The Intellectual Steward: Reclaiming Education for Human Liberation in an Age of Consumerism and Control

 

Dhamma Doll

(story for another day)

The role of the educator has undergone a profound transformation over the course of history. Once regarded primarily as a custodian of wisdom and a guide in humanity's search for truth, the educator today increasingly operates within an educational ecosystem shaped by economic imperatives, institutional metrics, technological disruption, and market demands. Education itself has evolved into a multibillion-dollar global enterprise, deeply intertwined with the logic of competition, productivity, employability, and consumer satisfaction. Within this context, contemporary higher education institutions have identified a range of competencies required of lecturers to remain relevant and effective. A scholar has suggested that institutions require five broad types of lecturers ie., the industry-connected lecturer, the student-centric lecturer, the assessment-literate lecturer, the Open and Distance Learning (ODL)-ready lecturer, and the reflective lecturer who is committed to continuous self-improvement. These are undoubtedly valuable and necessary characteristics, particularly in an era where universities are expected to respond rapidly to technological change, labour market expectations, and evolving student needs.

Yet while these competencies are important, they largely describe the functional dimensions of teaching rather than its philosophical essence. They address how educators should operate within the system but leave unanswered the more fundamental question of why education exists in the first place. In the relentless pursuit of relevance, efficiency, and economic utility, there is a growing concern that education has drifted away from its foundational purpose which are the cultivation of intellectual growth, critical consciousness, moral wisdom, and human liberation. The educator, in this deeper sense, ought not merely to be a facilitator of learning outcomes or a producer of employable graduates, but an intellectual steward whose responsibility is to nurture thoughtful, reflective, and ethically grounded individuals capable of contributing meaningfully to society.

This concern becomes particularly significant when viewed against the backdrop of modern political and economic realities. The contemporary world is increasingly dominated by a consumerist ethos that defines success through acquisition, productivity, and measurable performance. Educational institutions, often consciously or unconsciously, mirror these values. Students are frequently positioned as consumers, knowledge as a commodity, and universities as service providers competing within an educational marketplace. Under such conditions, learning risks becoming transactional rather than transformational. Degrees become products, employability becomes the principal outcome, and intellectual inquiry is valued primarily insofar as it generates economic returns.

It is within this context that the provocative observation by Osho acquires renewed relevance. Osho argued that a truly thinking society is inherently difficult to control because individuals who think critically are less susceptible to manipulation, dogma, and unquestioned authority. According to this perspective, knowledge has often been feared more than ignorance because genuine understanding empowers individuals to challenge established structures of power. Whether one agrees entirely with Osho's formulation or not, his observation invites serious reflection on the relationship between education, power, and social control. Throughout history, political systems and economic structures have often exhibited an ambivalent relationship with critical thought. While societies publicly celebrate education, there is frequently greater enthusiasm for forms of education that produce compliance, technical competence, and economic productivity than for forms that encourage radical questioning of prevailing assumptions.

The result is a subtle but powerful tension. Educational systems are encouraged to produce innovation, but not necessarily dissent, creativity, but not necessarily critique, employability, but not necessarily emancipation.

Consequently, there exists the danger that education may become an instrument through which individuals are prepared to function efficiently within existing systems without ever being encouraged to question whether those systems themselves are just, humane, or sustainable. The outcome is a society that appears to advance continuously yet remains trapped within what may be described as an expanding circle of development, one that grows in complexity and scale but seldom transcends its underlying assumptions. Technological progress accelerates, economies expand, and institutions become increasingly sophisticated, yet the fundamental questions concerning human flourishing, justice, wisdom, and freedom often remain unresolved.

The educational philosophies embodied by Socrates, Thiruvalluvar, Franz Fanon, and Steve Jobs offer compelling alternatives to this increasingly instrumental conception of education. Although separated by centuries, cultures, and intellectual traditions, all four figures understood education as a transformative force capable of shaping not only what individuals know but also who they become.

For Socrates, education was fundamentally an exercise in awakening the mind. Knowledge was not something deposited into passive learners, but something discovered through rigorous questioning and dialogue. The Socratic method sought to expose assumptions, reveal contradictions, and cultivate intellectual humility. Education, therefore, was not about providing answers but about developing the capacity to inquire. The ultimate objective was the formation of autonomous individuals capable of examining their beliefs and making reasoned judgments. From a Socratic perspective, an educational system overly preoccupied with standardisation, assessment, and credentialism risks undermining the very qualities it ought to cultivate. The purpose of education is not merely to train individuals for existing roles but to develop citizens capable of questioning whether those roles and the structures that sustain them serve the common good.

Thiruvalluvar offers a complementary but equally profound vision. In the Thirukkural, learning is inseparable from virtue. Knowledge acquires meaning only when it contributes to ethical conduct, self-mastery, and social harmony. The educated individual is not simply one who possesses information but one who possesses wisdom. This distinction is particularly significant in an age characterised by unprecedented access to information yet persistent crises of ethics, integrity, and social responsibility. Technological expertise and professional competence, while important, are insufficient if they are not guided by moral discernment. Thiruvalluvar reminds us that education should cultivate character alongside intellect and that the educator's responsibility extends beyond cognitive development to the nurturing of ethical consciousness.

Franz Fanon deepens this discussion by exposing the political dimensions of education. Writing in the context of colonial domination, Fanon argued that education often functions as a mechanism through which systems of power reproduce themselves. Colonial education was not designed to liberate but to condition individuals to accept and internalise structures of subordination. For Fanon, genuine education must therefore be emancipatory. It must enable learners to recognise the forces that shape their consciousness, challenge inherited narratives, and reclaim their agency. Although Fanon's critique emerged from colonial contexts, its relevance extends to contemporary societies shaped by powerful political, economic, and cultural institutions. Educational systems that prioritise conformity over critique may inadvertently perpetuate inequalities and limit the capacity of individuals to imagine alternative futures. Fanon thus compels educators to view teaching as an act of liberation rather than mere professional preparation.

Even Steve Jobs, whose legacy is often associated with technological innovation and entrepreneurial success, articulated an educational philosophy that transcended narrow economic considerations. Jobs consistently emphasised the importance of integrating technology with the humanities, arguing that creativity emerges at the intersection of diverse fields of knowledge. He recognised that innovation is not simply a product of technical expertise but of imagination, curiosity, aesthetic sensitivity, and the capacity to connect seemingly unrelated ideas. His vision challenges contemporary educational systems that increasingly encourage specialisation at the expense of intellectual breadth. For Jobs, education should inspire individuals to think differently, to challenge conventions, and to pursue possibilities that have not yet been imagined.

Taken together, these four perspectives suggest that the educator's role extends far beyond the competencies demanded by contemporary institutional frameworks. Industry engagement, assessment literacy, student-centred pedagogies, digital readiness, and reflective practice are all valuable. However, they are ultimately means rather than ends. They describe the mechanics of education but not its soul. What remains absent from many contemporary discussions is the figure of the educator as an intellectual steward, one who cultivates critical inquiry in the spirit of Socrates, ethical wisdom in the spirit of Thiruvalluvar, emancipatory consciousness in the spirit of Fanon, and creative imagination in the spirit of Jobs.

Such an educator understands that the ultimate purpose of education is not merely to prepare individuals for the economy but to prepare them for humanity itself. This does not imply a rejection of economic realities or labour market demands. Universities must undoubtedly equip students with the skills necessary to navigate an increasingly complex world. However, when employability becomes the sole measure of educational success, education risks losing its transformative potential. A society may produce highly skilled professionals while simultaneously suffering from a deficit of wisdom, ethical judgment, and critical thought.

