When Fiction Meets Foresight: A Reflection on The Last Writer of Kolkata and Other Stories based on the BCG Henderson Institute report.
Author – ABCGConsultant ( namekeptconfidential)
Reading the ‘Last Writer of Kolkata and other stories’ in the context of BCG Henderson Institute’s Beyond Tomorrow: Four Scenarios for the World of 2050 produces an unexpected sensation. I can confirm that the report is the product of rigorous analysis of megatrends, historical data and expert interviews. Shakti Ghosal’s book is speculative fiction. Yet both seem to be looking at the same horizon.
The BCG report reminds us that “the decisions leaders make over the next 5 years will shape the next 25.” It does not attempt to predict the future. Instead, it explores plausible futures emerging from forces already visible today. The four stories in this collection do something remarkably similar.
Consider TheLastWriterofKolkata. BCG’s “AI Abundance” scenario describes a world where AI transforms work, creativity and identity, leaving people searching for “meaning and identity beyond employment.” The ageing writer Rudra Bose inhabits a future shaped by a similar question. If machines can write, create and remember, what remains uniquely human? The story is not really about technology. It is about dignity, relevance and the stubborn human need to leave behind a voice that matters.
The Last Writer of Kolkata
In EchoChamber, technology enters an even more intimate space—memory itself. The BCG report warns that future societies may trade elements of personal freedom for stability, efficiency and social cohesion. The story asks a disturbing question: If our memories can be edited, curated or manipulated, what becomes of our identity? Memory, after all, is not merely a record of our lives. It is our life.
Echo Chamber
The environmental anxieties running through 2056: TheYearofWaterandFire find an echo in BCG’s climate scenarios. The report speaks of a world facing “stress on food and water systems” and increasingly extreme weather. The story translates those trends into human experience. Climate change is no longer a scientific projection; it becomes a force that shapes survival, migration and moral choices.
2056 The year of the Water and Fire
Perhaps the most poignant parallel emerges in WhentheRainRemembered. BCG highlights ageing populations, declining fertility and shifting demographics as defining features of the coming decades. Ghosal imagines the emotional consequences of those trends. The story asks what happens when societies grow older, families become smaller, and loneliness becomes a public condition rather than a private feeling.
When the Rain Remembered’
What makes this collection noteworthy is that it does not offer technological optimism or dystopian despair. Instead, it explores the fragile space in between. Like the BCG report, it understands that the future is not a destination but a series of choices.
The greatest compliment one can pay The Last Writer of Kolkata and Other Stories is this: the book does not feel like fiction written about tomorrow. It feels like tomorrow trying to speak to us today.
About a year back, I happened to sit at the lunch table with one of the participants of a Leadership workshop I was conducting. Let us call him Arun.
As I tried to engage him in a polite conversation, I found him to be withdrawn and seemingly lost in some other thoughts. When I enquired about this, he blurted out, “Professor, I was trying to relate what you said in class to my interaction with a colleague. Every time we discuss a new project, she starts asking so many questions. By the time she’s finished, we’ve lost momentum.”
I asked, “What would you say makes her do that? Is it something she perceives about you?”
Arun smiled, “Probably that I move too fast.”
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“Could it be that both of you right?” So saying, I took out my pen and drew a rough sketch on a piece of paper.
“Imagine a large forest,” I said. “Now imagine two people standing at different windows overlooking that forest. One person sees a waterfall. The other sees a mountain trail. Both are describing the same forest. But neither is seeing the whole picture.”
Arun leaned forward, “So you’re saying that’s what happens at work?”
“Every day,” I said. “We often assume that because we share an office, a company, a language, or even a country, we share the same perspective. But we don’t.
Each of us arrives at work carrying years of our very own specific experiences, beliefs, successes, disappointments, cultures, family influences and personal values. We may be looking at the same challenge. But we are never looking from the same window.
Arun was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “So when I think she’s slowing things down, she may think she’s reducing risk.”
