From The Yellow Kid to Godi Media: When Journalism Discovers Its Lap

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There is a fascinating family tree in the history of journalism.

It begins in nineteenth-century New York with a bald, large-eared street urchin wearing an oversized yellow nightshirt. And, if some of its critics are to be believed, it eventually arrives in twenty-first-century India wearing a television microphone, shouting at a panel of bewildered guests: “Nation wants to know!”

The first was the Yellow Kid.

The second is what critics call Godi Media.

Between the two lies more than a century of technological progress, political upheaval and journalistic evolution.

We moved from ink to television. From printing presses to satellite dishes. From newspaper boys shouting headlines on street corners to algorithms shouting them into our bedrooms. But apparently one thing has survived remarkably well: The ability to turn information into emotional entertainment. And that deserves a closer look.

Let us begin with the Yellow Kid. Because, contrary to the popular mythology, the poor little fellow did not start the Spanish-American War. He wasn't sitting in a New York newsroom in 1898, cracking his knuckles and saying: “Gentlemen, today we invade Cuba.”

The Yellow Kid was simply a cartoon character created by Richard F. Outcault for Joseph Pulitzer's New York World around 1895. He was a street urchin called Mickey Dugan, part of the Hogan's Alley comic strip. His most distinctive feature was his enormous yellow nightshirt. The colour itself was something of a technological novelty. The character became wildly popular.

And then came the newspaper industry's equivalent of a corporate bidding war.

William Randolph Hearst hired Outcault away from Pulitzer in 1896. Pulitzer, however, did not surrender. He commissioned another artist, George Luks, to continue drawing his own Yellow Kid.

So suddenly New York had two Yellow Kids. One for Pulitzer. One for Hearst. And the newspapers began to acquire a reputation as the “Yellow Kid papers”. A critic named Ervin Wardman of the New York Press eventually turned that association into the expression “yellow journalism.”

And there it was. A phrase was born. The Yellow Kid had supplied the name. The newspapers supplied the method. And the method was simple: Make the story bigger than the facts. Use enormous headlines. Use dramatic pictures. Use scandal. Use crime. Use sex. Use outrage. Use patriotism. And, if necessary, use a little imagination.

After all, facts are terribly inconvenient things. They insist upon verification. Sensationalism has no such inhibitions.

Now we arrive at Cuba.

The Cuban struggle against Spanish rule became a major subject of American newspaper coverage. Reports of Spanish brutality, suffering and atrocities were amplified through dramatic headlines and illustrations. And then, on 15 February 1898, came the event that changed everything.

The USS Maine exploded in Havana harbour. More than 260 American sailors died. The cause of the explosion was uncertain. Even today, historians do not regard Spanish responsibility as an established fact. But the newspapers did not have the luxury—or perhaps the inclination—to wait.

Spain was blamed. The famous cry became: “Remember the Maine!” And American public opinion was stirred. Now comes the striking part of the story.

There is a famous anecdote that Hearst supposedly telegraphed artist Frederic Remington:“You furnish the pictures, and I'll furnish the war.” It is a magnificent quotation. It is also almost certainly fictitious.

No original telegram has been found, and Hearst denied the story. Which gives us an amusing lesson in media history: Sometimes even the story about sensational journalism becomes sensational journalism.

The historical reality is considerably more complicated. Yellow journalism helped create a climate of public anger and pro-war sentiment. But it did not single-handedly manufacture the Spanish-American War. There were deeper forces at work. American strategic interests. Expansionism. Humanitarian concerns. Economic interests. The Cuban independence struggle. Domestic politics. The policies of the McKinley administration. The Spanish response. And the failure of diplomacy.

So the Yellow Kid did not start the war. But the newspapers helped turn a complicated international crisis into an emotionally irresistible story. And that is where the historical comparison becomes interesting. Because journalism does not always need to manufacture a fact to influence public opinion. Sometimes it only has to decide: Which fact gets the front page? Which photograph gets enlarged? Which phrase becomes the headline? Which voice gets six minutes? Which voice gets six seconds? And which inconvenient detail disappears somewhere on page fourteen?

Welcome to the twenty-first century.