The challenge before contemporary education is therefore not simply to produce graduates who can adapt to the world as it is, but to cultivate individuals capable of imagining what the world ought to become. In an age increasingly shaped by political polarisation, technological acceleration, and consumerist excess, the need for educators as intellectual stewards has never been greater. The future of humanity may depend not merely on how effectively we educate individuals to participate in existing systems, but on how courageously we educate them to question, reform, and transcend those systems. For it is only through such intellectual and moral awakening that education can fulfil its highest purpose, the cultivation of free minds capable of advancing not merely economic progress, but human progress itself.

ravivarmmankkanniappan@1236010620263.0567° N, 101.5851° E

©All Rights Reserved.

The Ghost of Marx in the Age of Artificial Intelligence

 

AI Generated

The outrage surrounding Standard Chartered CEO Bill Winters describing workers as “lower-value human capital” was never really about one badly phrased sentence. It struck a nerve because it exposed, with unusual honesty, the underlying logic of modern capitalism where labour is valuable only insofar as it produces returns. When returns can be improved through automation, labour becomes expendable. Winters later apologised for his wording, but the apology did little to change the economic reality behind the statement.

What happened at Standard Chartered is not an anomaly. It is the continuation of a centuries-old economic philosophy dating back to Adam Smith and the Industrial Revolution, where labour was fundamentally treated as an input of production, no different from land or machinery. The terminology has evolved over time. “Labour” became “Human Resources,” and later “Human Capital,” a more sophisticated corporate expression designed to sound empowering while preserving the same economic relationship beneath it. The language modernised, but the structure did not. Workers are still measured through productivity metrics, cost efficiency, and shareholder value.

This is precisely what Karl Marx warned about in Das Kapital. Marx never claimed capitalism would collapse simply because it was morally wrong. His argument was structural. Capitalism, left unchecked, contains internal contradictions that eventually destabilise society itself. One of those contradictions is that the system relentlessly seeks efficiency by reducing labour costs, yet labourers themselves are also consumers. Remove purchasing power from enough people, and eventually the market begins to cannibalise its own demand.

That contradiction feels increasingly visible today. The same corporations pursuing automation and AI-driven efficiency also depend on a population capable of consuming the goods and services being produced. Standard Chartered plans to eliminate thousands of back-office jobs as part of its AI transformation strategy. Similar trends are unfolding across technology, logistics, media, and retail industries. The corporate narrative insists that displaced workers will “reskill” and move into higher-value roles. But there is little serious discussion about whether economies can realistically absorb millions of displaced workers quickly enough, especially when AI itself is increasingly capable of replacing not only repetitive labour, but cognitive and administrative work once considered uniquely human.

The deeper issue is not merely unemployment. It is alienation. György Lukács described this through the concept of reification, the process where human beings begin seeing one another as objects, functions, or commodities rather than people. That idea feels disturbingly contemporary. Workers today are evaluated through dashboards, KPIs, performance algorithms, and optimisation software. Even social interaction has been absorbed into economic logic. Networking replaces friendship. Personal branding replaces identity. Human value becomes transactional.

Theodor Adorno and Max Horkheimer extended this critique further by arguing that capitalism commodified culture itself through mass media and entertainment. Their “culture industry” thesis now feels prophetic in the age of algorithmic feeds and platform capitalism. Digital life increasingly fragments collective consciousness rather than strengthening it. Workers once organised physically in factories, unions, and communities. Today, labour is atomised. Gig workers rarely meet colleagues. Remote employees compete silently across continents. Social media encourages outrage but weakens sustained solidarity.

This fragmentation benefits capital immensely. The modern gig economy exemplifies this shift. Companies maintain the economic benefits of labour while offloading the social responsibilities historically associated with employment, such as pensions, healthcare, stability, and long-term security. Flexibility is celebrated publicly, while precarity expands quietly underneath it. The worker becomes permanently temporary.

The irony is that technology itself is not the problem. Technological advancement has historically improved human life when paired with social safeguards and ethical direction. The problem emerges when technological development is subordinated entirely to market logic. AI is evolving not according to collective human need, but according to competitive pressure, profit incentives, and shareholder expectations. Humans are increasingly expected to adapt themselves around technology rather than technology adapting around humanity.

That inversion matters. A civilisation obsessed with speed, convenience, and optimisation eventually begins treating human beings the same way it treats software systems, as variables to streamline. Consumer culture intensifies this dynamic. Modern societies reward immediacy, efficiency, and individual self-preservation. Questions of communal justice, labour dignity, or social preservation become secondary because survival itself feels increasingly individualised. People are exhausted, economically insecure, and psychologically fragmented. Under such conditions, collective resistance becomes difficult.

This is why thinkers like Frantz Fanon remain relevant. Fanon argued that capitalism and domination rarely operate alone, they intertwine with structures of race, empire, and hierarchy. Global capitalism does not distribute sacrifice equally. Wealthier societies often preserve comfort through invisible labour systems elsewhere, outsourced manufacturing, migrant labour, digital exploitation, and economic dependency. AI and automation may intensify these inequalities rather than reduce them.

Meanwhile, contemporary Marxist scholars such as David Harvey and Michael Roberts continue to argue that capitalism survives by constantly searching for new spaces of expansion, such as property markets, debt economies, technological revolutions, and data extraction, while simultaneously undermining its own foundations. Roberts, in particular, argues that automation may actually worsen capitalism’s long-term instability because replacing labour with technology reduces the very source of surplus value and profit generation over time.

Whether one fully accepts Marxist economics or not, the social anxiety surrounding AI reveals that many people instinctively sense something is deeply unbalanced. The fear is not simply about losing jobs. It is about losing meaning, dignity, and economic relevance in a system that increasingly defines human worth through productivity alone.

And this is the contradiction modern capitalism cannot easily escape. If enough people lose stable employment, purchasing power collapses. Without purchasing power, demand weakens. Without demand, businesses themselves become unsustainable. Endless efficiency eventually reaches a point where the system begins consuming the social foundations that allow it to function in the first place.

The warning signs are already visible, for instance, rising inequality, declining social trust, loneliness, political polarisation, burnout, and economic insecurity, despite unprecedented technological progress. Civilisation is advancing rapidly, yet many people feel less secure, less connected, and more disposable than before.

Technology should elevate humanity, not diminish it. Progress should not merely mean faster systems or larger profits; it should mean greater human flourishing. Otherwise, society risks arriving at a future where machines become more efficient, corporations become more profitable, yet human beings themselves become increasingly alienated from work, from one another, and ultimately from their own sense of worth.

A profoundly fitting Thirukkural that captures my thought,

“அருளொடும் அன்பொடும் வாராப் பொருளாக்கம்
புல்லார் புரள விடல்.” — குறள் 755

“Discard and renounce the wealth that is acquired without compassion and love.” kural 755

This couplet is remarkably relevant to my contentions on modern capitalism, AI-driven disposability, and the reduction of human beings into “human capital.” Thiruvalluvar is not condemning wealth itself but rather, he condemns wealth accumulation divorced from அருள் (compassion) and அன்பு (human love). The Kural anticipates the moral contradiction of a system that pursues efficiency while eroding dignity, solidarity, and compassion.

So, in the end when a system begins treating people as expendable long enough, eventually people stop believing the system exists for them at all.

