — conveyed both confidence and ease. He moved comfortably between two linguistic worlds without losing authenticity.

So did Late Sushma Swaraj, whose English was as mellifluous as her Hindi. Though she served as Minister of External Affairs in Modi’s first government, she was never truly deployed to her full potential on the global stage.

Contrast this with Shashi Tharoor, who, during the aftermath of Operation Sindoor, when India seemed to be losing the information battle to Pakistan, almost single-handedly articulated India’s position with remarkable clarity and eloquence, winning over global audiences through the sheer force of his language and intellect.

Vajpayee’s bilingual poise gave him a diplomatic reach Modi could have achieved had he chosen to cultivate that register. Modi’s Hindi oratory connects powerfully with his domestic audience, but on the international stage, the lack of linguistic ease can subtly tilt the scales of perception.

It is telling how Pakistan’s Prime Minister Shehbaz Sharif became something of a blue-eyed boy for Donald Trump. Sharif holds only nominal authority at home, but he has an instinct for flattery — one he delivers smoothly in fluent English. The result was on display at the recent Sharm el-Sheikh peace summit, where, among some of the world’s most powerful leaders, Sharif was the only one Trump invited to speak midway through his own address. The episode underscores how charm and linguistic ease can, in the theatre of diplomacy, sometimes outweigh formal power.

Why, then, has Modi not leaned more heavily into English? One explanation is practical. Limited early exposure makes it difficult to develop the kind of effortless fluency required for quick, spontaneous exchanges under pressure. Another is political. His public persona draws strength from vernacular authenticity. Polished English could soften the image of the anti-elite outsider. And embracing the language of the former coloniser risks weakening a nationalist narrative rooted in cultural self-assertion.

When Modi proudly speaks in Hindi before global leaders, it may not be only about identity, nationalism, or lack of English proficiency. His home audience understands every word, foreign leaders don’t. That gap can be turned to advantage. He can deliver lines that sound stirring to Indians, enhancing his image as a global strongman, while the interpreter renders them in a restrained, diplomatically correct English for the world to hear.

But what empowers domestically can isolate internationally. Vajpayee demonstrated how one could carry the cadence of Hindi and the clarity of English with equal grace. Benjamin Netanyahu moves between Hebrew and English with strategic ease. Finland’s President Alexander Stubb exercises influence beyond his country’s size in part through his eloquence in English. Zelenskyy, meanwhile, uses his imperfect English to mobilise sympathy and solidarity for his war-torn nation. Each illustrates how bilingualism can become a diplomatic asset.

Major strategic deals rarely hinge on a single private call. They are the product of sustained bureaucratic effort and tough negotiation. Yet informal, trust-based exchanges can be invaluable. When India’s top leadership must rely on intermediaries in critical diplomatic moments, it sacrifices a small but sometimes decisive margin of soft influence — the kind that can turn a “let’s study this” into a “let’s do this now.”

This is not to say Modi has been ineffective. His Hindi oratory resonates with a billion people and signals confidence in India’s culture which matters. But it also narrows the space for personal diplomacy, limiting the subtle, trust-based influence that bilingual leaders often wield on the world stage.

1. Reply out of turn

The Election Commission’s first public reaction to Rahul Gandhi’s press conference (PC) was notable as much for its timing as for its content. Gandhi was still midway through his 70-minute briefing — having just finished the main part — when the Chief Electoral Officer (CEO) of Karnataka posted a letter in response to his allegations on social media. Shortly afterwards, similar statements came from the CEOs of Haryana and Maharashtra, all quickly echoed by the EC’s own official account.

The speed alone suggests this could not have been a considered reply to Gandhi’s detailed allegations. The content reinforced that impression. For example, at one place it states, “It is understood that during a Press Conference held today, you had mentioned about the inclusion of ineligible electors and exclusion of eligible electors in the Electoral Rolls…”

This is factually incorrect. Had the EC listened carefully before writing its response — or simply waited until Gandhi finished — it likely would not have done that. In the later part of his briefing, Rahul specifically mentioned,“we have only shown voter addition (inclusion of ineligible electors). There is also something called voter subtraction (exclusion of eligible electors). We know that it is almost of the same scale, but, we haven’t got the data to assert that, so, we are not talking about.”

Rather than engaging with the core issues or showing any intent to address them, the EC’s response clearly looks like what it likely was — a hastily drafted, centrally co-ordinated standard bureaucratic note, leaning on unnecessary technicalities. The urgency seemed less about fact-finding and more about seizing control of the narrative before it could take shape in the public mind.

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2. Technicality as tactic

The Karnataka CEO’s letter invited Gandhi to submit his allegations via a sworn affidavit under Rule 20(3)(b) of the Registration of Electors Rules, 1960. On paper, this might seem like a legitimate step. In practice, as senior advocate Kapil Sibal has pointed out, it is a procedural cul-de-sac.

Rules 12 to 20 cover claims and objections for the inclusion and exclusion of names in and from the electoral rolls. Rule 12 imposes a 30-day limit from the draft’s publication for lodging claims and objections. And Rule 17 mandates that any claim or objection filed after this period “shall be rejected”. Rule 20 simply prescribes how such claims and objections are to be filed and examined.

In this case, the 2024 electoral rolls had been finalised months before Gandhi’s 7 August 2025 press conference. That makes Rule 20(3)(b) inapplicable even for a single claim or objection, let alone post-poll systemic fraud allegations by the Leader of Opposition in the Lok Sabha. Even if Gandhi complied, the EC could reject it outright under Rule 17 as “out of time”.

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3. Discretion as weapon

The affidavit format attached to the Karnataka CEO’s letter requires Gandhi to list, for each disputed voter, the name, the part number of the electoral roll, and the serial number in that roll.

Considering Gandhi’s allegation of over 1,00,000 suspicious entries in Mahadevapura, meeting this demand would require manually recording each detail — a bureaucratic marathon bordering on the absurd.

And this is not only inapplicable here but also legally unnecessary. Rule 20(3)(b) says that “The registration officer may in his discretion require that the evidence tendered by any person shall be given on oath and administer an oath for the purpose.” The four words — “may in his discretion” — make clear the affidavit is an optional requirement, not a legal necessity. The EC could just as well accept a simple paper submission.