THE AGE OF GODI MEDIA

The phrase “Godi Media”—literally suggesting “lap media” or media sitting in somebody's lap—became popular in India as a pejorative expression associated particularly with journalist Ravish Kumar. Critics use it for sections of Indian media they believe have become excessively sympathetic to Prime Minister Narendra Modi, the BJP government and its political narrative. Supporters of the outlets and journalists targeted by the term reject the characterisation.

And that distinction matters. Because not every Indian media outlet behaves in the same way. Not every television anchor is a government cheerleader. Not every newspaper is politically captured. Not every story favourable to the government is propaganda. And not every criticism of the government is automatically journalism.

But the phenomenon being criticised is worth examining. Because the underlying question is larger than Narendra Modi, larger than the BJP and larger than Indian politics. It is this: What happens when journalism begins serving an audience's emotions before serving its curiosity?

That question could have been asked in New York in 1898. It can be asked in New Delhi in 2026.

The technology has changed. The business model has changed. The vocabulary has changed. The psychological machinery has not.

Yellow journalism discovered that outrage sells newspapers. Television discovered that outrage keeps viewers watching. Social media discovered that outrage travels. And the algorithm discovered something truly magnificent: Anger is renewable energy. You don't have to import it. You don't have to manufacture it in a laboratory. Just put two people on television, give them opposing opinions, increase the volume and add a countdown clock. Congratulations. You have created prime-time democracy. And if the shouting becomes sufficiently intense, nobody notices that the original question has disappeared.

FROM “REMEMBER THE MAINE” TO “REMEMBER THE NATION”

The nineteenth-century yellow newspapers could take a complicated foreign-policy crisis and reduce it to a slogan: Remember the Maine! Modern political television can perform a similar compression.

A complicated economic question becomes: WHO IS ANTI-NATIONAL?

A constitutional dispute becomes: WHO HATES INDIA?

A communal incident becomes: WHO IS RESPONSIBLE?

A policy disagreement becomes: ARE YOU WITH US OR AGAINST US?

And suddenly there is no room for the irritating middle ground. Evidence becomes secondary. Context becomes suspicious. Nuance becomes anti-national. And uncertainty? Uncertainty is probably the most dangerous word ever invented for television news.

Imagine an anchor announcing: “Ladies and gentlemen, we don't know yet.” The programme would be over in thirty seconds.

So certainty wins. Even when certainty is not based on facts.

THE REAL PARALLEL

The most important similarity between yellow journalism and the phenomenon its critics call Godi Media is not simply political bias. It is the conversion of information into spectacle. The old newspapers had gigantic headlines. Today we have gigantic television graphics. They had dramatic illustrations. We have video loops. They had sensational crime stories. We have crime stories accompanied by music that makes the viewer feel as though civilisation is collapsing before the next commercial break. They had emotional nationalism. We have emotional nationalism in high definition. They had circulation wars. We have TRP wars.

And now we have something they could never have imagined: the smartphone.

A nineteenth-century newspaper could influence millions. A television channel could influence tens of millions. A viral clip can reach hundreds of millions before anyone has checked whether the clip is genuine.

The speed has changed everything.

A rumour that once required a printing press now requires only a thumb.

BUT THERE IS AN IMPORTANT DIFFERENCE

We should not lazily declare Godi Media to be simply “Yellow Journalism 2.0”. 

The historical circumstances are different.

Yellow journalism emerged primarily from fierce commercial competition between newspaper publishers. Pulitzer and Hearst were fighting for readers. Modern Indian media operates within a far more complicated environment. There are political relationships. Corporate ownership. Government advertising. Private advertising. Regulatory pressures. Access journalism. Ideological alignment. Audience segmentation. Television ratings. Digital advertising. Social-media algorithms. And, increasingly, the economic fragility of traditional journalism.

So the comparison is useful—but only up to a point.

The Yellow Kid papers were not permanently aligned with one political party in the manner critics sometimes allege about contemporary outlets. Indeed, the old newspapers could be simultaneously sensational, populist, investigative and politically opportunistic. Their first loyalty was often to circulation. And perhaps that is the uncomfortable lesson. A newspaper does not necessarily have to love a politician to become useful to one. All it needs is an incentive.