If civilisation continues to measure progress only through efficiency, automation, and profit, it may eventually discover that it has engineered prosperity while impoverishing the human spirit. Thiruvalluvar warned eons ago that wealth without compassion and love is not true wealth at all. In an age where humans are increasingly reduced to data, productivity, and “human capital,” perhaps the real question is no longer whether technology is advancing, but whether humanity itself still is.

Cheers.

 

ravivarmmankkanniappan@1957250520263°2'37.8'' N 101°34.837' E

© All Rights Reserved.

Entrepreneurial Competencies and Ethnicity: Reassessing Culture, History, and Political Economy in the Malaysian Context

 

The growing academic interest in “cultural values, innovativeness, and entrepreneurial competencies” among ethnic entrepreneurs raises an important analytical question, are entrepreneurial competencies genuinely shaped by ethnicity, or are they more accurately explained by historical conditions, economic necessity, institutional access, and migration patterns?

The concept of entrepreneurial competencies itself is frequently treated too broadly in both policy and academic discourse. Entrepreneurial competencies generally refer to acquired capabilities such as opportunity recognition, strategic decision making, risk management, innovation, resilience, negotiation skills, networking capacity, and resource mobilisation. These are learned and socially conditioned behaviours rather than biologically inherited or ethnically fixed characteristics. Competencies develop through education, market exposure, institutional incentives, family structures, social networks, and responses to economic constraints.

This is where the discussion surrounding ethnicity becomes analytically complex.

A significant portion of entrepreneurship literature risks essentialising ethnic communities by implying that certain groups are inherently more entrepreneurial than others. Such assumptions can unintentionally transform historically contingent socioeconomic patterns into seemingly permanent cultural attributes. Yet historical evidence suggests that entrepreneurial behaviour often emerges from structural realities rather than ethnicity itself.

Sociologists and economic historians have long argued that minority entrepreneurship frequently develops under conditions of exclusion or restricted access to mainstream economic opportunities. Ivan Light’s influential work on ethnic economies demonstrated that migrant and minority communities often rely on self employment because of labour market discrimination, barriers to professional mobility, or limited access to state institutions. Similarly, Alejandro Portes’ theory of “ethnic enclaves” showed how entrepreneurship can emerge through dense community networks that compensate for institutional disadvantages. In many cases, entrepreneurial activity is less a reflection of cultural preference than a rational adaptation to structural marginalisation.

Historical examples support this interpretation. Jewish merchant networks in Europe, Lebanese trading diasporas in West Africa, Chinese commercial communities in Southeast Asia, and Indian merchant groups in East Africa all developed strong entrepreneurial systems under conditions where minorities occupied intermediary economic positions. These patterns were shaped not merely by “culture” but by restrictions on land ownership, citizenship limitations, exclusion from political power, or concentration within trade oriented occupations.

The Malaysian case is especially distinctive and cannot simply be equated with post World War II migrant entrepreneurship in countries such as the United Kingdom, Canada, Australia, or the United States.

In many Western economies, post war migrants entered already industrialised capitalist systems characterised by expanding labour markets and relatively stable institutional structures. Migrant entrepreneurship often emerged as part of broader upward mobility strategies within mature economies. In contrast, Malaysia’s entrepreneurial history developed within a colonial political economy that systematically organised labour and commerce along ethnic lines.

British colonial administration in Malaya institutionalised a segmented economic structure that associated particular ethnic groups with different economic functions. Malays were largely concentrated in subsistence agriculture and rural administration, Chinese migrants were heavily involved in tin mining, urban commerce, and small scale enterprise, Indians were predominantly employed in plantation labour and clerical sectors. This division was not naturally occurring but actively reinforced through colonial governance, residential separation, education systems, and labour policies.

As historians such as Jomo Kwame Sundaram and Edmund Terence Gomez have argued, the contemporary association between Chinese Malaysians and business dominance cannot be understood outside this colonial framework. Chinese commercial concentration was partly a consequence of British indirect economic management, which relied heavily on migrant capital and intermediary trading networks. Entrepreneurial competencies within these communities were therefore historically cultivated through participation in commerce intensive sectors over generations, not through ethnic predisposition.

Furthermore, post independence Malaysia introduced another major structural factor, state-led affirmative economic restructuring through the New Economic Policy (NEP) after 1971. The NEP aimed to reduce poverty and rebalance economic participation following the racial tensions culminating in the May 13 incident of 1969. Bumiputera participation in business, higher education, and corporate ownership was actively expanded through quotas, state enterprises, preferential financing, and educational access.

This period demonstrates how entrepreneurial competencies can be institutionally cultivated rather than culturally inherited. Government agencies such as MARA, Permodalan Nasional Berhad (PNB), and various state linked development programs were designed specifically to create a Bumiputera entrepreneurial and professional class. The emergence of large Malay corporate figures in sectors such as construction, telecommunications, logistics, and energy during the 1980s and 1990s reflected deliberate state capacity building rather than sudden cultural transformation.

At the same time, indigenous entrepreneurship in the Malay Archipelago long predated both British colonialism and modern migration flows. Historical records from the Malacca Sultanate, Aceh, Johor-Riau, and Bugis trading networks reveal extensive indigenous commercial systems operating across the Indian Ocean and Southeast Asian maritime routes centuries before colonial consolidation. Malay, Bugis, Acehnese, Minangkabau, and Arab-Muslim traders were deeply embedded in regional commerce involving spices, textiles, shipping, and finance.

Anthony Reid’s work on Southeast Asian trade economies demonstrates that pre colonial port cities in the archipelago were highly commercialised environments integrated into global trade systems linking China, India, the Middle East, and Europe. The tendency to frame entrepreneurship primarily through later Chinese migrant success stories therefore risks overlooking indigenous commercial histories disrupted by colonial restructuring.

More recent migrant entrepreneurs in Malaysia further illustrate the importance of structural positioning over ethnicity itself. Indonesian, Bangladeshi, Pakistani, Rohingya, and Myanmarese migrant communities increasingly participate in informal retail, food services, small scale manufacturing, and labour subcontracting sectors. Their entrepreneurial activities often arise from limited formal employment protections, immigration restrictions, and reliance on transnational community networks.

For example, Pakistani and Bangladeshi migrants have become prominent in Malaysia’s textile retail and convenience sectors not because of innate ethnic entrepreneurialism, but because these sectors offer relatively accessible entry points requiring lower institutional barriers. Similarly, refugee and undocumented communities frequently turn to informal entrepreneurship due to exclusion from regulated labour markets. Again, entrepreneurship emerges as an adaptive response to economic positioning.

This broader perspective aligns with Pierre Bourdieu’s concept of capital accumulation. Entrepreneurial success is strongly shaped by access to economic capital, social capital, cultural capital, and institutional legitimacy. Communities that develop dense kinship financing systems, business mentorship traditions, or intergenerational commercial knowledge often gain cumulative advantages over time. These advantages may later appear “cultural,” even though they were historically produced through repeated adaptation to economic conditions.

Global evidence also challenges simplistic ethnic explanations. Countries such as South Korea, Taiwan, Singapore, and China experienced rapid entrepreneurial and industrial expansion within only a few decades once state policy, education, infrastructure, and industrial incentives aligned effectively. Conversely, communities historically labelled “entrepreneurial” may experience stagnation under political instability, weak institutions, or exclusionary economic systems. This suggests that entrepreneurship is highly responsive to structural environments rather than fixed cultural identity.

The real analytical challenge, therefore, is distinguishing between culture as an explanatory variable and culture as a proxy for deeper historical and institutional realities.