Section 31 of the Representation of the People Act, 1950 criminalises false declarations on electoral rolls. Section 227 of the Bharatiya Nyaya Samhita, 2023 also does the same. This means even a tiny percentage of clerical errors — inevitable at this scale — could expose Gandhi to criminal prosecution. As former CEC O.P. Rawat noted, this could well be why the EC insisted on an oath in Gandhi’s case.

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4. The lose-lose logic

The EC’s “invitation” to file an affidavit creates a façade of openness while boxing Gandhi into a lose-lose situation. If he filed, he risked legal jeopardy from inevitable mistakes, or dismissal of his complaint on the purely technical ground of being late. If he refused, the Commission could claim he was unwilling to lodge a “proper” complaint — painting him as someone making baseless allegations.

This framing was reinforced in the EC’s follow-up statements of 8 June 2025, which repeatedly argued that:

a) If Shri Rahul Gandhi believes in his analysis and in the truth of his allegations against election staff, he should have no objection to filing claims and objections against specific voters, and signing the Declaration/Oath under Rule 20(3)(b) of the Registration of Electors Rules, 1960.

b) If Shri Rahul Gandhi refuses to sign the Declaration, it shows he does not believe in his own analysis or conclusions, and is making absurd allegations — in which case he should apologise to the nation.

5. Discretion over transparency

The EC also addressed Gandhi’s demand for a machine-readable voter list, bluntly stating that “INC plea of providing machine-readable voter list was rejected by Hon’ble Supreme Court in Kamal Nath vs ECI, 2019.”

This is technically correct — the Supreme Court upheld the EC’s refusal to provide such lists, citing privacy concerns — but the ruling only says the EC is not obliged to provide them. It does not forbid the Commission from doing so.

In other words, the decision remains entirely at the EC’s discretion, provided privacy safeguards are applied. The EC could retain image-PDFs for public display while granting controlled, audited machine-readable access to recognised parties or accredited auditors — with sensitive fields redacted, usage logged, and misuse penalised. That would protect privacy while ensuring transparency, if the EC chose to allow it.

Regarding Rahul’s demand for CCTV footage, the EC said in its response:

"Any aggrieved candidate can file an election petition (EP) to challenge his election in the concerned High Court within 45 days. If an EP is filed, CCTV footage is retained; otherwise, it serves no purpose — unless someone intends to breach voter privacy."

Then it adds something that again borders on the absurd:

"For example, reviewing CCTV footage from 1 lakh polling stations would take 1 lakh days — that’s approximately 273 years — with no legal outcome possible."

It is pertinent to note here that just after the Maharashtra elections, the Ministry of Law amended the Conduct of Election Rules, 1961 on the EC’s advice. This effectively shut the door on any attempt to inspect CCTV footage of polling booths. And in June 2025, the EC went a step further, instructing its officials to destroy CCTV, webcasting, and video footage of the election process after 45 days.

The Nobel Prizes, established by the will of Swedish industrialist and inventor Alfred Nobel, are widely regarded as the most prestigious awards given for intellectual achievement and contributions to humanity in the world. Among these, the Nobel Peace Prize holds a unique global significance. It is an extraordinary honor that contributes significantly to the global image, historical legacy, and domestic standing of the most powerful people in the world. It places them among a rare group of global figures such as Nelson Mandela, Dalai Lama, Theodore Roosevelt, and Barack Obama.

The Prize seems to hold even greater significance for U.S. President Donald Trump. He has often expressed frustration at not winning the award and openly questioned the Nobel Committee's past decisions, saying, ‘they only give Peace Prize to liberals (read democrats)’. His predecessor, Barack Obama, was awarded before he completed the first year of his presidency, which makes him a special target of Trump. This stands in stark contrast to most former presidents, who rarely, if ever, publicly campaigned for or complained about not winning the prize.

For Donald Trump, winning the Nobel would mean rewriting a century of its history, particularly for U.S. Presidents. To date, only four U.S. Presidents—Theodore Roosevelt (1906), Woodrow Wilson (1919), Jimmy Carter (2002), and Barack Obama (2009)—and one Vice President, Al Gore (2007), have been laureates. Notably, Theodore Roosevelt, awarded 119 years ago, stands as the sole Republican among them. In stark contrast, three of the four Democratic recipients have won the prize in the present century alone.

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Nobel moves

According to the will of Alfred Nobel, the Nobel Peace Prize is to be awarded to those who have "done the most or the best work for fraternity between nations, for the abolition or reduction of standing armies and for the holding and promotion of peace congresses.

Donalds Trump's strongest argument for the Nobel Peace Prize centers around the Abraham Accords. These 2020 agreements between Israel and several Arab nations (UAE, Bahrain, Sudan, Morocco) were a significant diplomatic breakthrough. They fostered diplomatic ties in a historically volatile region and aligned directly with the Nobel Committee's aims of promoting "fraternity between nations." Trump actively took credit for these accords, presenting them as a testament to his peacemaking prowess and a clear basis for a Nobel nomination.

During his first term, Trump also held unprecedented direct talks with North Korea’s Kim Jong Un. This was a significast departure from previous US policy and clearly aligned with the Nobel Peace Prize’s criteria of 'fraternity between nations' and contributing to the 'abolition or reduction of standing armies' (or nuclear arsenals). However, nothing concrete was achieved from the talks and North Korea continued to develop its missile and nuclear programs.

Donald Trump’s pursuit of recognition, in his second term, extends to various recent and ongoing conflicts. With regard to the recent India-Pakistan conflict, Trump has repeatedly claimed credit for mediating a ceasefire between the two nuclear-armed rivals, even linking it to trade negotiations. Pakistan has publicly acknowledged Trump's efforts in ushering in the peace between the two nations and formally nominated him for the Nobel Peace Prize.