“Exactly.”
Arun nodded slowly, understanding dawning on his face, “And when she thinks I’m rushing, I may simply be focused on opportunity.”
The conversation shifted. We stopped talking about who was right and started talking about what each person could see that the other could not. That’s when something interesting happened. The earlier uncertainty seemed to disappear, curiosity taking its place.
I have noticed that many workplace conflicts begin with a simple assumption: “If I see it this way, everyone else should see it this way too.”
But diversity is not simply about nationality, gender, age, language or background. It is about perspective. It is about recognising that another person’s life has given them a view of the world that is different from ours. And that can be valuable precisely because it is different. The irony is that organisations spend enormous amounts of money searching for innovation, yet innovation is often hiding inside the perspectives we dismiss too quickly. If everyone in a meeting thinks the same way, the discussion may be comfortable. But it is unlikely to be transformative.
Before we left, Arun said something that stayed with me. “You know Professor, I spent the entire time of our interaction trying to convince her to look through my window. Maybe I should spend more time looking through hers.”
That, perhaps, is the real gift of diversity. Not that it makes agreement easier. But that it makes understanding deeper. The world does not need more people defending their windows. It needs more people willing to explore the forest. And every time we replace judgment with curiosity, comparison with appreciation, and certainty with learning, the forest becomes a little larger than we imagined.
What if the next breakthrough in your life is waiting in a perspective you have not yet taken the time to understand?
I recall a conversation from many years back. During an overseas visit, I was having coffee with a colleague and I found him looking frustrated and confused.
He pushed aside his tray and said, “I don’t get it. We’ve analysed the issue of increasing our business share from this market from every angle. We’ve got the data, the reports, the projections. Yet we seem to be still stuck.”
“Maybe that’s the problem,” I replied.
He looked at me, uncertainty writ on his face, “How can having more data be the problem?”
“Because sometimes,” I said, “we can become so busy looking for the right answer that we stop looking for other possibilities.”
He smiled politely—the kind of smile people give when they think you have said something impractical, “So what’s the alternative? Ignore the facts?”
“Not at all. Facts matter. But facts tell us what is. Creativity asks what could be.” That seemed to catch his attention. I related a story.
“In the 1970s, a scientist at 3M was trying to create a super-strong adhesive. The adhesive was weak. By conventional standards, the experiment was a disappointment. It seemed a failure. That’s exactly how most people saw it. But years later, someone else looked at the same ‘failed’ adhesive and saw a different possibility. The result was the Post-it Note.”
My colleague laughed, “So one of the world’s most successful office products began as a mistake?”
“Or perhaps,” I said, “it began as a possibility that nobody had noticed yet.”
For a moment, neither of us spoke. Then he said something interesting.
“You know, in our meetings we’re always asking, ‘Will this work?’ Maybe we should first ask, ‘What else could this become?'”
Now we were getting somewhere. The truth is that most organisations reward certainty. We admire people who have answers. We celebrate expertise. We fill spreadsheets, analyse trends and minimise risks. All these are important. But the future is rarely created by these certain aspects alone. It is often created by someone willing to explore a possibility that doesn’t yet fit neatly into a presentation slide.
The more we talked, the more I realised that creativity is not about being artistic. It is not about painting, music or design. Possibilities which flow out of a creative mindset is the courage to see beyond the obvious. It is the willingness to ask a different question. It is the ability to sit with uncertainty long enough for a new idea to emerge.
Before we left, my colleague said, “Maybe we’ve been trying too hard to find the right path.”
“Perhaps,” I replied. “Sometimes the breakthrough comes when you stop looking for the path and start exploring the landscape.”
A few days later he called, “We’ve found a completely different solution. We stopped trying to prove what was possible and started imagining it. Imagining the end goal, without getting enmeshed with how to make that happen, allowed new possibilities to show up.”