Culture undoubtedly matters. Values surrounding family obligation, savings behaviour, trust networks, educational aspiration, and risk tolerance can influence entrepreneurial activity. However, culture alone cannot adequately explain why entrepreneurial competencies emerge strongly in some contexts and weaken in others. Overemphasising ethnicity risks obscuring the decisive roles of colonialism, migration systems, labour market segmentation, state policy, education, legal institutions, and capital access.

Entrepreneurial competencies are real and measurable. Yet attributing them primarily to ethnicity risks reproducing deterministic narratives that oversimplify a far more complex interaction between history, political economy, migration, and institutional development.

Perhaps the more productive question is not which ethnic group is “naturally entrepreneurial,” but rather, under what historical, political, and economic conditions do entrepreneurial competencies emerge, strengthen, and sustain themselves across societies and communities?

Cheers.

 

ravivarmmankkanniappan@2123220520263° 3' 52" N, 101° 35' 37" E

BEYOND DRAVIDIAN POLITICS: VIJAY AND THE POLITICAL REAWAKENING OF TAMIL NADU

(AI Generated)

The rise of Vijay as the new Chief Minister of Tamil Nadu marks a potentially historic shift in the political landscape of the state. For more than six decades, Tamil Nadu’s politics has been dominated by the Dravidian ideological framework that originated with the Dravidar Kazhagam and later evolved through parties such as the Dravida Munnetra Kazhagam and the All India Anna Dravida Munnetra Kazhagam. This ideological tradition deeply shaped the social, cultural, and political consciousness of generations of Tamil people, creating a powerful socio-psychological hold over the electorate.

While the Dravidian movement undeniably contributed to social justice, regional identity, and political empowerment, it has also faced persistent criticism over allegations of corruption, dynastic politics, administrative inefficiency, and the gradual erosion of ideological purity. Over time, many voters began to feel disconnected from the emotional and rhetorical politics that once inspired earlier generations.

The emergence of a younger and more globally exposed electorate significantly altered this political equation. Today’s youth are far more technologically connected, socially aware, and economically aspirational than previous generations. Unlike their predecessors, many are not emotionally tied to historical political narratives or ideological loyalties. Instead, they evaluate governance through the lens of performance, transparency, economic opportunity, and global standards of development. They compare not merely with other Indian states, but with international benchmarks in education, infrastructure, employment, and quality of life.

It is within this changing political climate that Vijay’s entry gained extraordinary momentum. To many supporters, he represents a break from entrenched political structures and an alternative to traditional Dravidian politics. His appeal lies less in conventional political credentials and more in the perception that he is untainted by the compromises and baggage associated with career politicians. For a significant section of the public, particularly younger voters, Vijay emerged as a symbolic “white knight”, a figure of renewed hope capable of challenging a stagnant political culture.

However, symbolism alone cannot sustain governance. Vijay faces an enormous challenge ahead. Unlike seasoned political leaders, he lacks direct administrative and governmental experience. Running a state as complex and economically significant as Tamil Nadu requires far more than popularity, charisma, or public goodwill. It demands institutional understanding, strategic policymaking, crisis management, and the ability to navigate the often ruthless realities of political power.

At the same time, leadership is not solely determined by experience. History has shown that individuals with conviction, courage, and the willingness to learn can rise to the demands of public office when supported by capable advisors and principled institutions. Vijay’s success will largely depend on the quality of the team he surrounds himself with and whether he can remain grounded in public service rather than personality driven politics.

Politics, however, remains a double edged sword. It has the power to elevate individuals with noble intentions, but it can equally compromise even the most virtuous leaders through ambition, pressure, and political survival. Therefore, while optimism surrounding Vijay is understandable, it must also be tempered with critical scrutiny and realistic expectations.

A Socratic idea that closely reflects Vijay’s current political situation is,

“The unexamined life is not worth living.”

In the context of Tamil Nadu’s political climate, this philosophy can be interpreted as a call for both leaders and citizens to critically question long standing political traditions, loyalties, and systems rather than accepting them unquestioningly. For decades, Dravidian politics shaped the identity and governance of the state. Vijay’s rise symbolizes a moment where many voters, especially younger generations, are reexamining inherited political narratives and asking whether those systems still serve contemporary aspirations.

For Vijay himself, the quote also carries a deeper warning. Entering politics without administrative experience means he must constantly examine his own motives, decisions, advisors, and actions. Socrates believed that virtue comes from wisdom and self awareness, not popularity or power. In politics, this means that charisma alone is insufficient, where a leader must be willing to question himself continuously and remain accountable to truth and justice.

Nevertheless, democracy thrives when new possibilities are allowed to emerge. Rather than rushing to either glorify or condemn Vijay, it would be wiser to grant him the opportunity to prove himself through governance, integrity, and results. 

In the end, meaningful leadership is judged not by promises or perceptions, but by the lasting impact it leaves on the people.

Cheers.

ravivarmmankkanniappan@1237120526 3°10'35"N 101°32'57"E

(c) All Rights Reserved.

THE LOST SACREDNESS OF BEING HUMAN

 

“Another enormous thing which we have lost through this struggle and through this regimentation, is love.

Sirs, love is chaste- and without love, merely to overcome or indulge in sex has no meaning.

 Without love, we have become what we are today, mere machines.

If we look at our faces in the mirror, we can see how unformed they are, how immature we are.

We have produced children without love. Often, we are emotionally driven without love and what kind of civilization do you expect to produce in that way?

I know the religious books say that you must become a Brahmacharya to find God. Do you mean to say that you can find God without love?

Brahmacharya is merely an idea, an ideal to be achieved. Surely that which you achieve through will, through condemnation, through conclusion will not lead you to reality, to God.

What shows us the way to reality, to God, is understanding, not suppression, not substitution.

To give up sex for the love of God is only substitution, only sublimation, it is not understanding.

So, if there is love, there is chastity. But to become chaste is to become ugly, vicious, and immature.”     

- In conversation by  Jiddu Krishnamurti.

The above is an excerpt from a dialogue between Jiddu Krishnamurti and Dr. Allan W. Anderson, professor of religious studies, titled Love, Sex and Pleasure. The conversation took place in San Diego in 1974 and later became part of the larger body of Krishnamurti’s teachings on relationships and what he often called the “mirror of relationship.” In these dialogues, Krishnamurti explored not only the nature of love and desire, but also the deeper psychological conditioning that shapes modern human existence.

Reading this passage by Jiddu Krishnamurti, I feel that his lament is not merely about sex, morality, or religion. It is about something far deeper that modern life has quietly lost, the soul of human existence itself. Life has become so mechanistic, so systematized, that we no longer know how to live naturally. Everything is reduced into a process, a method, a measurable outcome. We approach life almost as if we are machines following programmed instructions rather than living beings capable of love, wonder, and inward freedom.

Krishnamurti seems to suggest that humanity has slowly surrendered its spontaneity to regimentation. Even our most intimate experiences are no longer lived fully but processed functionally. Sex, for instance, is either reduced to biological procreation or to the fulfilment of lust. It becomes something to achieve, consume, or suppress. In either case, the living essence behind it is absent. Without love, sex loses its sacredness and becomes mechanical. That is why he says we have become “mere machines.” There is a devastating truth in that statement because one can see how modern relationships are often driven more by loneliness, desire, validation, or social conditioning than by genuine affection or deep human connection.