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Trump has also frequently expressed his desire to broker a swift end to the Russia-Ukraine war (in just 24 hours). For him, ending such a major European conflict, with its immense global implications, would undoubtedly be framed as a monumental peace achievement. While nothing seems to have worked on this front, many link Trump’s continued insistence on a quick, personally mediated peace to his desire for the Nobel Peace Prize.

More recently, what happened during the Israel-Iran conflict might also provide insights into this dynamic. Following recent U.S. authorised strikes on Iranian nuclear facilities and a swift "ceasefire" declared by Trump, Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu publicly nominated him for the Nobel Peace Prize.

This presents an interesting hypothetical scenario: Could Trump have offered all-out support to Israel if Netanyahu agreed to de-escalate the conflict on his terms once certain Israeli goals were achieved? This arrangement would have been a win-win for both, allowing Israel to quickly navigate a complex conflict and enabling Trump to present himself as a strong contender for the Nobel Peace Prize.

The newly brokered Rwanda and Congo-Kinshasa peace agreement further underscores Donald Trump’s desire for the Nobel. While hosting the signing of the agreement in the Oval Office, Trump took sole credit for ‘achieving peace where no previous U.S. president had succeeded’. He also said that he deserved a Nobel prize for his efforts in securing the peace deal.

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The Roadblocks

Despite Donald Trump's repeated assertions that he should have received the Nobel Peace Prize at least four or five times, several factors complicate his Nobel aspirations.

History tells us that the Peace Prize has been awarded for lesser peace deals than the Abraham Accords brokered by Donald Trump. The 1978 prize to Menachem Begin and Anwar Sadat for the Camp David Accords, or the 1994 prize to Yasser Arafat, Shimon Peres, and Yitzhak Rabin for the Oslo Accords, shows that direct peace agreements, even if incomplete or with ongoing challenges, are highly valued.

Signed around the same time, Trump's mediated 'Kosovo and Serbia economic normalisation agreements' should also have boosted his chances for the Nobel Peace Prize. However, he did not receive it, likely because the Nobel Committee often makes a holistic judgment. His other actions created a mixed record that might have outweighed even a strong accomplishment like the Abraham Accords.

Trump’s first administration pursued an "America First" policy that led to America’s withdrawals from the Iran Nuclear Deal (JCPOA), the Paris Climate Accord, and the Intermediate-Range Nuclear Forces (INF) Treaty. He also withdrew from the UNHRC and the WHO.

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This unilateral behaviour of Trump was also reflected in his persistent push for the construction of a wall on the U.S.-Mexico border and his strained relations with the United States’ traditional allies. Critics believe that Donald Trump's actions undermined 'fraternity between nations' and multilateral cooperation, which are core tenets of the Peace Prize.

Trump's refusal to accept the 2020 election results and his encouragement of rioting at Capitol Hill can also be seen as undermining the very foundations of peace.

The recent India-Pakistan conflict and subsequent ceasefire presented Trump with almost as big an opportunity as the Abraham Accords. However, India's consistent rejection of any third-party mediation in the ceasefire poses a direct obstacle to his claim of having resolved the conflict. For someone as focused on personal credit and recognition as Trump, this refusal to acknowledge his supposed role could be seen as a direct affront. Adding to this, Trump’s personal business dealings with Pakistan and his nomination for the Nobel Peace Prize by them make the situation even more intriguing. This may explain Trump’s sudden disregard for Indian sensitivities and interests and his growing political affection for Pakistan.

The peace agreement between Rwanda and Congo-Kinshasa also has several 'ifs and buts,' particularly considering the U.S.'s involvement in securing mineral rights in Congo. Trump sees global peace-making less as a goal in itself and more as a means of personal validation and transactional advantage. This makes his version of “peace” quite different from past laureates.

Donald Trump appears to be applying a similar, transactional formula to the Ukraine war, offering America’s support in enforcing peace between Ukraine and Russia in exchange for various considerations. Whether peace efforts driven by such transactional interests truly embody the spirit of the Nobel Peace Prize remains a significant question.

Donald Trump’s divisive rhetoric and unilateral tariff wars — even with U.S. allies — stand in stark contrast to the traditional image of a Nobel Peace Prize laureate. His actions such as shutting down USAID, which delivered crucial aid to vulnerable regions, also clash with the humanitarian ideals the award is meant to honour.

Beyond these challenges, serious personal controversies, such as those involving the Epstein issue, could further damage a leader's prospects. Allegations involving exploitation or criminal conduct directly contradict the core values of dignity and moral leadership that the Nobel Peace Prize aspires to uphold.

Considering everything discussed in this article, the Nobel Peace Prize seems to be a distant and unrealizable dream for Donald Trump. But miracles do happen when the stakes are sky high.

Of the Nobel Prizes, five are selected by Swedish organizations, and one (the Peace Prize) by the Norwegian Nobel Committee, appointed by the Parliament of Norway. Both of these countries are in Europe, a continent that has appeared powerful and prosperous largely due to continuous American support since World War II. That support, however, is not guaranteed under a Trump administration.

Given Donald Trump’s penchant for personal recognition, could a Nobel Peace Prize be leveraged to ensure that support? After all, such an award could boost 'fraternity' between America and the countries of the European Union, bringing a sense of security and calm, precisely why the Nobel Peace Prize was instituted.

When the G7 last gathered in Canada in June 2018, President Donald Trump stunned America’s allies by refusing to sign the joint statement and calling for Russia’s readmission to the group, despite its 2014 annexation of Crimea. That moment marked the beginning of an uneasy phase in US-Europe relations which eased during Joe Biden’s presidency. But Trump’s return to the White House in 2024 brought back familiar tensions — and perhaps made them worse.

At the 2025 G7 Summit, again in Canada, Donald Trump reiterated that removing Russia from the group was a mistake and argued that its presence in the G7 could have prevented the war in Ukraine. He skipped key meetings including with Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelenskyy, and suggested that Vladimir Putin might serve as a mediator in the Middle East conflict. Throughout the Summit, Trump openly showed his friendly feelings toward the Russian leader, and played down allies' plans for tougher sanctions on Russia.

Just a few weeks before the 2025 G7 Summit, on the issue of tariffs, Trump treated his strongest allies—the European Union and Canada—with the same transactional hostility he often directs toward adversaries.