That conversation stayed with me. Because in a world overflowing with information, knowledge is no longer the rarest resource. Possibility is. And every great innovation, every breakthrough and every new beginning starts with a simple question:
A tiger—nature’s embodiment of power—lying quietly on the face of the Buddha. What struck me was not the contrast, but the harmony.
As we grow older, many of us spend years trying to get rid of our inner tiger. Our anger. Our ambition. Our ego. Our restlessness needs to prove ourselves. But perhaps wisdom is not about killing the tiger.Perhaps it is about teaching it to rest.
The tiger is still there. The strength is still there. The fire is still there. But it no longer needs to bare its teeth at every passing challenge.
I have met people who were gentle because they were weak. And I have met a few who were gentle because they were strong enough to choose peace.The second kind are rare.
Looking at this image, I was reminded that the real journey is not from power to powerlessness. It is from power to self-mastery.
Over coffee during an office one to one meeting, a colleague—let’s call him Arvind—looked visibly irritated.
“Honestly,” he said, stirring his coffee with unnecessary force, “I don’t understand how some people get promoted. That guy in Operations is always late, misses details, and somehow everyone thinks he’s brilliant.”
I smiled. “That sounds less like an observation and more like a verdict.”
He laughed. “Come on. I’m just being realistic.”
“Maybe,” I said. “Or maybe you’re being human.”
He looked at me curiously.
I asked, “Have you noticed what happens when we judge someone?”
“What?”
“We stop being curious.”
I could immediately see that my words had landed and Arvind had a thoughtful expression. I continued.
“When we label someone—lazy, incompetent, arrogant, unprofessional—we close the case in our minds. We allow no appeal, no fresh evidence and no deeper inquiry.”
Arvind leaned back slowly, “So you’re saying judgment is wrong?”
“N, I would not say that. I think discernment is necessary as Leaders must make decisions. But judgment—the kind that quietly declares I understand this person completely, and I know why they are wrong—that’s something else.”
I could sense that Arvind was listening now. I probed, “Think about the last time someone judged you. You probably didn’t feel inspired. You felt defensive. That’s because judgment rarely creates dialogue. It creates distance.”
After a pause, he said, “But what if I’m right?”
I laughed and said, “Even if you are right, judgment often makes the other person stop listening. The issue is not factual accuracy. It’s emotional impact.”
He went quiet.
Then I asked, “Suppose his lateness isn’t carelessness. Suppose he’s caring for an ill parent. Suppose he works differently. Suppose the brilliance others see is something you haven’t yet noticed.”
“You’re asking me to assume the best?”
“No. I’m asking you to remain open.”
Another silence. Then he said softly, “So where does judgment come from?”
That was the real question. “Sometimes,” I said, “from our own insecurity. Comparison is judgment in formal clothes. When we are fully at peace with ourselves, we spend less energy measuring others.”
“That’s uncomfortable.”
“Growth usually is.”
As we got up to leave, he said, “You know, I was actually upset because I thought I deserved that recognition.”
There it was. It was Hurt masquerading as Anger. It was not superiority, it was vulnerability.
And that’s the thing about judgment. It often enters wearing the mask of certainty, when what’s really underneath is something unresolved within us.
Since that conversation, I’ve been asking myself a different question—not ‘What’s wrong with that person?’ but ‘What story am I telling myself about them—and why?’
Judgment may be instinctive. But awareness is a choice. And perhaps leadership begins there.
More than a decade after my coaching certification, certain ideas still return to me with surprising clarity. One of them is deceptively simple:
The difference between reacting and responding.
Most leaders intellectually understand this distinction. Few recognise how profoundly it shapes their daily impact.
I was reminded of this during a coaching conversation with a senior executive — let me call him Raghav. Raghav was known for his brilliance and intensity. Quick thinker. Decisive. Deeply committed. But his team described him using another word, offered cautiously and repeatedly: “Intimidating.”
When he came into coaching, his concern was framed differently. “My team has become strangely silent,” he told me. “Meetings lack energy. No one challenges anything. It’s frustrating.”