THE LAPDOG PROBLEM

The watchdog is one of journalism's oldest metaphors. The watchdog watches power. It barks when power misbehaves. It wakes the neighbourhood. It annoys the burglar. It occasionally annoys the owner too. That last function is rather important.

A watchdog that only barks at the neighbour is not much of a watchdog. It is a security advertisement.

Journalism has the same problem. If a government makes a good decision, journalists should report it. If it makes a bad decision, journalists should report that too. If the opposition makes a good argument, journalists should report it. If the opposition makes a foolish argument, journalists should report that too.

The job is not to maintain political balance by artificially giving every claim equal weight.

The job is to verify. To question. To contextualise. To distinguish allegation from evidence. To distinguish opinion from fact. And, occasionally, to utter the most unpopular sentence in modern media: “We don't know yet.”

THE GREAT MEDIA MAGIC TRICK

The most sophisticated form of propaganda does not necessarily involve inventing facts. Sometimes it involves arranging real facts into a misleading emotional narrative. That is much harder to detect.

Every individual fact may be technically correct. But the overall picture can still be distorted. Imagine a camera pointed at a massive crowd. Move it five degrees to the left. The picture changes. Move it five degrees to the right. It changes again.

The camera has not lied. The camera has simply chosen where you should look. That is why journalism needs more than factual accuracy. It needs context. Proportion. Transparency.

And intellectual honesty.

AND HERE IS THE IRONY

The Yellow Kid was a cartoon. Yet he acquired enough cultural importance to give an entire style of journalism its name. More than a century later, our screens are filled with far more sophisticated cartoons.

Some have expensive studios. Some have dramatic music. Some have animated maps. Some have enormous LED walls. And some even have journalists.

But the central temptation remains the same: If reality is complicated, simplify it. If the audience is bored, dramatise it. If the facts are uncertain, speculate. If the story is weak, enlarge the headline.

And if the audience becomes angry? Excellent. Engagement! The algorithm is happy. The advertiser is happy. The politician may be happy.

And somewhere, Joseph Pulitzer and William Randolph Hearst may be looking down at us and wondering why everyone is pretending they invented this.

THE FINAL QUESTION

So was yellow journalism responsible for the Spanish-American War? Not by itself.

Did it intensify public emotion? Yes, historians generally recognise that role.

Did the Yellow Kid cause the war? No. He was simply the mascot of a newspaper circulation battle.

And is every Indian media outlet that criticises the government or supports it automatically “Godi Media”? No. That label remains a contested political characterisation. But the larger warning deserves attention.

Whenever journalism becomes more interested in mobilising an audience than informing it, the distance between news and propaganda begins to shrink.

And that danger is not confined to the political Right. It is not confined to the political Left. It is not confined to India. It is a permanent danger wherever media organisations discover that outrage is more profitable than accuracy.

The nineteenth-century newspaper asked: How do we sell more newspapers?

The twentieth-century television channel asked: How do we get more viewers?

The twenty-first-century platform asks: How do we keep you from leaving?

And the answer, increasingly, seems to be: Give them something to be furious about.

So perhaps the real descendant of the Yellow Kid is not one particular Indian channel. Perhaps it is an entire media ecosystem in which attention has become the currency and outrage has become the business model.

The Yellow Kid wore yellow. Today's media comes in every colour imaginable. But the oldest lesson remains unchanged: When journalism stops asking, “Is this true?” and starts asking, “Will this sell?”—the public doesn't merely get news. It gets a show.

And the most dangerous thing about the show is that sometimes we mistake the applause for the truth.

Stay curious. Stay sceptical.

And above all, don’t let anyone, on television or anywhere else, do your thinking for you.

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The Age of Fait Accompli: The World Is Now Run By The Law Of The Louder Bully: A speculative geopolitical scenario, 2026–2036

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Imagine a world in which international disputes are no longer settled by patient negotiations, painstaking compromises and solemnly signed treaties. Instead, the powerful issue demands, impose deadlines, threaten tariffs, deploy warships, choke supply chains and test how much humiliation their adversaries can tolerate. When the weaker party finally yields, the victor announces that a historic agreement has been reached. Cameras flash. Hands are shaken. A joint communiqué celebrates peace.