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This makes us ask: would Europe have been in a stronger position to navigate Trump’s unpredictability and Russia’s war in Ukraine if the UK had remained in the EU?

Here are five reasons why many analysts believe the answer is yes:

1. Amplified diplomatic & economic leverage

An European Union including the United Kingdom could have formed a stronger, more cohesive bloc. This enhanced diplomatic and economic influence would have provided greater leverage to counter Trump’s unilateral actions and Russia’s aggression. A more integrated European market would have been less reliant on the United States for its stability and for providing military and financial support to Ukraine.

2. Internal distraction and economic uncertainties

Brexit negotiations consumed immense political capital, time, and resources for both the UK and the EU for several years. This prolonged diversion weakened Europe’s ability to address rising global challenges. Unburdened by Brexit's economic uncertainties and costs, the European economy would have possessed greater overall resilience to absorb shocks from events like the pandemic, tariffs, and the Ukraine crisis.

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3. Enhanced transatlantic coordination

The UK traditionally acted as a bridge between Washington and Brussels, helping mediate transatlantic tensions and harmonize positions on security, trade, and diplomacy. Its absence from the EU arguably removed a key intermediary, making coordination between the US and Europe tougher. If the UK had stayed, it might have softened the impact of some of Trump's actions, or at least helped his allies stand stronger together at meetings like the G7.

4. Ideological balance and strategic direction

The UK’s presence within the EU added an important balancing force, often championing economically liberal policies, assertive foreign policy, and EU expansion. Its departure disrupted this balance, subtly shifting the EU’s strategic posture at a time of rising global threats. Had Britain remained, Europe might have maintained a more cohesive, assertive, and geopolitically agile approach — better equipped to manage both Trump’s unpredictability and Russian aggression.

5. Counterarguments, but…

Some argue Brexit nudged the EU toward expanding its independent defence capabilities, since the UK often preferred NATO over a stronger EU military role. That could pay off in the long run. But in the short term, losing Britain meant losing one of Europe’s strongest military and diplomatic players — precisely when it was needed most. True, being outside the EU allows the UK to act faster on certain issues. Still, history shows that when it comes to managing major crises, a united European front is almost always more effective than going it alone.

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Whenever we discuss the negative impacts of Artificial Intelligence, there’s a widespread belief that millions of people across the world are bound to lose their conventional jobs to AI. Some reports suggest that this might already be happening.

What few seem to acknowledge, however, is that people aren’t alone in this. The internet’s most familiar tech giants — the very platforms that shaped the internet as we know it — might also lose their long-held roles to AI.

There was a time when a question meant a Google search. If you wanted a quick fact, you landed on Wikipedia. If you sought lived experiences or quirky personal takes, you turned to Quora. These platforms built their identities as the internet’s go-to spaces for trustworthy information, structured facts, and diverse opinions.

But that world is quietly and swiftly slipping away.

A new kind of information engine is taking over — AI-powered conversational tools like ChatGPT, Gemini, and Claude. And ironically, the biggest search engine on the planet now finds itself scrambling to survive the AI revolution it helped set in motion.

What’s quietly being upended isn’t just technology — it’s the entire architecture of how knowledge flows on the internet.

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The shifting role of Google

For years, Google wasn’t just a search engine. It was the front door to the internet. Type a query, and it would politely line up possible answers — from Wikipedia articles to news reports, blog posts, and Quora discussions.

It didn’t answer your question directly. It showed you where you could find the answers — like a helpful librarian.

That model began to strain under the weight of AI-powered responses. Tools like ChatGPT proved people didn’t always want a list of websites. They wanted clean, thoughtful, instant answers to their questions — all in one go.

In other words, they wanted a research assistant, not a librarian. Someone who could find the library, search for relevant books, take notes, summarise them, and hand over the final brief.

To stay relevant, Google changed its game. Its AI Overviews now do what independent AI tools do — give instant answers. Often, users don’t even need to click on links anymore.

And in the process, Google began eating into the very platforms — like Wikipedia, Quora, Reddit, and countless blogs and forums — that once fed its search empire.

Where earlier you’d type something like “What’s it like to live in Tokyo?” and find a Quora thread, a Wikipedia entry, or independent web pages, today you get a neat AI summary at the top of the page. Links to Quora, Reddit, Wikipedia, and independent blogs have been pushed further down — sometimes out of sight altogether.

And the fallout is bigger than it looks.

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Why this is a problem for Quora and Wikipedia

Take Quora. Its entire model relies on people searching for questions on Google, landing on its pages, reading personal answers, and maybe adding one of their own.

Less Google traffic means fewer readers. Fewer readers mean fewer contributors. And that slowly chips away at the community that keeps it alive. It also means fewer subscribers and lower ad revenue.

Quora knows this. That’s why it’s pivoted to its own AI platform, Poe. But even that feels like a catch-22. The more it leans into AI, the less distinct its original, human-powered information model becomes. It risks becoming just another AI tool.

Wikipedia faces a similar — but even more complex — challenge. Like Quora, it depends on readers for both content and revenue, though through donations. But when AI tools start answering factual queries directly, or when Google’s AI summaries make visiting Wikipedia unnecessary, it threatens both the platform’s traffic and its ability to produce quality content at scale.

And Wikipedia faces a unique dilemma: it can’t become an AI tool itself. Its open, community-driven, non-commercial model isn’t built for AI-generated content.

Yet it can’t ignore the AI wave either. In a future where a large share of online content might be AI-written, what should Wikipedia treat as a credible source? Will it start citing AI-generated articles?

That’s a difficult question — especially for a platform obsessed with citation integrity.

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What’s happening to the Internet itself?

But the implications go far beyond just these three platforms. What’s really at stake is the broader health of the internet’s knowledge ecosystem.

For decades, the web thrived on a messy but vibrant network of content creators — big newsrooms, universities, passionate bloggers, niche forums, and independent experts. Google Search was the gateway that gave them visibility.