Frustration, I have learned, is often an interesting doorway.
“What usually happens when someone disagrees with you?” I asked. He looked puzzled. “Nothing unusual. We discuss.”
But leaders rarely observe their own behavioural patterns with accuracy. Our reactions are invisible to us precisely because they are so familiar. So, I asked him to walk me through a recent meeting.
He described a discussion where a junior manager questioned a proposal. As he narrated the incident, something subtle appeared — not in his words, but in his tone. “I explained why the idea wouldn’t work,” he said.
Then after a pause: “Perhaps a bit sharply.” “What do you think the manager experienced in that moment?” I asked. He shrugged. “Direct feedback.” “And if we asked them?” Silence.
The human mind is wonderfully efficient at justifying its own reactions.
**
In coaching, reactions are rarely the real story. Triggers are.
“What specifically triggered your response?” I asked. “The suggestion didn’t make sense.” “Was it the quality of the idea,” I continued, “or the fact that it challenged yours?”
That question lingered longer. Eventually he smiled — the kind that signals reluctant insight. “I don’t like being questioned in areas I know well.”
There it was. A deeply human pattern. Trigger → irritation → sharp dismissal.
Repeated often enough, reactions harden into leadership style. Unexamined long enough, they reshape culture.
We explored a small experiment. “Next time you feel that familiar irritation,” I said, “don’t change your opinion. Don’t soften your standards. Simply pause.”
“Pause?”
“Four seconds,” I suggested. “One breath. No words.” He laughed. “That sounds trivial.” “It is trivial,” I agreed. “And extremely difficult.”
Because reactions are automated. Responses are chosen.
**
Several weeks later, Raghav returned with an observation that genuinely surprised him. “The meetings feel different,” he said.
“What changed?”
“I haven’t changed my decisions,” he clarified. “But I’ve started noticing the moment before I speak.”
“And?”
“The irritation is still there,” he admitted. “But the pause stops me from firing.” That single gap — barely a few seconds — had altered the emotional climate of his interactions.
People spoke more. Defensiveness reduced. Energy returned. Nothing structural had changed. Only awareness.
**
Reacting is effortless because it is borrowed from the past — old patterns, old triggers, old conditioning.
A decade after my executive coaching certification, one idea continues to stay with me: Accountability is rarely about others. It is about the promises we make to ourselves.
Not the corporate version of deadlines, dashboards, and reviews. Something quieter. More personal.
A simple question: Who holds us accountable for the things that truly matter?
The uncomfortable answer: we do.
**
Some time ago, a senior leader — let’s call him Arvind — walked into my office. Highly capable. Well respected. Clearly exhausted.
“I’m working harder than ever,” he said, “but everything feels stuck.”
Experience has taught me that “everything” usually has a centre of gravity.
“What feels most stuck?” I asked.
“My restructuring initiative,” he replied. “Everyone agrees it’s necessary. But it’s just not happening.”
“What’s stopping it?”
“The usual,” he sighed. Quarterly pressures. Reviews. Endless fires. Bad timing.
Logical. Reasonable. Entirely human.
But then I asked him three questions:
“If the Chairman had mandated this with a deadline — would it still be pending?” “Of course not.”
“If your compensation depended on it?” “Would have been done already.”
“If your team’s survival required it?” “ Then, I would have done it yesterday.”
And there it was. The barrier wasn’t capability, clarity, or even time. It was consequence. Nothing happened if he delayed. No penalty. No discomfort. No urgency.
**
“Whose goal is this restructuring?” I asked.
“Mine.”
“Imposed?”
“No.”
“Do you believe in it?”
“Completely.”
“Then what agreement have you made with yourself about it?”
Silence. Then a smile of recognition. “None.”
**
Many of us confuse intention with commitment.
We say:
• I should do this • I need to get to that • I’ve been meaning to…
But progress rarely responds to “should.”