What is even more striking is that Krishnamurti extends this criticism to spirituality itself. The attainment of God too has become procedural. Religion often presents enlightenment as though it were an algorithm, follow certain rules, suppress certain desires, adopt a code of conduct, practice a discipline, and eventually arrive at truth. Brahmacharya, in this context, becomes not understanding but an imposed ideal. Krishnamurti challenges this entire structure. Can God really be found through suppression? Can truth emerge from fear driven discipline or from the will to become “pure”? If chastity is forced through condemnation and control, then the mind remains trapped within conflict. One desire merely replaces another.

This is why he insists that understanding is greater than suppression. To renounce sex for the “love of God” may simply be another form of substitution, another psychological escape. The self still operates through ambition, only now the ambition is spiritual. The mind still seeks achievement, control, and certainty. In that sense, organized spirituality often mirrors the same mechanical thinking that dominates the rest of society.

What should be free and alive gradually becomes empirical and measurable. We now evaluate even inner life in terms of methods, results, and optimization. We ask which practice leads to enlightenment, which discipline guarantees peace, which system produces virtue. But perhaps love, truth, and God cannot be manufactured through technique at all. Perhaps they can only emerge when the mind stops trying to control itself through rigid structures.

There is a Thirukkural that beautifully resonates with this idea,

“அன்பின் வழியது உயிர்நிலை; அஃதிலார்க்கு
என்புதோல் போர்த்த உடம்பு.” - Kural 80

A life without love, says Thirukkural, is merely a body covered with skin over bones. That insight feels remarkably close to Krishnamurti’s concern. Without love, human beings may continue functioning, producing, reproducing, worshipping, and succeeding outwardly, but inwardly something essential has died. Civilization itself becomes emotionally malformed because it is built by people who no longer know how to relate deeply to one another.

What I find most compelling in Krishnamurti is that he does not advocate chaos or indulgence. He is not arguing for the abandonment of morality. Rather, he is pointing toward a deeper intelligence that arises naturally through awareness and understanding. If there is love, he says, there is chastity. Not chastity born from fear or suppression, but an order that comes naturally when the mind is no longer fragmented by conflict and desire.

Perhaps this is why his words still feel painfully relevant today. Modern civilization increasingly treats human beings as programmable systems. We quantify productivity, emotions, attention, relationships, and even spirituality itself. We optimize everything and yet feel inwardly emptier. In the midst of all this efficiency, we seem to have forgotten how to simply be human.

Krishnamurti’s lament, then, is ultimately about the loss of humanity through psychological automation. He reminds us that life cannot be reduced to formulas without losing its sacredness. Love cannot be engineered. Truth cannot be achieved through coercion. And God cannot be reached through mechanical obedience. What restores humanity is not greater control, but deeper understanding, an awareness that allows us to encounter life directly, tenderly, and without the machinery of fear and ambition.

Cheers.

ravivarmmankkanniappan@2019010520263°2'37.8'' N 101°34.837' E

(c)All Rights Reserved.

Echoes of Aroma and Revolution in Old Taiping

 

Changchun Villa

I attended a friend’s son’s wedding in Taiping last Saturday, a joyous occasion filled with laughter, warmth, and celebration. As the festivities drew to a close, our friend Selva mentioned a heritage gem located nearby, the Antong Coffee Mill. Intrigued by the promise of history and tradition, we set off without hesitation, eager for an unexpected adventure. What awaited us was not merely a visit, but a journey through time.

The moment I stepped into the coffee complex, it felt as though I had crossed the threshold into another era. The rich, intoxicating aroma of roasted beans hung in the air, welcoming me like an old friend. Standing proudly at the entrance was the famed Changchun Villa, a silent witness to history and once home to one of the remarkable figures connected to the founding of the Republic of China. Its presence lent an air of reverence and mystery, inviting us to uncover stories long preserved within its walls.

Oven

Founded in 1933, Antong Coffee Mill is officially recognized as the oldest coffee mill in Malaysia still in operation. Nestled in Taiping, Perak, the factory is a living museum that has faithfully preserved its traditional wood-fired roasting methods for more than ninety years. Established by Mr. Tiah Ee Mooi and now managed by the third generation of his family, Antong stands as a testament to dedication, resilience, and heritage. The compound itself holds layers of history, Tiah rented Changchun Villa in 1933 before purchasing it two years later, and the coffee mill was originally built from the villa’s stables.

The villa once served as the residence of Chen Cuifen, often remembered as the “Forgotten Revolutionary Female” and the devoted partner of Dr. Sun Yat-sen, the Father of Modern China. It is believed that this tranquil residence became a strategic planning ground for anti-Qing revolutionary activities in the early 1900s. Born in Hong Kong in 1873, Chen Cuifen played a crucial yet understated role in the 1911 Xinhai Revolution. For more than two decades, she supported Sun Yat-sen through exile and hardship, managing logistics, transporting weapons, and tending to wounded soldiers during their time in Japan and Malaya. Despite her unwavering dedication, her contributions were often overshadowed in official histories.

Chen Cuifen

(photo courtesy of Wikipedia)

After the establishment of the Republic of China in 1912, Chen Cuifen settled in Malaya, where she lived independently. She adopted a daughter named Sun Rong and engaged in business ventures, including establishing a rubber plantation. For a period, she resided in Taiping, at a villa now adjacent to Antong Coffee Mill, where it is said that Sun Yat-sen himself once stayed. Standing there, surrounded by echoes of history, it was impossible not to feel a profound sense of awe.

As I continued my exploration, I had hoped to witness Antong’s famed traditional production process firsthand. Unfortunately, we arrived too late in the day, as the roasting can only be observed in the morning. Though I missed the spectacle, the lingering aroma of coffee and the preserved machinery allowed us to vividly imagine the time-honoured craft.

Sand Roast

In the early hours, beans are roasted in wood-fired ovens fuelled by recycled timber and mangrove logs, imparting a distinctive smoky fragrance that defines Antong’s signature brew. The celebrated double-roasting technique then transforms the beans into a bubbling mixture blended with sugar and margarine, creating a rich, caramelized essence. Once cooled, the hardened mass is manually smashed into fragments before being ground into fine powder. While modern methods are now employed for efficiency, the preserved mill stands as a living exhibit, offering a captivating glimpse into the meticulous craftsmanship of the past.

Old Mill Machines

The experience was nothing short of enchanting. Visitors are free to observe the roasting process, explore the artifacts housed within Changchun Villa, and savour complimentary coffee samples in the air-conditioned showroom. Antong’s signature Kopi O remains a timeless favorite, while contemporary offerings such as Durian White Coffee, espresso ice cream, and specialty golden coffee showcase its evolution through the decades.

Entrance to The Old Mill

It was truly a journey that captured the passage of time. The old coffee mill stands as a proud testament to the enduring legacy of Nanyang-style coffee. Though the historic machinery now rests as a silent exhibit, the entire complex is permeated with an irresistible coffee aroma that evokes nostalgia and wonder. The Changchun Villa, now transformed into a museum adjoining the café, offers a stirring glimpse into the past. Knowing that Dr. Sun Yat-sen and Chen Cuifen once lived and planned there made the experience exhilarating, sending goosebumps down our spines.

A Statue of Sun Yat sen at the Entrance of Changchun Villa

If you ever find yourself in Taiping, do not miss the opportunity to visit Antong Coffee Mill. Pause for a cup of its aromatic brew, wander through its storied halls, and immerse yourself in the rich tapestry of history. It is more than a destination, it is an adventure through time, where every sip tells a story and every step echoes with the legacy of those who shaped the future.