Sure, the system wasn’t perfect. SEO manipulation, clickbait, and low-quality content often polluted search results. But in principle, it was open. If you had something valuable to say, you had a chance of being found.

Now, AI summaries on Google — and across various AI tools — threaten to centralise this flow of information. In this emerging model, only a handful of big, officially credible sources (governments, major media outlets, academic publishers) are likely to remain linked.

This might reduce the visibility of junk SEO pages, which isn’t a bad thing. But it could also discourage honest, thoughtful creators. If people stop reaching, reading, and supporting independent work, what incentive remains for anyone to keep producing it?

The internet could then be overrun by AI-generated noise, a loss not just for users, but for AI itself, which depends on high-quality, human-created content to learn and evolve.

And that’s a dangerous proposition.

A healthy internet isn’t just about information being available. It’s about open, transparent access to diverse, competing perspectives. If AI tools keep serving up untraceable, context-free summaries, we risk losing the very thing that kept the internet from becoming a gated, corporate-controlled knowledge silo.

After becoming President, Donald Trump chose the Middle East for his first official foreign visit. Held from May 13 to 16, the trip unfolded with considerable fanfare. While diplomacy and official business took place on one side, reports of the rapid expansion of Trump’s private business empire in the Middle East were also making headlines.

While Trump touted the U.S.'s multi-trillion-dollar agreements with Middle Eastern governments, media reports highlighted a parallel stream of ethically questionable financial deals — all, in one way or another, connected to him. These reports mentioned a $5.5 billion Trump-branded golf resort in Doha backed by the Qatari government, a $1 billion Trump hotel in Dubai, and several new real estate agreements involving Trump-affiliated companies in Saudi Arabia.

A company linked to the UAE royal family, MGX, struck a deal to purchase cryptocurrency worth 2 billion dollars just ahead of Trump’s visit. The cryptocurrency, called USD1, is issued by a company named World Liberty Financial. Donald Trump is one of the co-founders of this firm, and the largest stake in it is held by his family.

The key figures running the company include Eric Trump, Donald Trump Jr., Barron Trump, and Jack Witkoff. Witkoff is the son of Steven Witkoff, who serves as the Trump administration’s Middle East envoy. In other words, while senior Trump and Witkoff have been shaping America’s relations with the UAE, their children have been busy expanding their family businesses there.

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Right after the Pahalgam terrorist attack, a Pakistani government body — the Pakistan Crypto Council — also signed a major agreement with World Liberty Financial. This agreement raises serious questions about the shift in Donald Trump’s behavior during the India-Pakistan conflict. Initially, Trump appeared largely indifferent, but later, he essentially ended up siding with Pakistan.

World Liberty Financial has rapidly emerged as one of the fastest-growing — and arguably the most controversial — cryptocurrency firms in the world. Reports suggest that not only do its investors reap profits, but so do the associates of the companies it chooses to invest in.

When it comes to Donald Trump’s business dealings, the complete picture may remain elusive. Yet, what the available evidence makes unmistakably clear is this: the American President has shown no qualms about using political power to expand his personal empire, with little regard for conflicts of interest.

Political leaders with business interests are nothing new. Italy’s Silvio Berlusconi, the Philippines’ Ferdinand Marcos, and more recently Turkey’s Recep Tayyip Erdoğan have all faced allegations of leveraging state power for personal enrichment. What sets Donald Trump apart, however, is not just the brazenness of doing this in a country like America, but his ability to recast it as entrepreneurial leadership — turning impropriety into political currency. He elevates this conduct to a different league, not merely in scale but by openly making it part of his political persona. This, from the same man who, during his first term, routinely accused Hunter Biden of profiting off the Biden family name in dealings with Ukraine and China.

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Trump’s conduct while in office laid bare the inherent dangers of a direct convergence between politics and business. It creates an uneven playing field where business rivals are structurally disadvantaged, and public policy is shaped not by national interest, but by personal commercial gain. Worse, it extends beyond national borders, compelling other nations to cut big ticket business deals — not with America, but with Trump Inc.

The deeper issue here is this: if such practices can take root in America — a country that for decades positioned itself as the world’s arbiter of democratic values — what stops them from thriving elsewhere? The United States, for all its flaws, still has a culture of independent journalism, watchdog bodies, and robust legal protections for the press. Yet even there, it happened. If it can happen in Washington, it certainly can happen, in the nations where political literacy is uneven, institutions are fragile, and checks on power are weak.

In India, we have already witnessed a worrying convergence of wealth and political influence. While substantial, it remains largely indirect for now. Major business houses provide hefty donations to political parties and cultivate close ties with influential leaders. But taking inspiration from Donald Trump, the nature of this relationship could change, echoing the direct control that has occurred within India's media.

Entities like Reliance and the Adani Group have significant control over India’s current media landscape. This ownership is not merely economic—it allegedly shapes editorial lines, stifles dissenting voices, and influences public opinion in ways that favor their interests. What started as friendships between business and media figures and the practice of paid news has, over the last decade, grown into direct ownership and editorial capture.

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The next logical step may be business magnates seeking direct political power, armed with control over information, resources, and public narratives.

Why defer to a leader, when you can be one?

The question is no longer if it could happen, but what stops it—and why.

In India, we’ve often seen allegations of politicians’ children benefiting from business deals and contracts during their parents’ tenure. But consider this: Mukesh Ambani and Gautam Adani are far wealthier than Trump ever was. Their economic footprint spans critical sectors—telecom, infrastructure, ports, energy, and media. If one of them, or someone similarly positioned, chose to enter politics directly under the banner of ‘efficient leadership’ or ‘entrepreneurial governance,’ the existing political system and players might be ill-equipped to challenge them.

Would voters reject such a move? Would institutions have the moral authority to oppose, when America itself allowed a billionaire to become president twice and openly use state power for personal gain? No democracy bars anyone from aspiring to lead. What’s truly alarming is how Trump is rapidly normalising the idea that the highest public office can serve as a tool for private empire-building, that conflicts of interest need not be concealed, but displayed as marks of success, and that public morality is negotiable if you’re rich and powerful enough.