“What if,” I suggested, “you treated this not as a project — but as a promise?” Something you either honour or break. Not endlessly postpone.
**
“What’s the next visible action?” I asked.
“Announcing it to my leadership team.”
“When?”
“…Friday.”
“And how would you like me to support your accountability?” That question matters. Accountability imposed feels like control. Accountability invited becomes partnership.
“Ask me next week,” he said. “And challenge me if I haven’t done it.”
**
The following Tuesday he returned, noticeably lighter. “It’s done.”
“What changed?”
“I stopped treating it as something I should do,” he said, “and started treating it as something I had said I would do.”
A small shift. A profound one.
**
The most important commitments in our lives rarely come with external enforcement. No one penalises postponed courage. No dashboard tracks delayed growth. And yet, these commitments shape everything.
Accountability is not a management technique. It is a quiet act of integrity —an agreement between who we are today and who we intend to become.
**
Curious to hear your thoughts: 👉 Where have you seen self-accountability make the biggest difference in leadership or life?
It was midway through my elective course “Winning in a Disruptive World” at IIM Nagpur last month when a student raised a question that momentarily silenced the class.
“Professor,” he began, “Elon Musk and Tesla seem to have anticipated the future before anyone else — electric vehicles, reusable rockets, large-scale battery storage. How does someone think so far ahead and act with that kind of conviction when others are still debating the probability of success?”
It was an incisive question — and one that went to the heart of what our course was about: how to win, not just survive, in a world defined by disruption.
The Disruptive Context
Disruption today is not an occasional storm; it’s the climate we live in. The rules of business are rewritten faster than most organizations — or individuals — can adapt.
In the course, we explored how the world has shifted from the VUCA paradigm — Volatile, Uncertain, Complex, Ambiguous — to what futurist Jamais Cascio calls BANI — Brittle, Anxious, Non-linear, and Incomprehensible. In such a world, the question isn’t whether disruption will occur; it’s whether we are ready to anticipate and shape it.
That was precisely what Elon Musk and Tesla managed to do — not by reacting to disruption, but by engineering it.
Tesla and the Power of Future-Back Thinking
When traditional automakers analyzed the electric vehicle (EV) opportunity, they saw it through the lens of probability. Their forecasts said adoption would be slow. Battery costs were high. Charging networks were inadequate. The “safe” conclusion was that the world wasn’t ready.
Tesla took the opposite route. It didn’t ask, What’s probable today? It asked, What’s possible tomorrow?
That question unlocked an entirely different trajectory.
Musk’s strategy exemplifies what I call Anticipatory Future-Back Thinking — a concept we explored in the later sessions of the course. It involves imagining the desired future state first — in this case, a world where sustainable energy mobility is the norm — and then working backward to identify what must be true today to make that future real.
Rather than extrapolating from today’s constraints, Tesla worked backward from a bold vision of tomorrow. That shift — from present-forward to future-back — is what differentiates disruptors from the disrupted.
Exploring Anticipatory future back thinking
Possibility vs. Probability: The Mindset Divide
When I turned back to my student’s question, I began with a simple observation.
“Most organizations,” I said, “plan from the present forward. They look at past data, run probability models, and make incremental improvements. That’s the Kodak way of thinking — safe, predictable, and ultimately self-limiting.”
In contrast, possibility thinkers — like Tesla — start from a future that doesn’t yet exist. They ask, What could be true if we dared to imagine differently?
Daniel Burrus, the futurist who first articulated the concept of Hard Trends, reminds us that the future is not entirely uncertain. Some aspects — technological evolution, demographic shifts, regulatory movements — are future facts. These are the certainties around which possibility thinking can safely operate.
Tesla built its strategy precisely on such hard trends:
The inevitability of climate change driving clean energy adoption
The advancement of battery technology and digital control systems
The regulatory momentum toward lower emissions
These were not probabilities; they were certainties in motion. Musk simply connected them into a coherent future vision — and then acted as if that future were already here.