Cheers

ravivarmmankkanniappan@2057120420263.0567° N, 101.5851° E

(C)All Rights Reserved

The Managed Myth of Work Life Balance in Late Capitalism

 

(AI Generated)

From the perspective of critical theory, the modern discourse of work life balance is less a humanitarian breakthrough than an adaptive response to the internal contradictions of capitalism. What appears as a progressive concern for employee well-being is, in fact, deeply embedded in the same system that produces the very conditions it seeks to alleviate. The language of balance does not resolve the tension between human needs and economic imperatives, in actual fact it manages it.

Since the Industrial Revolution, work has been progressively abstracted, measured, and optimized. This transformation reorganized not only production but also human identity. As Karl Marx observed, the worker becomes alienated, reduced to a function within a system that values output over experience. In contemporary terms, this reduction is encoded in the evolution of language, from labour to “human resources,” and now to “human capital.” Each term reflects a deeper internalization of market logic, where human capacities are treated as assets to be maximized.

The Frankfurt School offers a sharper lens through which to interpret this shift. Thinkers like Theodor Adorno and Max Horkheimer argued that advanced capitalism sustains itself not merely through economic structures, but through cultural and psychological integration. Dissent is not eliminated but it is absorbed. In this sense, work life balance functions as what might be called a “managed contradiction”, a concept that acknowledges distress while neutralizing its disruptive potential.

Nowhere is this more visible than in contemporary corporate practices, particularly within the technology sector. Companies such as Google and Meta have pioneered expansive employee wellness ecosystems, with inclusion of on-site gyms, mindfulness programs, flexible work arrangements, and even nap pods. These initiatives are often celebrated as evidence of a more humane workplace. Yet, they also blur the boundary between work and life in ways that intensify engagement. When the workplace provides not only income but also social life, leisure, and identity, disengagement becomes psychologically and socially costly. The result is not less work, but a more totalizing form of it.

Similarly, platform based companies like Uber and Grab exemplify the neoliberal reconfiguration of labour. Here, the rhetoric shifts from employment to “flexibility” and “independence.” Workers are framed as autonomous entrepreneurs, free to choose when and how they work. However, this autonomy is constrained by algorithmic management systems that dictate pricing, visibility, and access to opportunities. The risks traditionally borne by employers, for example income stability, health benefits, long term security, are transferred onto individuals, who must now continuously adapt to fluctuating conditions.

This transformation aligns closely with Michel Foucault’s concept of governmentality. In neoliberal societies, power operates less through direct control and more through the shaping of subjectivity. Individuals come to see themselves as projects to be managed, constantly optimizing their skills, time, and well-being. Work life balance, within this framework, becomes a personal obligation rather than a collective right. Failure to achieve it is internalized as a personal deficiency rather than recognized as a structural outcome.

Even the rise of corporate wellness and mental health initiatives reflects this logic. Programs promoting mindfulness, resilience, and emotional intelligence are framed as tools for personal empowerment. Yet, they often function to recalibrate individuals to endure high pressure environments without questioning the conditions that produce stress. The focus shifts from changing the system to adapting the self.

The paradox, then, is stark. Work life balance is simultaneously necessary and unattainable. It is necessary because human beings cannot sustain indefinite productivity without psychological and physiological consequences. Yet it remains elusive within a system that continuously expands its demands and redefines its limits. The concept persists not because it resolves this contradiction, but because it renders it tolerable, giving individuals a language to cope without fundamentally altering the structure that produces the strain.

A contemporary illustration of this tension can be seen in the rise and subsequent normalization of “quiet quitting,” a term that gained global traction through platforms like TikTok. Workers, particularly younger professionals, began advocating for doing only what their roles formally required, no unpaid overtime, no emotional overextension, no constant availability. At first glance, this appeared to be a reclaiming of boundaries, a grassroots correction to the excesses of modern work culture. Yet organizations quickly absorbed and reframed the phenomenon. Corporate discourse shifted toward “employee engagement,” “wellness initiatives,” and flexible work policies, not as structural concessions but as strategic responses to maintain productivity and retention.

Even in companies such as Amazon, where reports have highlighted intense performance metrics and high pressure environments, the response has not been a reduction in systemic demands but the introduction of coping mechanisms, such as mental health resources, resilience training, and carefully calibrated flexibility. These measures acknowledge the human cost, yet they stop short of redistributing or reducing the underlying pressures. Instead, they enable workers to endure them more sustainably.

Thus, the paradox deepens. Work life balance becomes both a necessity for survival and a tool that stabilizes the very system that undermines it. It does not dismantle the contradiction between human limits and economic expansion but it manages it. In doing so, it transforms a structural tension into a personal responsibility, ensuring that the system can continue to evolve without ever having to truly resolve the imbalance at its core.

In this sense, work life balance operates as a stabilizing myth of late capitalism. It offers the promise of reconciliation between human flourishing and economic rationality, while deferring any substantive restructuring of their relationship. The individual is encouraged to believe that balance is achievable through better choices, better habits, better self management, obscuring the structural conditions that make such balance elusive.

What emerges is a subtle but profound shift in responsibility. Where institutions once bore some obligation for the welfare of workers, that burden is increasingly displaced onto individuals. This is framed as empowerment, freedom, flexibility, autonomy, but experienced as obligation, which requires the individual the need to constantly negotiate, optimize, and justify one’s own existence within the system.

Work life balance, then, does not mark the humanization of work but it marks the normalization of its contradictions. What appears as a concession to human need is, in many ways, an adaptation that allows the system to endure without addressing its core imbalance. The language of balance reframes strain as something to be managed individually rather than structurally resolved, placing the burden back on the worker to negotiate the limits of their own exhaustion.

This tension is not new. The classical Tamil text Thirukkural captures a timeless awareness of excess and restraint. Consider the couplet below by Sage Thiruvalluvar,

“The life of one who does not live within limits may seem to exist, but it will perish without truly being.” - Kural 476

Here, Thiruvalluvar speaks not only to personal moderation but to the sustainability of any system that ignores natural limits. When applied to modern work culture, the insight becomes strikingly relevant. A structure that continually stretches human capacity under the guise of flexibility risks hollowing out the very lives it depends on.

Work life balance, in this light, becomes less a solution and more a coping mechanism, an acknowledgment that the system demands more than it can justly sustain, while subtly urging individuals to self regulate rather than question the demand itself.

Cheers.

ravivarmmankkanniappan@1810070420263.04384, 101.58062

©All Right Reserved

Intellectual Integrity in a World Without Void Thinking

 

(AI Generated Image)

Intellectual Integrity in a World Without Void Thinking

A recent plagiarism flap, an activist accusing a public figure who happens to be a politician, academic, and social advocate, captures a familiar anxiety about originality. The politician threatened defamation and a week later, the activist apologized, conceding that the politician had published the idea earlier. Yet the activist maintained he hadn’t read that prior work and that his view arose from his own independent thinking. That claim, whether true or not, spotlights a deeper puzzle, if thought is built from observation and experience, what exactly do we mean by “independent” thinking? Perhaps what we often witness is not theft, but convergence, two minds attending to the same patterns in the world and assembling similar conclusions from shared materials.

In academia, the chorus against plagiarism swells, and calls for “originality” and “independent thought” grow ever more insistent. But the word “independent” can be a romantic overreach. Imagination needs raw material, no mind thinks out of a void. We observe, remember, compare, and extrapolate from the known to press into the unknown. On this empiricist picture, cognition is not spontaneous generation. It is construction, intelligent, disciplined, sometimes dazzling construction, from what experience supplies.