The convergence of big money, media control, and political power has the potential to fundamentally reshape democracies. This threat can be far more insidious than overt coups or authoritarianism. It thrives in legal grey zones, exploits institutional weaknesses, and, most dangerously, gains public approval through nationalist rhetoric and the normalisation of impropriety.

The Trump model is not merely an American aberration. It represents a prototype for a new, global form of oligarchic democracy — one where billionaires no longer need to whisper in politicians’ ears, but can simply assume power themselves to advance their interests.

When the Directors General of Military Operations (DGMOs) of India and Pakistan spoke on May 10, 2025, and agreed to a ceasefire after four days of escalating conflict, neither country announced it immediately. It was Donald Trump who first broke the news on social media, followed by Secretary of State Marco Rubio. Only then did India and Pakistan confirm the ceasefire — each framing it differently. While Pakistan publicly thanked Trump, India made no mention of America’s role.

This sequence raises an obvious question: why did the Trump administration initially stay out of Indo-Pak ceasefire efforts, only to suddenly claim credit? That indifference was clear just two days earlier when US Vice President JD Vance declared that America wouldn’t intervene in a conflict “that is fundamentally none of our business.” Yet after the ceasefire, Vance posted on Twitter: “Great work from the President’s team, especially Secretary Rubio.”

The answer lies in a mix of foreign policy compulsions and domestic political calculations. Here’s a breakdown.

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1. Failure to broker peace in Ukraine

Trump’s second presidency began with high-profile promises to deliver what his predecessors could not: a negotiated settlement in Ukraine. Yet, for all its public statements and private diplomacy, the administration fell short of achieving even a limited ceasefire between Kyiv and Moscow. The diplomatic setback damaged Trump’s image as a leader capable of striking tough deals. Seizing credit for brokering peace between India and Pakistan — two nuclear-armed nations with a historically volatile relationship — offered a chance to offset that failure and showcase a global ‘win’.

2. Erosion of U.S. Global Influence and Traditional Alliances

President Trump's "America First" doctrine has led to a marked decline in U.S. global influence. His administration's withdrawal from key international agreements and organisations—such as the Paris Climate Agreement, the WHO, and the UNHRC—has diminished America's role as a global leader. This retreat has created a vacuum that other nations, notably China, are eager to fill, positioning themselves as alternative leaders in global governance.

Simultaneously, Trump's transactional approach to international relations has strained long-standing alliances. Allies in Europe and elsewhere have expressed concerns over the U.S.'s commitment to collective security. In this context, the Indo-Pak ceasefire offered a rare opportunity for the U.S. to reassert its relevance and demonstrate a measure of commitment to engaging in matters of global consequence.

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3. Novice foreign policy team

One of the most widely noted features of Trump’s second term has been the composition of his foreign policy team. With figures like Secretary of State Marco Rubio and Vice President JD Vance holding key roles, and Trump himself historically disinterested in subtle diplomatic maneuvering, the administration has shown a preference for bold, headline-grabbing moves over careful back-channel negotiations. The decision to initially stay out of visible ceasefire efforts likely stemmed from a fear of diplomatic missteps in a conflict as sensitive and layered as India-Pakistan. Claiming credit after the fact carried none of those risks.

4. Domestic electoral optics

With the US midterm elections scheduled for November 2026, the Trump administration is under pressure to deliver high-visibility successes that can galvanise its base and shape public perception of American strength. Foreign policy wins — particularly those that don’t require troop deployments or financial commitments — serve as effective political capital. Additionally, claiming credit for a South Asian ceasefire also offered Trump’s team a chance to appeal to influential diaspora communities in key battleground states like Michigan, Pennsylvania, Texas, and Florida, where Indian American and Pakistani American voters could affect Congressional races.

In the aftermath of the ghastly Pahalgam terror attack, India’s public mood has turned sharply aggressive. Demands for immediate military retaliation against Pakistan have dominated television debates and social media feeds, placing intense pressure on the government to act. Sections within the establishment too appeared to contribute to this heightened public mood. Yet, what many Indians have not fully realised is that India may have already delivered a far more consequential response — one that strikes at the heart of Pakistan’s long-term security, without firing a shot.

Among a series of diplomatic, economic, and strategic measures, the suspension of the Indus Water Treaty stands out. There’s a risk of it being dismissed as symbolic or routine, but it is arguably the single most significant strategic decision taken by India in the wake of the attack — one that has the potential to fundamentally reshape the India-Pakistan dynamic.

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Signed in 1960 under World Bank mediation, the Indus Water Treaty has long been considered one of the world’s most resilient water-sharing agreements, surviving wars and prolonged hostilities. Under its terms, India, as the upper riparian country, controls the three eastern rivers — Ravi, Beas, and Sutlej — while Pakistan has rights over the three western rivers — Indus, Jhelum, and Chenab. These rivers are the lifeline of Pakistan’s agriculture, economy, and drinking water supply.

What makes this treaty critical for Pakistan today is the country’s deepening water crisis. With one of the world’s lowest per capita water availability figures, Pakistan stands on the verge of officially being declared a water-scarce nation. Decades of poor management, over-extraction, and outdated irrigation infrastructure have worsened the problem. Equally troubling is Pakistan’s internal water conflict, with Punjab province — the upper riparian within Pakistan — historically diverting a disproportionate share of Indus waters, leaving downstream Sindh grappling with drought-like conditions for years.

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In this context, Pakistan’s political and military interest in Kashmir is not solely driven by ideological or territorial ambitions. It is closely tied to water security. Control over rivers flowing through Kashmir — the Indus, Jhelum, and Chenab — is vital for sustaining Pakistan’s agricultural heartland and ensuring its food security. This often-underestimated factor adds a critical dimension to the Kashmir dispute.

The Indian government’s move to suspend the treaty, therefore, carries far greater strategic weight than is being acknowledged in India’s domestic discourse. Even if partial or symbolic, the very act of revisiting or threatening the terms of a treaty that has ensured uninterrupted water flows to Pakistan for over six decades sends a deeply unsettling signal to Islamabad. Yet, within India, the gravity of this move has not been fully registered. A significant section of public opinion, fuelled by prime-time rhetoric, continues to demand visible military action, mistakenly assuming that the government has done little in response.