Nobody mentions the gun resting beneath the negotiating table.

Welcome to the Age of the Fait Accompli, a hypothetical decade in which the most consequential diplomatic skill is no longer the art of persuasion but the ability to make resistance so expensive that surrender begins to look like statesmanship.

The central question is not whether diplomacy has disappeared. It has not. Embassies remain open, summits continue, telephone hotlines ring and diplomats produce enough communiqués to keep the world's printers employed. The more troubling possibility is that diplomacy is increasingly being used to legitimise outcomes produced by coercion rather than to prevent coercion in the first place.

That distinction could determine whether the international system survives the next decade with its institutions intact or descends into competing spheres of influence, transactional alliances and recurrent military crises.

One important qualification before we proceed: this is a forward-looking scenario, not a prediction that these events will necessarily occur. Some of the premises in the proposed narrative also require careful distinction between established events, contested interpretations and hypothetical developments. In particular, the alleged American kidnapping of Argentina's head of state and installation of a dummy government, as well as the claim that Washington has extracted its desired concessions from Greenland, should not be treated as established facts without reliable verification. The scenario below examines what would follow if comparable acts of coercion occurred and escaped meaningful consequences.

1. The causes: how the international order loses its restraints

The referee has a whistle, but cannot always blow it

The post-1945 international order was founded on a deceptively simple principle: states, regardless of their military strength, were expected to respect one another's sovereignty and settle disputes peacefully. Article 2 of the UN Charter expressly prohibits the threat or use of force against another state's territorial integrity or political independence, subject to the Charter's legal framework, including self-defence.

The problem is not that the rules have vanished. It is that enforcement depends heavily on the political will of states, including the very powers capable of obstructing collective action.

The five permanent members of the Security Council possess vetoes. When a permanent member is itself involved in a conflict, or is protecting an ally, the Council can struggle to respond decisively. This is institutional paralysis by design: the system's architects gave the great powers privileged authority to persuade them to remain inside the system, but that privilege also enables them to obstruct action against themselves.

The result is a peculiar contradiction. International law proclaims sovereign equality, while international politics operates through unequal capabilities.

A small country may find itself answering for a violation before international institutions. A major power may instead face sanctions, diplomatic condemnation, countermeasures or prolonged negotiations, depending on the circumstances. The law has not necessarily changed; the cost of violating it varies enormously.

The danger begins when unequal enforcement becomes an accepted feature of international life rather than an acknowledged failure of the system.

The precedent effect: every exception becomes somebody else's excuse

Consider the sequence of crises that has shaped the contemporary order: the US-led invasion of Iraq in 2003, Russia's annexation of Crimea in 2014 and its full-scale invasion of Ukraine in 2022. These events differ substantially in their circumstances and legal arguments. They should not be treated as interchangeable. Yet they all illustrate a wider problem: when states use force despite serious objections to its legality, the credibility of collective restraints suffers.

The lesson other governments may draw is not necessarily that a particular action was justified. It is that a sufficiently powerful state may be able to absorb the consequences.

Imagine a hypothetical American operation that removes a foreign president and installs a government dependent on Washington, without a credible legal justification or meaningful international accountability. The immediate victim would be the targeted country. The wider victim would be the principle that governments derive their authority from their own political and constitutional processes rather than the preferences of foreign capitals.

Other powers would quickly recognise the precedent's utility.

Moscow could invoke Western conduct to rationalise its own coercive policies. Beijing could argue that Washington's actions expose the selective application of international norms. Smaller regional powers might conclude that intervention is acceptable whenever it can be dressed up as security, stability or the restoration of legitimate government.

These arguments would not automatically become legally valid. But propaganda does not require legal validity. It requires a persuasive-sounding justification for audiences already inclined to believe it.

The result would be a world in which every breach of the rules becomes material for the next breach.

Power has become quicker than persuasion

Diplomacy is slow because genuine agreements require the reconciliation of competing interests. A successful negotiation must account for domestic politics, economic constraints, security concerns, public opinion and the possibility that today's compromise will become tomorrow's political liability.