From Disruption to Design
This is the essence of anticipatory leadership — not reacting to disruption, but designing it.
In my sessions, we discussed how the future-back approach allows leaders to create clarity where uncertainty dominates. It flips the conventional question from “What will happen to us?” to “What must we make happen?”
The difference is profound.
Present-forward leaders forecast the future.
Future-back leaders architect it.
McKinsey’s research on future-back strategy underscores that such leaders don’t rely on forecasts alone. They use scenario design to imagine multiple plausible futures and then work backward to identify strategic moves that remain resilient across them.
That’s what Tesla did: invest early in charging infrastructure, build direct-to-consumer distribution, and create software-driven vehicles that improve over time. Each move was part of a deliberate future architecture.
The Classroom Reflection
I recall telling my students that day: “Elon Musk is not successful because he predicts the future; he’s successful because he constructs it backwards.*”
In the classroom, this insight tied together much of what we had explored:
Hard Trends (what is certain) form the foundation.
The Three Lists (what I’m certain of, what I know, what I can do) create clarity.
Resilience sustains momentum when the future resists you.
Each of these steps builds toward the mindset of a possibility architect — someone who doesn’t wait for disruption, but wields it as a tool.
As the discussion deepened, another student remarked, “So Tesla wasn’t just lucky — it was structurally anticipatory.”
Exactly.
The Classroom reflection
Why This Matters Beyond Tesla
Every industry today — from energy and aviation to education and healthcare — faces its own “Tesla moment.”
In the energy sector, companies that waited for the probability of renewables to rise are now scrambling to catch up with those who invested early in solar and storage. In education, universities that anticipated the AI wave and reimagined learning around it are moving ahead, while others debate policies. Even in government policy, we see anticipatory thinking at work in projects like UPI and ONDC, where India intentionally designed positive disruption instead of waiting to be disrupted.
The principle is the same: the future belongs to those who can see differently, envision differently, and execute differently.
A Call to Future Architects
At the end of that class, I offered the students a reflection that I’ll share here too.
Winning in a disruptive world doesn’t mean outpacing change — it means aligning yourself with the inevitabilities of tomorrow and daring to act before others see them as obvious.
Elon Musk’s brilliance lies not in foresight alone, but in the courage to build on the certainties he could already see — however faintly — and to commit resources to them before anyone else believed.
For leaders and managers today, the lesson is clear: Don’t ask, What’s probable? Ask, What’s possible — and what must I do today to make it inevitable?
Closing Reflection
As we wrapped up the session that day, I noticed a quiet shift in the room. The students weren’t merely intrigued by Tesla anymore — they were reflecting on their own “future-back” opportunities.
That, to me, was the real win.
Because when young leaders begin to think like architects of the future rather than survivors of disruption, they start embodying the very mindset our world now demands — one that balances imagination with foresight, vision with action, and optimism with resilience.
And perhaps, in some classroom somewhere, the next Tesla is already being imagined.
In an age of selective hearing, understanding whose voices are ignored—and whose are feared—reveals the deeper politics of power and truth.
Abstract
In a world overflowing with voices, some are never heard. Some are never allowed to speak. This article explores the crucial difference between those who are voiceless and those who are deliberately silenced. One group is ignored, the other is feared. Understanding this difference helps us see the mechanics of power, injustice, and the politics of listening in today’s world. As Noam Chomsky famously said, “The smart way to keep people passive and obedient is to strictly limit the spectrum of acceptable opinion, but allow very lively debate within that spectrum.”
**
The idea of this piece came to me when in a social media group discussion about the unevenness of spiritual access in India based on class, caste and privilege, someone quoted author Arundhati Roy’s quote that “There’s really no such thing as the ‘voiceless’. There are only the deliberately silenced, or the preferably unheard.”
The more I thought about what Arundhati had opined, the more I sensed that she had lumped two discrete aspects of our society into one.
What is being Voiceless?