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This is a dangerous misreading of the situation. If public anger and nationalist fervour continue unchecked, ignoring the significance of this strategic move, the government might find itself cornered into ordering a military strike to manage domestic expectations. In a region where both nations are nuclear-armed and tensions are habitually volatile, such a step risks triggering a conflict far more serious than what much of the current public discourse seems to comprehend.

The suspension of the treaty is not a token gesture. It is a calculated and high-stakes diplomatic lever — one that fundamentally alters the strategic balance without firing a shot. It signals to Pakistan that the price of continued proxy warfare will no longer be limited to border skirmishes and diplomatic condemnations. Water, the resource most vital to Pakistan’s survival, is now on the table.

At this juncture, what India needs most is restraint, clarity, and strategic patience — not just from its political leadership, but from its citizens. Recognising the gravity of the decision already taken, rather than clamouring for instant, visible retribution, is the wiser and more responsible course. Real strength lies in responding where it unsettles the adversary most, not where prime-time studios and trending hashtags demand. India has already acted decisively. The prudent, powerful thing now is to hold that line — and let quiet pressure speak louder than war.

In 1960, Prime Minister Jawaharlal Nehru signed the Indus Waters Treaty with Pakistan. Under this agreement, India ceded the waters of three western rivers of the Indus system — the Indus, Jhelum, and Chenab — to Pakistan. Together, these rivers accounted for nearly 75% of the total water volume of the entire Indus system. The remaining three eastern rivers — the Sutlej, Beas, and Ravi — were allocated for India’s use.

To help Pakistan build the infrastructure needed to utilise its share effectively, India also contributed £6.2 million to the Indus Basin Development Fund — an international financial arrangement supported by the U.S., U.K., Germany, Canada, Australia, New Zealand, and the World Bank.

Why did Jawaharlal Nehru agree to such a seemingly unequal treaty over rivers that originate in India? Based on expert views and historical records, here’s the explanation in five sharp points:

1. Cold War pressure

At the time, the United States and Britain were deeply invested in stabilising Pakistan as a Cold War ally against Soviet influence. The World Bank (IBRD), under pressure from the US and UK, was anything but neutral — it aligned itself with Western strategic priorities. The pressure on India to sign the Indus Waters Treaty and avoid a prolonged water conflict was immense.

India may also have been swayed by General Ayub Khan’s 1959 offer of “joint defence with India” amid deteriorating India–China relations. This was not out of concern for India’s security, but a reflection of Ayub’s alignment with the West — Pakistan was a member of both SEATO and CENTO, which viewed the Communist bloc, particularly the USSR and China, as the greatest threat to their existence.

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2. Fear of international isolation

Refusing a treaty risked India being painted as an aggressive, obstructive power, jeopardising its relations with Western powers and access to vital international loans, grants, and World Bank funding. Newly independent and economically fragile, India couldn’t afford diplomatic and economic isolation or the risk of another confrontation with Pakistan.

3. India’s idealistic vision of peace

Jawaharlal Nehru saw rivers as common natural resources meant for the collective good of humanity. India’s foreign policy establishment in the 1950s was also driven by a moralist, idealist, and anti-imperialist worldview. Hard-nosed realpolitik was then seen as an imperialist residue. This sounds naïve now — but within the Gandhian-Nehruvian moral framework, it was entirely consistent.

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4. A miscalculated bet on Pakistan

Scarred by the horrors of Partition, Nehru genuinely hoped the treaty would foster long-term peace and goodwill with Pakistan, viewing it as a diplomatic investment in regional stability. In fact, on 30 November 1960, he told the Lok Sabha, “We purchased a settlement, if you like; we purchased peace to that extent — and it is good for both countries.” Some experts believe he may also have thought that once relations normalised, India could renegotiate the arrangement on better terms. In hindsight, he clearly overestimated Pakistan’s long-term intentions and underestimated the strategic consequences of this concession.

5. India’s inability to harness its own waters

It was very difficult for India to divert the waters of the Indus system into its northern states because the mighty Pir Panjal mountain range stood in the way. In 1947, India also lacked the dams and infrastructure needed to store and use this water wherever possible before it flowed into Pakistan. Added to this were economic weakness, diplomatic pressure, and post-Partition instability, which made it politically impossible for India to avoid a quick settlement with Pakistan.

Renowned water resources expert and leader of the Indian delegation for the Indus Waters Treaty negotiations, Niranjan Das Gulhati, recalls in one of his books: “When I called on the Prime Minister (Jawaharlal Nehru) on 28th February 1961, my last day in office, in a sad tone he said, ‘Gulhati, I had hoped that this agreement would open the way to settlement on other problems, but we are where we were.’”

And that says it all.

In hindsight, the Indus Waters Treaty was less a treaty of equals and more a product of Cold War coercion, Nehruvian idealism, and India’s desperate post-Partition vulnerabilities. In reasserting itself today, India is not reneging on a legacy — it is trying to correct an imbalance history imposed upon it.

In the aftermath of the recent terror attack on innocent tourists in Pahalgam, senior advocate and Rajya Sabha MP Kapil Sibal has called for a serious, collective, and strategic response from India’s leadership. In a detailed statement, Sibal proposed a five-point action plan — ranging from a special session of Parliament to international diplomatic outreach, economic leverage, non-partisan unity against terror, and urgent completion of India’s border management infrastructure.

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1️⃣ Call a special session of parliament

Sibal urged the Prime Minister to immediately convene a special session of Parliament, bringing together all political parties to discuss this grave issue.

“This is not about politics — it’s an attack on India’s sovereignty. No innocent tourist deserves to die like this. The message must go out loud and clear that India stands united against terror.”

He recommended that a unanimous resolution be passed and communicated globally, reflecting the collective will of the Indian people and political leadership.

2️⃣ Launch a major diplomatic and UN initiative

Sibal proposed sending parliamentary delegations — including MPs from both the ruling party and the opposition — to major global capitals to build awareness about Pakistan’s persistent cross-border terror.