Coercion offers a tempting shortcut.

A government can threaten punitive tariffs, restrict access to its financial system, suspend energy supplies, deploy military forces or condition security assistance on compliance. Such measures can create immediate pressure. Their effects may appear within days, whereas a negotiated settlement can take months or years.

But speed is not the same as durability.

A government that accepts an agreement under economic or military pressure may comply while the pressure remains overwhelming. It may subsequently seek alternative suppliers, diversify its alliances, develop indigenous weapons or wait for a change of government in the coercing state.

The apparent victory can therefore contain the seeds of its own reversal.

Domestic political incentives make the problem worse. Leaders who are judged by visible demonstrations of strength may prefer a humiliating concession extracted from another country to an inconspicuous compromise that prevents a crisis. The television audience sees a rival retreat. It does not see the future costs of lost trust, strategic realignment or an accelerated arms race.

Thus, the political reward arrives immediately, while the strategic bill is delivered later.

Greenland: the distinction between agreement and consent

The Greenland dispute offers a particularly revealing contemporary example of how strategic pressure can reshape negotiations without formal annexation.

On 22 September 2026, the United States, Denmark and Greenland signed a new security agreement. According to Reuters, the agreement provides for two additional American military locations, expanded operational access and a stronger American military presence in the Arctic. The arrangement builds on the existing US-Danish defence framework.

The agreement preserves Greenland's connection to Denmark rather than transferring sovereignty to the United States. It also provides for respect for Greenlandic self-determination, while establishing extensive American security privileges. The agreement remains subject to parliamentary approval, according to the published account.

These details matter. An agreement reached under intense political pressure is not automatically an invalid agreement, and the available reporting does not establish that Greenland was simply forced to accept every American demand.

Nevertheless, the episode illustrates the larger strategic question: how freely can a smaller political community negotiate when a much stronger ally has publicly raised the possibility of acquiring its territory?

Washington has clear strategic interests in Arctic surveillance, missile defence, military mobility and limiting Russian and Chinese access. Greenland has interests in its own security, economy, political autonomy and control over its future. Denmark has an interest in preserving the Kingdom's territorial integrity and NATO cohesion.

These interests overlap, but they are not identical.

The central issue is not whether expanded American military access can serve legitimate defence purposes. It can. The issue is whether the stronger party's threats change the balance of consent sufficiently to make a formally negotiated outcome resemble a concession extracted under duress.

This is the subtler form of power. No flag needs to be changed. No border needs to be redrawn. No occupying army needs to administer the territory. Yet the stronger state can acquire a substantially enlarged strategic position.

The new territorial ambition may not always be to own the land. It may be to secure so much control over its strategic use that formal ownership becomes less important.

That is an analytical interpretation of the Greenland episode, not proof that its agreement was imposed or that Greenland has surrendered its sovereignty.

Russia and China: different strategies, related incentives

Russia's war against Ukraine demonstrates the consequences of attempting to alter another country's political and territorial future by force. Its actions have also strengthened the incentive among neighbouring states to seek outside security assistance and reinforce their defences.

China's regional strategy presents a different combination of instruments: military pressure, maritime activity, economic leverage, diplomatic bargaining and the assertion of territorial claims. The Taiwan Strait and South China Sea are particularly consequential because a local confrontation could draw in multiple powers.

These cases are not identical. Russia's invasion of Ukraine, China's claims around Taiwan and maritime disputes, and America's military posture in the Arctic arise from different histories, legal circumstances and strategic objectives.

Yet each illustrates a recurring feature of great-power politics: states with sufficient resources may attempt to change the choices available to smaller actors before negotiations even begin.

The United States has its security concerns. Russia invokes its claimed security interests. China invokes sovereignty and territorial integrity. European governments invoke collective defence and the rules-based international order.

The question for each is whether the pursuit of security respects the security and political independence of others.

A world in which every power claims an exceptional right to determine its neighbours' choices cannot offer reliable security to anyone.

2. The mechanism of the new order: pressure first, diplomacy afterwards

Imagine that by 2027, a recognisable pattern has emerged.