I recall the first few days of India’s response to the COVID – 19 pandemic and the lockdown that ensued. When the country literally shut down with just four hours’ notice, millions of workers—daily wage earners, domestic helpers, factory hands—were stranded without transport, money, or food. With no options available and with little support, around 40 million workers began walking hundreds of kilometres back to their villages. What came to be known as the great migrant crisis of the pandemic.
The workers weren’t silent, in fact far from it. They shared stories, walked in mass protests, called journalists. But their pain barely entered the official narrative. The crisis was, for a time, treated like an unfortunate footnote in a larger national story.
Migrant workers during pandemic
“The working class was not just unseen—they were not considered,” wrote Harsh Mander in The Indian Express. “It was a failure of both empathy and accountability.”
These were people whose voices weren’t suppressed, but simply didn’t count. That’s what it means to be voiceless.
As sociologist Michael Schudson put it, “Communication is a resource distributed as unequally as income or education.” Some voices simply don’t travel—not because they’re weak, but because the world refuses to hear them. This is indeed ironic in an age in which speaking up in fact has never been easier. Through the universal access to tweets, videos, blogs, and platforms are everywhere. But being heard? That’s something else entirely.
Being voiceless doesn’t mean someone has nothing to say. It means that what they say doesn’t register. Their stories don’t make the news. Their ideas don’t get invited to conferences. Their lives rarely shape policy decisions. They live in the blind spots of our systems. One of the main aspects which makes our society unequal.
Now let’s look at the aspect of those who Are the Silenced?
In 2017, the gruesome assassination of Gauri Lankesh hit the headlines in India. A fearless journalist and activist, Lankesh had been a sharp critic of communal violence, right-wing extremism, and state-sponsored misinformation. Her Kannada weekly, Gauri Lankesh Patrike, became a platform for truth-telling and resistance.
Gauri was shot dead outside her home in Bengaluru, her murder was not random—it was a warning.
Gauri Lankesh assassination
As journalist Rana Ayyub wrote: “Gauri’s crime was that she refused to be quiet.”
Gauri Lankesh had a platform. She was being heard. And that is exactly why she was targeted. She wasn’t voiceless. She was silenced because her voice made those in power uncomfortable. To those in power, Gauri’s voice had become too powerful; her words shone light on dark places, threatened the status quo, exposed inconvenient truths.
A recent report by the Committee to Protect Journalists ( CPJ) noted that a record number of journalists were jailed in 2022—not for false reporting, but for exposing the truth. As the CPJ observed: “Censorship is no longer enough; silencing must be enforced.”
Can we now see the intrinsic difference between those who are voiceless, and those who are deliberately silenced? Some people, no matter how loudly they speak, never seem to matter. Others are quickly shut down because what they say matters too much. The first are ignored. The second are suppressed. And both are symptoms of a far deeper crisis of listening in our times.
Why the Difference Matters
At first glance, both the voiceless and the silenced seem to suffer the same fate: not being heard. But the reasons behind their invisibility are fundamentally different.
The voiceless are ignored because they’re deemed irrelevant.
The silenced are suppressed because they’re considered dangerous.
One is a symptom of systemic neglect. The other, of deliberate fear.
Understanding this distinction is vital. It helps us recognize the difference between absence and erasure, between invisibility and targeting.
The Role of Selective Listening
Today, listening has become selective and often algorithmic. Digital platforms and connectivities are amplifying outrage, repetition, and ideology—not complexity, dissent, or nuance. In such a space, it’s easy for the voiceless to disappear into the margins, and for the silenced to be made invisible through force or discrediting.
We need to recognize that the difference between the voiceless and the silenced also changes how we respond. We might decide to support in the following manner.
The voiceless need amplification. Their stories must be brought to the centre. This would require better representation, inclusive platforms, and ethical journalism.
The silenced need protection. They must be defended by laws, by solidarity, and by public pressure. Their speech is often a warning bell the rest of us ignore at our own peril.