“Unless we proactively explain our situation to the world, and build diplomatic pressure on Pakistan and its backers, isolated actions won’t have the desired global impact.”

He specifically named the United States, Europe, Russia, China, Japan, Australia, New Zealand, Africa, South America, and South Asian neighbours as key destinations for this outreach. He also outlined that, ‘in the present global economic scenario, China needs India’s market’, and this should be conditional on its behaviour on this issue in global forums such as the United Nations.

3️⃣ Use economic leverage against terror supporters

Sibal argued that India should strategically use its market power to pressure nations maintaining trade ties with Pakistan.

“India is one of the largest markets in the world. If major economies want access to our market, they must reconsider their trade ties with Pakistan until it stops sheltering terrorism.”

He cited how other nations, like the US, have historically used economic measures to serve strategic interests and urged India to do the same.

4️⃣ Keep terror above politics

Sibal warned against politicising terror incidents for electoral gains or indulging in divisive rhetoric.

“A terrorist is a terrorist — irrespective of religion. No political advantage should be drawn from tragedies like Pulwama. Such conduct only plays into Pakistan’s hands.”

He endorsed RSS chief Mohan Bhagwat’s call for national unity and urged leaders and the media to act with responsibility and restraint.

5️⃣ Complete the border management system on war footing

Referring to India’s decision in 2005 to fence the Indo-Pak border and the subsequent Comprehensive Integrated Border Management System (CIBMS) plan — delayed repeatedly since 2018 — Sibal stressed its immediate completion.

“We must use the latest surveillance and border technology. If Israel can detect infiltrators, why can’t we? The delays must end. All parties must support this financially and politically.”

He noted that although infiltration numbers have dropped from thousands to around 100–150, significant vulnerabilities remain, especially during harsh winters.

In response to queries about actions like suspending the Indus Waters Treaty, Sibal cautioned that such steps alone won’t curb terrorism.

He also expressed disappointment that Prime Minister Narendra Modi did not attend an all-party meeting on the issue — a departure from the precedent set by Atal Bihari Vajpayee during the Kargil conflict — suggesting that leadership must prioritise national unity over political engagements.

The Supreme Court has drawn clear lines: Governors cannot sit indefinitely on bills passed by elected state legislatures. In a recent case involving the Tamil Nadu government, the Court ruled that a Governor must act on a bill—either by giving assent or withholding it—within a reasonable time frame. Delays cannot be open-ended.

More importantly, the Court clarified that if a bill is withheld or returned to the legislature for reconsideration and subsequently re-passed by the Assembly, the Governor is constitutionally obligated to grant assent. The Governor cannot then send the bill for the President’s consideration. This ruling is expected to have long-term implications for Centre-State relations, particularly in states where the Governor and the elected government are politically opposed.

The judgment has narrowed the discretionary space available to Governors. But does that mean the central government can no longer influence, delay, or derail the legislative agenda of a state? Do Governors—and through them, the Centre—still have any constitutional or political tools at their disposal?

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According to Article 200 of the Constitution, when a bill is presented, the Governor can do one of four things: give assent; withhold assent; return it to the legislature for reconsideration; or reserve it for the President’s consideration.

Article 200 also stipulates that if a bill is re-passed by the legislature, the Governor must give assent. However, the Constitution does not specify a time frame for any of these steps. Taking advantage of this silence, Governors have often sat on bills for years without taking action. With the Supreme Court’s recent ruling, that loophole has been narrowed. So what can a Governor still do to influence the process—either to stop the state from doing something wrong or to please political masters in Delhi?

They can no longer permanently stall a bill on their own. But it’s not as if they are powerless. A Governor can still become a major irritant in the state’s legislative process—whether for politically motivated reasons or due to genuine constitutional concerns. The Supreme Court, in its judgment, suggested that Governors must act within one to three months at various stages. So, to make the process more drawn-out, a Governor can first take the maximum permissible time before deciding whether to assent or withhold assent. If they wish to prolong it further, they are more likely to withhold assent rather than sign.

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After a bill is re-passed and comes back to them, they can take additional weeks—or even months—before granting assent. This delay can be justified by raising queries, seeking clarifications, or claiming to “study” the bill. In practice, such tactics can stall even routine legislation for months.

The most powerful tool, however, is the ability to reserve a bill for the President. A Governor may do this if they believe the bill violates the Constitution, affects the national interest, or undermines the powers of the High Court. Once this is done, the Governor is no longer in the picture. The final decision lies with the President—who acts on the advice of the Union government.

Article 201 of the Constitution says: “When a Bill is reserved by a Governor for the consideration of the President, the President shall declare either that he assents to the Bill or that he withholds assent therefrom…”

Like the Governor, the President also has the option of sending the bill (with a message) back to the state legislature for reconsideration. But the similarities end there. Unlike Article 200—which requires a Governor to assent to a re-passed bill—Article 201 imposes no such obligation on the President. So even after the state legislature reconsiders and re-sends the bill, the President can still withhold assent.

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None of the constitutional constraints that apply to Governors apply to the President. And the Supreme Court’s ruling does not address the President’s discretion in this regard. That means the President can choose to withhold assent—or simply sit on the bill—for months or even years. If the President takes no action, the bill remains in limbo, and the state has no constitutional recourse. This makes the President’s desk the most effective tool for the Centre to stall or stop a state law it strongly opposes.

This has already happened in multiple states. In Punjab, several bills—including those relating to university governance and Sikh Gurdwaras—were reserved for the President’s consideration. Months later, the status of some of these bills remains unclear. In Tamil Nadu, a similar situation occurred when the Governor reserved re-passed bills for the President—prompting the Supreme Court to step in and declare such actions unconstitutional. But even in that case, the initial delays gave the Centre a de facto veto for a significant period.

So, even after the Supreme Court’s intervention, the Centre—acting through a sympathetic Governor—still holds real influence over a state’s legislative agenda. By delaying action, withholding assent once, or sending politically sensitive bills to the President, a Governor can ensure that a state’s legislative will is slowed down—or, in some cases, stopped altogether, for wrong or right reasons.