A major power identifies a strategic objective. It issues demands, announces a deadline and signals that refusal will carry a price. The target government protests, seeks international support and requests negotiations. The stronger power increases the pressure until the target accepts a compromise. The final agreement is presented as evidence that diplomacy works. Technically, it does. There is an agreement. Fighting may have been avoided. A crisis may have subsided. But examine the process more closely. Was the outcome negotiated between parties with meaningful freedom of choice, or was one party compelled to choose between surrendering an interest and suffering a potentially catastrophic penalty?

This distinction could become the defining issue of international relations during the coming decade.

The coercion cycle

1. Strategic demand: A powerful state identifies territory, resources, military access or political concessions it wants.

2. Pressure and intimidation: Tariffs, sanctions, military deployments, threats or diplomatic isolation raise the cost of refusal.

3. A constrained agreement: The weaker party accepts some demands to avoid a worse outcome.

4. The precedent spreads: Other powers imitate the method, and smaller states begin preparing for similar treatment.

Illustrative scenario, not a claim that every international agreement follows this pattern.

The cycle is attractive because it can deliver immediate gains without the burdens of occupation or outright annexation. But it also changes how states interpret their relationships.

An ally begins wondering whether its security guarantees are dependable. A trading partner starts looking for alternative markets. A smaller neighbour considers acquiring weapons that would make coercion more costly. A regional power begins constructing an alternative economic and security network.

The original agreement may endure on paper even as trust in the relationship disintegrates.

This is how an apparently successful negotiation can weaken the foundations of the next one.

3. The consequences, 2026–2036

The following developments are plausible scenarios, not predictions of inevitable outcomes.

Phase I: 2026–2029 — The return of spheres of influence

The first consequence would be a gradual hardening of regional power blocs.

Washington might increasingly seek privileged influence throughout the Western Hemisphere and across strategically important Arctic routes. Moscow could intensify its efforts to control the security environment around Russia's borders. Beijing could seek to strengthen its position in East Asia and expand its influence through trade, infrastructure, technology and military capabilities.

The danger is not that these three powers have identical objectives. They do not. It is that each might become more willing to accept the principle that a sufficiently powerful state has special rights over its neighbourhood.

Smaller countries would face a difficult choice: accommodate the dominant power, seek protection from a rival, or try to maintain an increasingly precarious independence.

The world would not necessarily divide into three neat blocs. It could instead develop overlapping zones of influence, with governments switching partners according to the issue at hand. That would make international politics more fluid, but also more unpredictable.

Europe's predicament would be particularly acute.

European governments would have to manage Russian military pressure while reassessing the reliability and political conditions of American security support. The Greenland episode has already demonstrated how disputes between NATO allies can place strategic cooperation under strain even when their underlying security interests overlap.

Europe's response could include greater defence spending, more integrated military procurement, stronger domestic arms production and expanded coordination among European states.

But strategic autonomy is not a slogan that can be converted into an independent defence capability overnight. It requires money, industrial capacity, political coordination and agreement on what Europe must be able to defend without American assistance.

The transition would be expensive. Disagreement over who pays, which threats take priority and how national sovereignty should be reconciled with collective defence could slow it further.

Phase II: 2029–2033 — The security dilemma becomes a nuclear question

The second phase could be more dangerous because it would affect the calculations of states that currently depend on security assurances rather than independent nuclear deterrence.

Ukraine is central to this debate. Under the 1994 Budapest Memorandum, Russia, the United Kingdom and the United States reaffirmed commitments concerning Ukraine's sovereignty, existing borders and freedom from the threat or use of force. The memorandum also provided for consultations in specified circumstances.

Russia's subsequent actions against Ukraine have made the credibility of security assurances a major issue in international debate.

A crucial distinction is necessary here: the Budapest Memorandum was not an automatic mutual-defence treaty requiring the signatories to wage war on Ukraine's behalf. Nevertheless, the gap between assurances and effective protection has serious implications for how other governments assess diplomatic commitments.