Still, this framing can underrate the mind’s capacity for abstraction, pattern recognition, analogy, and synthesis. Even if imagination depends on existing materials, it can reorder them into forms that feel startlingly new. The mind’s originality often lies less in the bricks and more in the architecture. Dependence on input is undeniable,  the question is whether dependence precludes novelty. It need not. Novelty may arise from the structure and depth of reorganization rather than from detachment from experience.

This suggests a refined empiricism where originality is not creation from nothing but transformation of something. The mind is not a creator ex nihilo, it is a reconfigurer. In that light, “independent thought” is never independent of input but can be independent in method, how it selects, filters, and reinterprets the available content.

Opponents press a nativist rationalist case, where the mind isn’t just a processor of experience, but it comes equipped with innate structures that make certain kinds of thinking possible. Descartes famously claimed some ideas (mathematical truths, the infinite) are not derived from the senses. Kant argued that the mind contributes a priori forms, space, time, causality, structuring experience from the outset. Chomsky proposed an inborn language faculty whose complexity outstrips what pure induction from stimulus could supply. On this account, two points challenge the empiricist’s comfort, the mind isn’t a blank slate, and thought is at least partly generative, producing concepts not strictly traceable to specific sensory inputs.

You can translate this into evolutionary terms where innate structures as inherited cognitive architectures shaped by selection. That move makes the nativist view scientifically plausible without smuggling in fully formed ideas. But it doesn’t secure the conclusion that experience is secondary. Early humans may have possessed capacities for abstraction and language, yet capacity is not expression. These potentials need triggers, social scaffolding, and cumulative culture. A child might be wired for mathematics, but without exposure and pedagogy, algebra won’t materialize in isolation. Experience does not merely decorate an interior but it activates and calibrates it.

At this point, the disagreement narrows. The key issues are whether stimulation builds or merely triggers, and what “independent” should mean. The empiricist leans toward construction, where it states that without stimulation, nothing meaningful forms. The nativist counters that stimulation is necessary but primarily tunes and switches on pre existing systems. The definitional snag is equally crucial. If “independent” means independence from external content, it is a myth. If it means independence in the rules and standards of cognition, the internal constraints that shape how we think, then independence survives at the structural level. Edge cases cut both ways, infants display early object expectations, suggesting pre-structuring, while humans can imagine higher dimensions and fictional worlds, seemingly beyond direct experience. The empiricist replies, even these feats are extrapolations from prior inputs, executed by a mind adept at recombination.

A hybrid view emerges as not only attractive but hard to avoid, the mind may be innately structured, yet actual thinking requires experiential activation. All real thought depends on prior input, even if that input does not fully construct it from scratch. That isn’t naïve empiricism but it’s a measured synthesis, innate potential married to experiential development.

Classical voices deepen the picture. Socrates, via Plato, treats learning as recollection, stimulus functions as a midwife, drawing out latent knowledge rather than depositing content from outside. This challenges the empiricist at the root, perhaps the mind contains seeds that dialogue merely awakens. Thiruvalluvar, by contrast, exalts cultivation which includes listening, exposure, and moral discipline transform raw experience into wisdom. He aligns with the empiricist emphasis on input but insists that without reflection and virtue, exposure remains inert. Put together, these positions triangulate a compelling map, internal latency needs external engagement, external engagement needs disciplined processing.

What does this mean for originality and the plagiarism panic? First, convergence is real. Two thinkers can witness the same social currents and, independently, produce strikingly similar analyses. Second, independence should be reconceived, not independence from sources, but independence in the quality of transformation, how rigorously, ethically, and creatively one reworks the given. Third, responsibility shifts to the learner and the writer. Even if structures are innate and stimulus indispensable, wisdom is not passively received. It is painstakingly constructed through attention, judgment, and character.

From a Vedantic angle, this can be seen as a duality unfolding, inherent capacity meets experiential reality, and through conscious effort which includes study, reflection, practice, then it becomes insight. The mind may not be a blank slate, and it certainly isn’t a sealed vault, but it is a living architecture that must be animated, tested, and refined. So is “independent thinking” a myth? Only if we define it as thinking without lineage or input. If instead we define it as the disciplined power to transform what we encounter, to make it truer, clearer, and more generative, then independence is not only real, it is precisely what responsible thought demands.

Cheers.

ravivarmmankkanniappan2003190320263.0567° N, 101.5851° E

© All Right Reserved

THE APE THAT DREAMED THAT IT WAS A GOD

AI Generated Image

 

The Ape That Dreamed It Was a God

For most of our history, humans appear to have been reasonably competent creatures, in small doses. Place a dozen of us in a village, a hunting band, or a tribal encampment, and society functions with disarming simplicity. Everyone knows who grows the tapioca, who fixes the roof, and, crucially, who stole the goat. Leadership tends to fall to the person who can keep the fire burning, ward off predators, and remind the rest of the tribe not to eat the bright red berries. But magnify this arrangement to millions of strangers, add bureaucratic labyrinths, televised debates, and an occasional flag waving ceremony, and suddenly the system produces something extraordinary, a natural habitat in which theatrical, hyper ambitious, and occasionally shameless individuals rise, almost effortlessly, to positions of authority. A rare evolutionary niche indeed, the apex predator of the political savannah.

Meanwhile, the sensible people, the ones who actually fix the roof, slowly edge toward the back of the room, confused. The meeting that was supposed to be about replacing a broken ladder has somehow morphed into a three hour argument about who deserves to hold it. Progress, we call it. Though one suspects the ladder would get repaired sooner if left to a tribe of moderately organized squirrels. Civilization, governance, social institutions, all grand words for what occasionally looks like an elaborate filtration system for selecting individuals who should not be trusted with the office coffee machine, let alone the machinery of a country.

And perhaps this is the real flaw in our planetary project, humans were never designed to run the world. We were built for ambling across grasslands, sharing berries, and checking over our shoulders to ensure we hadn’t been designated as someone else’s lunch. A modest, sensible role in the food chain. But give us symbolic thought, agriculture, philosophy, science, industrialization, psychology, and digital networks, and we take it as a sign that we should appoint ourselves CEOs of the ecosystem. Yuval Noah Harari (Historian and Philosopher, 1976- to date)  might call this the inevitable side effect of our dangerous superpower that is the ability to conjure shared fictions at scale. Once a few of us agreed that lines on a map are sacred, that paper is money, and that slogans are a form of truth, we could coordinate in vast numbers but sadly, we could also mislead one another with professional efficiency. A species that once negotiated over berries now negotiates over narratives, currencies whose value rises with repetition. The same cognitive fireworks that let us imagine a better future also let us invent better justifications, more decorative delusions, and myths elaborate enough to require ministries.

Humanity sometimes looks like a species that accidentally promoted itself. We evolved for a modest job, wandering grasslands, sharing berries, and nervously checking whether we were about to become lunch, yet the moment we discovered stories and symbols, we interpreted that as a mandate to run the entire planet. In global geopolitics, this plays out like a prehistoric foraging tribe that somehow acquired a corporate org chart where borders are sacred office partitions, currencies are colourful reward points, and ideologies are motivational posters everyone pretends to understand. Leaders gather in diplomatic boardrooms to negotiate narratives the way our ancestors once negotiated berry bushes, only now the berries are trade routes, alliances, sanctions, and “national interests.” The strange trick is that most of it works because we all agree to treat the memos as real and repeat a slogan often enough and it graduates into policy. Our great cognitive superpower, the ability to believe the same story at scale, lets billions coordinate, innovate, and occasionally build rockets, but it also means the world is effectively managed by a former band of foragers who discovered PowerPoint and decided that what the ecosystem really needed was quarterly strategy meetings.