Both are vital to a functioning democracy. But only one—the silenced—reminds us that truth still threatens power.
In musing……. Shakti Ghosal
References
Schudson, Michael. The Sociology of News. W. W. Norton & Company, 2000.
Committee to Protect Journalists. Record Number of Journalists Jailed Worldwide. CPJ, 2022. https://cpj.org/reports/2022
Chomsky, Noam. Media Control: The Spectacular Achievements of Propaganda. Seven Stories Press, 1997.
Mander, Harsh. “Locked Down and Left Behind.” The Indian Express, May 2020.
Ayyub, Rana. “Gauri Lankesh’s Murder Was Not an Aberration.” The Washington Post, Sept 2017
This article explores the social behavior commonly referred to as “Puppy Dog Wag Tail Syndrome”—where older individuals attempt to gain acceptance from younger social groups through excessive compliance, self-effacement, or mimicry, wagging one’s tail so to say! While this behavior stems from a natural human desire for belonging, it often compromises one’s authenticity and self-respect. Drawing from research in social psychology, this piece delves into the emotional drivers behind such behavior and advocates for embracing authenticity across generational lines.
Have you ever witnessed an elderly individual awkwardly trying to “blend in” with a younger group? Perhaps they crack out-of-place jokes, adopt unfamiliar slang, or seem constantly eager to please — laughing too hard, offering unsolicited help, or nervously seeking approval. This performative effort to fit in, often at the cost of dignity and self-awareness, is what might be called Puppy Dog Syndrome. Much like an over-eager pet desperate for affection, the individual’s behavior becomes centered around pleasing others, often sacrificing self-expression and confidence in the process.
While it may appear superficial on the surface, this behavior is rooted in something deeply human: the need to belong. Social psychologists Roy Baumeister and Mark Leary (1995) identified belongingness as a fundamental human motivation. Regardless of age, people crave connection, approval, and inclusion. Yet, when belonging feels uncertain — especially in cross-generational settings where values, cultural references, and energy levels diverge — the fear of exclusion can drive compensatory behaviors.
Older individuals, particularly in youth-dominated spaces like workplaces, social media platforms, or casual gatherings, may feel a loss of relevance or influence. In such settings, some try to gain favor by imitating youth or subordinating themselves — often unconsciously — in exchange for social acceptance. But the cost of such behavior can be significant. Carl Rogers, the humanistic psychologist, referred to this pattern as living according to “conditions of worth” — behaving in ways that earn external validation rather than expressing one’s true self.
This misalignment can take a psychological toll. A 2006 study by Kernis and Goldman found that chronic inauthenticity is associated with lower self-esteem, increased anxiety, and reduced life satisfaction. It’s a hollow kind of belonging that demands constant performance, rather than one built on mutual respect and individuality.
What’s most tragic about Puppy Dog Syndrome is that it often masks the rich experience, insight, and stability that older individuals have to offer. Rather than chasing youth, they might be better served — and more appreciated — by showing up as their authentic selves, offering perspective rather than parody.
Intergenerational engagement works best not through mimicry but through mutual curiosity and honesty. Younger generations often value authenticity more than they let on. There’s strength in standing tall in one’s own identity, wisdom in speaking with one’s own voice, and grace in not needing to follow the crowd.
In a world obsessed with fitting in, perhaps the most radical act is simply being yourself — fully, unapologetically, and without the need for approval.
References
Baumeister, R. F., & Leary, M. R. (1995). The need to belong: Desire for interpersonal attachments as a fundamental human motivation. Psychological Bulletin, 117(3), 497–529.
Kernis, M. H., & Goldman, B. M. (2006). A multicomponent conceptualization of authenticity: Theory and research. Advances in Experimental Social Psychology, 38, 283–357.
Rogers, C. R. (1959). A theory of therapy, personality and interpersonal relationships as developed in the client-centered framework. In S. Koch (Ed.), Psychology: A Study of a Science, Vol. 3. McGraw-Hill.
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