Imagine a hypothetical country facing a powerful neighbour's territorial ambitions. Its leaders ask a question that could have far-reaching consequences:

If we surrender a strategic capability in exchange for promises, what happens when the promises are broken? The answer might be a decision to develop a nuclear deterrent, retain an existing weapons programme, or pursue closer military cooperation with a nuclear-armed patron. None of these choices is inevitable. Nuclear weapons carry enormous financial, diplomatic and security costs, and proliferation can provoke regional arms races. But if governments conclude that conventional alliances and international guarantees are insufficient, the political appeal of nuclear deterrence could grow.

The paradox is stark. A great power may use coercion to improve its immediate security, only to encourage neighbouring states to acquire capabilities that make future confrontations far more dangerous.

The result could be a world with more nuclear-armed states, shorter decision-making timelines and greater risks of miscalculation.

Phase III: 2033–2036 — Institutions survive, but their authority erodes

In the third phase, the international system might retain its familiar architecture while losing much of its practical authority.

The United Nations would continue holding debates. The World Trade Organization would continue handling disputes. International courts would continue issuing decisions. NATO would continue conducting exercises and consultations.

But governments might increasingly ask whether these institutions can protect their interests when a major power decides to ignore their rules.

This erosion would not happen uniformly. International institutions can remain effective in technical cooperation, public health, aviation, maritime safety, trade administration and numerous less-publicised disputes even when great-power relations deteriorate.

The danger is selective abandonment: states cooperate where cooperation is convenient and disregard common rules where compliance becomes strategically costly.

The economic consequences could be substantial.

Businesses would have to account for a greater risk of sanctions, export restrictions, confiscation, maritime disruption and sudden changes in market access. Governments might stockpile critical minerals, energy supplies, semiconductors and essential medicines. Supply chains could become more expensive as companies prioritise political security over efficiency.

Global trade would not necessarily collapse. It might instead become more fragmented, with competing technological standards, payment systems and industrial networks.

Consumers would pay some of the price through higher costs. Governments would pay through larger defence budgets and industrial subsidies. Developing countries would face difficult choices over which technological and financial ecosystems to join.

The economic logic of interdependence would change. Instead of being treated primarily as a source of mutual prosperity, dependence could increasingly be regarded as a vulnerability to be eliminated.

4. The two possible endings

By 2036, the world described in this scenario could follow two broad paths.

Path A: Miscalculation and escalation

Each major power assumes that its adversary will retreat rather than risk a direct confrontation. Repeated successes in pressuring smaller countries reinforce that belief. Eventually, a crisis over Taiwan, the Baltic region or Arctic security presents a rival with a choice between accepting a strategic defeat and intervening militarily.

The adversary refuses to back down. Mobilisations begin. Each side interprets defensive preparations as evidence of offensive intentions. Diplomatic channels remain open, but neither leadership wants to appear weak by compromising.

A local confrontation escalates into a wider conflict, potentially involving nuclear-armed states.

The catastrophe would not necessarily begin with a decision to start a world war. It could begin with two governments making incompatible assumptions about the other side's willingness to take risks.

Path B: A coalition for strategic restraint

Middle powers recognise that they cannot eliminate great-power competition, but they can make coercion more difficult and costly.

India, Brazil, Indonesia, Turkey, Gulf states and a more coordinated European Union could pursue different combinations of economic diversification, defence cooperation, diplomatic mediation and institutional reform.

Such a coalition would not need to agree on every political issue or become a formal military alliance. It would need a common interest in preserving freedom of action and preventing any single power from dictating the terms of international engagement.

Governments could coordinate responses to economic coercion, improve alternative supply chains, strengthen international dispute-resolution mechanisms and establish clearer consequences for violations of sovereignty. The objective would not be to defeat one particular great power. It would be to make coercion less profitable, regardless of who employs it.

Neither path is predetermined. The outcome would depend on political leadership, domestic constraints, economic conditions, military calculations and the ability of governments to maintain communication during crises.

5. What does this mean for India?

India occupies a particularly interesting position in this scenario.

It has strategic partnerships with the United States, longstanding defence ties with Russia, substantial economic interests in China and a declared interest in preserving strategic autonomy. Its foreign policy therefore depends on maintaining room for manoeuvre rather than becoming wholly dependent on any one power.