Long before any of this, Thiruvalluvar (an ancient Indian Philosopher, circa 4^th CE) had the courtesy to warn us in couplets that a ruler without virtue is a calamity, that greed corrodes judgment, and that governance without justice is merely a louder form of theft. He might have phrased it more elegantly, but the gist is familiar, better the leader who rescues the drowning than the one who asks whether the drowning have filled in the correct form. In a village, this is common sense but, in a nation, it becomes a manifesto nobody reads. If small societies rely on character because everyone can see it, large societies rely on spectacle because character no longer fits on a billboard. We keep mistaking applause for approval and volume for validity, and thus the ladder remains tragically unfixed.

Francis Bacon (an English Philosopher, 1561-1626), who never met a cognitive bias he didn’t try to categorize, would likely diagnose our misadventures as an infestation of idols. The Idols of the Tribe, our species wide habits of overgeneralizing and seeing patterns where none exist. The Idols of the Cave, our private preconceptions and pet theories, which we defend with the ferocity usually reserved for family heirlooms. The Idols of the Marketplace, the way language turns confusion into policy by giving vague ideas sturdy names. And the Idols of the Theater, our fondness for grand systems that are more elegant than accurate. Put these together and you get modern governance, a theatre crowded with idols and not nearly enough exits, where the debate about the ladder proceeds flawlessly in the passive voice, mistakes were made, responsibilities were misunderstood, repairs were delayed, but the press conference went very well.

Then comes Sigmund Freud (a Neurologist and founder of Psychoanalysis, 1856-1939), whispering that the true ruler of the polis might be the unconscious, the vast, inconvenient ocean beneath our carefully ironed intentions. We advertise to desires we don’t admit, vote for stories we can’t resist, and then rationalize our choices as if logic had been invited from the start. The superego drafts the manifesto, the id writes the campaign jingle and the ego edits the minutes afterward to make it all sound deliberate. Industrial society discovered that the psyche is a lever, and so we built entire industries to pull it. If Bacon taught us to watch our errors, Freud taught us to watch the watcher, to suspect that the person holding the ladder might be doing so to impress their father, terrify their rival, or seduce the electorate, anything, really, except fix the roof.

Meanwhile, the spiritual economy upgraded itself to a doctrine of ownership. Not just land or cows, but attention, identity, opinion, and afterlife options. We collect followers the way ancestors collected firewood, then pray that the algorithm, our new household god, will smile upon our sacrifices. Death once retired us from the world, now it threatens to interrupt our brand strategy. If Thiruvalluvar counselled restraint and justice, our age prefers a more actionable virtue, scale. We confuse “bigger” with “better,” “louder” with “truer,” and “trending” with “true.” It turns out you can capture the world’s attention without once capturing the problem at hand, which is why the ladder’s defect has more publicity than solutions.

A contemporary thinker like David Graeber (an Anthropologist and a Political Activist, 1961-2020) would add that bureaucracy expands not to solve problems but to define them into eternity. Paperwork is our civilization’s poetry, a sprawling epic in which the hero is a form and the dragon is a missing signature. Whole categories of “bullshit jobs” arise to service the narrative machinery that services the other narrative machinery, until the only thing being produced at scale is justification. We used to hunt deer but now we hunt compliance. We used to share meat but now we share meeting invites. If Harari mapped how fictions make us many, Graeber mapped how paperwork makes us busy, too busy, often, to notice that the roof is leaking onto the file labelled “Roof Integrity.”

The Scientific Revolution promised us a method, fewer idols, more evidence, fewer feelings, more facts. We honoured that promise by building instruments of astonishing precision and then using them to measure our preferences. We split atoms and then our attention. Rationality became a toolkit for building better machines and better excuses, the same empiricism that could heal a city could also optimize a distraction. We tell ourselves that the data will save us, but data, like the gods, have priests, and priests, like the rest of us, have incentives. Thus, empiricism often arrives to the policy table on time, only to discover that the seating chart is already fixed.

Industrialization dragged us into cities and into ourselves. The modern psyche, half spectacle, half surveillance, oscillates between craving visibility and fearing exposure. Freud’s descendants help us label the oscillation, advertisers help us monetize it and the rest of us post about it. Digital networks turned our cognitive village into a global amphitheatre where everyone speaks and nobody listens long enough to pass the ladder. We call this “networked cognition,” a charming euphemism for outsourcing memory to machines and delegating judgment to trends. We have reached the point where the town crier is automated, and the town itself is an app asking us to rate our experience of the fire while the house burns.

Perhaps the truth is embarrassingly simple. Maybe humanity was never meant to design social constructs spanning continents. Maybe our wiring was optimized for cooperative foraging, not parliamentary theatrics. Maybe the cognitive revolution was less an upgrade and more a cosmic glitch, a misfired mutation that gave primates the ability to invent bureaucracy. Thiruvalluvar would urge us to rediscover virtue and restraint. Bacon would plead for method over myth. Freud would ask us to interrogate our motives before we broadcast them. Harari would remind us that our superpower is a shared story, and that stories can hand us both tools and chains. Graeber would advise us to notice when the structure we built to help us has become the reason help cannot arrive.

A clear 21st-century example is the global response to the COVID 19 pandemic. A microscopic virus spread through a species capable of sequencing its genome within weeks and designing vaccines in under a year, an astonishing triumph of science. Yet the crisis quickly became a theatre of competing narratives. Governments argued over borders, political parties turned masks and vaccines into identity badges, and social media flooded the public square with conspiracies and counter stories. In some places, the logistics of saving lives were slowed by bureaucratic procedures, ideological battles, and mistrust of institutions. Scientists pleaded for evidence based method, echoing the spirit of Francis Bacon, while psychologists pointed to fear, denial, and tribal thinking that Sigmund Freud might have recognized. Meanwhile, the crisis revealed how global coordination depends on shared beliefs, much as Yuval Noah Harari argues. Humanity possessed the tools to solve the problem, but our stories about power, identity, and authority often made the solution harder to reach.

Perhaps the quiet absurdity of our age is that competence whispers while confidence campaigns. The thoughtful hesitate, the theatrical govern. Our institutions resemble a ladder with missing rungs, still ceremonially displayed, endlessly discussed, but rarely repaired by the few who actually know how to climb. So, we polish speeches, redesign platforms, and issue declarations of progress while the roof continues its patient leaking. Civilization becomes a ritual of announcing solutions rather than practicing them. Meanwhile, the squirrels, unburdened by ideology, bureaucracy, or televised debates, solve the practical problem of winter with an efficiency our committees might envy.

The tragedy is not that humanity dreamed boldly, but that the ape who dreamed it was God occasionally forgot it was still an ape. Power magnifies the illusion, language decorates it. And so, we continue negotiating over narratives while the scaffolding of reality creaks beneath us. As Friedrich Nietzsche warned, “He who fights with monsters should look to it that he himself does not become a monster.” Until humility climbs the ladder before ambition does, progress may remain what it too often is, a press conference about repairs rather than the quiet work of fixing the roof.

Cheers.

ravivarmmankkanniappan1908100320263.0567° N, 101.5851° E

© All Right Reserved