In a world increasingly organised around coercive leverage, that balancing act would become more demanding.

India could face pressure over its defence procurement, energy purchases, technology partnerships, trade policies and positions on international conflicts. Its economic and military scale would provide bargaining power, but it would not make the country immune to sanctions, supply-chain disruptions or pressure from larger coalitions.

Three challenges would become especially important.

First, reducing critical dependencies. Diversification of energy sources, defence equipment, technology, semiconductors and essential industrial inputs would improve India's capacity to withstand external pressure.

Second, building partnerships without surrendering flexibility. Cooperation with the United States, Europe, Japan, Australia, Russia and other partners would need to be assessed issue by issue. Strategic autonomy is most meaningful when a country possesses credible alternatives.

Third, investing in institutions and middle-power diplomacy. India could support practical mechanisms for crisis communication, maritime dispute resolution, arms control and economic resilience. Its ability to convene countries with different political systems could be valuable even where consensus on major conflicts remains elusive.

But there is a difficult balance to maintain. If every state responds to coercion by arming itself, building exclusive blocs and reducing economic dependence on others, the result could be greater resilience at the national level but less stability internationally.

India's challenge would be to strengthen its own freedom of action without contributing unnecessarily to a spiral of mutual suspicion.

6. The counterargument: has anything fundamentally changed?

A balanced assessment must acknowledge that great-power coercion is not a new invention.

Empires used it for centuries. During the Cold War, both superpowers employed military intervention, covert operations, economic pressure and support for client governments. Smaller countries have often had to navigate a gap between the formal equality of states and the realities of military and economic power.

Nor does every disagreement involving sanctions, tariffs or military deployments amount to illegitimate coercion. Governments can lawfully impose certain economic measures, negotiate defence agreements and protect legitimate security interests. The legality of any particular action depends on its circumstances and applicable international law.

Diplomacy also continues to resolve disputes that seldom attract public attention. Border arrangements, trade rules, consular cases, fisheries agreements and military deconfliction mechanisms can prevent serious conflicts without generating spectacular headlines.

And coercion can backfire. Russia's invasion of Ukraine strengthened the incentives for NATO members to reinforce collective defence. Economic restrictions can encourage targeted countries to diversify their suppliers and develop domestic alternatives. Threats against an ally can lead that ally to reconsider its dependence on the threatening power.

The genuinely troubling possibility, therefore, is not that diplomacy has suddenly died. It is that the balance between persuasion and coercion could shift far enough to make diplomatic agreements less trusted, international institutions less effective and military preparedness more central to national survival.

Conclusion: the world after the handshake

By 2036, the international community may still have its summits, treaties, flags and carefully choreographed handshakes. The United Nations may still convene emergency sessions. Leaders may still speak eloquently about peace, sovereignty and a rules-based order.

The decisive question will be whether those words continue to constrain behaviour when they become inconvenient.

A world governed entirely by power would not necessarily be a world of constant warfare. Powerful states can coexist for long periods through deterrence, tacit bargains and mutual fear. But such an order would leave smaller countries vulnerable to decisions in which they have little meaningful say. It would also make crises more difficult to resolve because every compromise would be judged against the possibility that backing down today invites further demands tomorrow.

The strongest defence against this outcome is not to imagine that diplomacy can replace power. It cannot. Effective diplomacy often depends on credible defence, economic resilience and the capacity to impose costs for violations.

The task is to ensure that power remains an instrument for protecting political independence rather than a licence to extinguish it.

For the international system, the choice is not simply between diplomacy and force. It is between a system in which force remains constrained by rules, reciprocal interests and credible consequences, and one in which rules apply most reliably to those least able to break them.

The most dangerous moment arrives when a government mistakes another country's temporary submission for lasting consent, or assumes that because its own coercion succeeded, its rivals will accept the same treatment indefinitely.

That is how a diplomatic victory can become a strategic trap.

And that is why the coming decade may test not whether diplomacy still exists, but whether the world's most powerful states are willing to accept that a settlement is truly durable only when the parties have compelling reasons to honour it after the pressure has been removed.

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