The Dark Ages of conscience: Rethinking Europe’s rise without the myth of virtue

History is often narrated as if it were a sermon. We like to believe that moral clarity triumphs, that civilizations rise when virtues blossom and fall when vices become intolerable. 

Yet the story of slavery’s disappearance from Europe after the collapse of Rome tells a different tale—one where economics smothers morality, and where the so-called “progress of conscience” is little more than a rearrangement of incentives.

Slavery, that ancient and brutal institution, faded from Europe not at the height of its intellectual brilliance but precisely during what later historians would label the Dark Ages. The disappearance of slavery was not accompanied by a burst of light, but by a dimming of power. “History rarely abolishes an institution out of compassion,” as one philosopher observed, “but often out of exhaustion.” Rome’s machinery had collapsed; the system that fed on slaves was too weak to sustain itself.

And yet, modern European memory prefers a gentler explanation: Christianity. It is comforting to believe that spiritual awakenings liberate bodies. But the record tells us something more ambivalent. Medieval theologians debated the soul’s salvation far more than the slave’s emancipation. Later centuries would reveal the irony with painful clarity: Christian conquistadors and Protestant merchants built slavery on a planetary scale. The cross and the whip often sailed on the same ship.

The more plausible engine of change was feudalism. Europe did not morally transcend slavery—it replaced it. The feudal lord had no use for chattel slaves when serfs could be bound to the soil through custom, obligation, and necessity. The manor replaced the plantation; the chain became invisible. Feudalism did not awaken Europe’s conscience; it merely taught Europe another technique of domination. As a result, the continent survived, but did not flourish. It lived, as it were, in a long twilight.

This is the uncomfortable hypothesis: Europe’s great ages of power correlate disturbingly well with its access to coerced labour. When Europe abandons slavery, Europe withers; when Europe embraces it, Europe ascends.

The fifteenth century proved the point. Europe’s re-emergence into global power was not powered by piety, nor by a spontaneous improvement in diligence, but by the mass enslavement of Africans. Between 12 and 18 million people were transported across the Atlantic—an atrocity industrial in scale, theological in justification, and civilizational in effect.

The plantations of the New World—built on the backs of Africans—did not merely produce crops; they produced Europe’s re-entry into world history. Before Africans arrived, European settlers in the Americas were, quite literally, dying out. Their life expectancy hovered near twenty-five years; starvation and disease threatened the colonial project. In a tragic twist of history, Africans saved the European presence in the Americas; without African labour, the “West” might never have become Western.

And yet Europe congratulated itself with another myth: the “Western work ethic.” Max Weber, that eloquent theorist of capitalism, attributed Europe’s ascent to the Protestant ethic—discipline, frugality, and industriousness. But the plantations tell a different story: If the Europeans possessed such a superior work ethic, why did their prosperity require millions of enslaved labourers? A civilization that relies on coerced bodies should hesitate before praising its own industrious spirit.

The paradox deepens in the twentieth century. As Europe and the United States industrialised into great powers, they steadily shifted their agriculture to Latin America and Africa, and their manufacturing to East Asia. The global economy rearranged itself along a new axis: the so-called engines of Western productivity were powered by the labour of non-Western hands. If Weber had travelled through Asia, he might have rewritten his thesis altogether—perhaps not “The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism,” but “The Discipline of Asia and the Exhaustion of Europe.”

History, when stripped of its comforting narratives, forces us to confront a sobering truth: Civilizations do not rise because they work harder or pray better. They rise because they discover, justify, or outsource labour.

Europe tells this story with a peculiar combination of moral pride and historical amnesia. But beneath the surface lies an older, harsher logic: whenever Europe loses control over cheap labour—whether in antiquity or in modern times—it enters a winter of decline. And whenever it regains such control, it reclaims a summer of strength.

Whether this is a cycle or a curse depends on what humanity chooses to remember—and what it chooses to forget.

UN, IMF, World Bank:The last colonial club

Plaque Commemorating Formation of

 IMF in July 1944

The global order is a museum of Western power — polished, curated, and protected by velvet ropes. 

The UN, the IMF and the World Bank proudly claim to represent humanity, but the architecture of these institutions still reflects the world of 1945, when colonial empires still breathed and Asia was on its knees. The difference today is jarring: Europe’s share of global GDP has shrunk, but its grip on global governance remains a clenched fist.

Henry Kissinger once said, “Power is the ultimate aphrodisiac.” The world’s most powerful nations built multilateralism not as a moral project, but as a mechanism to institutionalize their dominance. And they have been intoxicated with that privilege ever since.

The UN Security Council is the most blatant exhibit: five nations hold veto power, including three European or Western states and China that inherited a seat meant for Taiwan. India — the world’s largest democracy, largest population, and a top-five economy — remains an outsider. Legitimacy is apparently optional; victory in 1945 is not.

The Bretton Woods twins are even less subtle. By long-standing tradition, the United States appoints the World Bank President and Europe selects the IMF Managing Director. The coveted voting quotas? Engineered to ensure that nothing of strategic importance escapes Washington’s oversight. This is not governance — it is geopolitical wealth management.

Let us not pretend the rhetoric of “global cooperation” hides the cold math behind it. Former U.S. officials have said the quiet part out loud. President Donald Trump declared: “The United States owes billions of dollars and we’re not paying until they treat us fairly.” If the UN doesn’t serve America’s interests, America will simply choke the funds. It is a protection racket with better lighting.

China markets itself as the alternative champion of the developing world — but only as long as the world agrees to be developed in China’s image. Behind its loans lie ports, digital dependencies, and a map of influence drawn in hidden ink. Beijing wants to rewrite the rules — not to make them fair, but to make them Chinese.

India stands at the edge of this dangerous duality. Its position is unique — a democracy that refuses Western tutelage and an Asian power that rejects authoritarian expansion. Prime Minister Narendra Modi has declared: “India’s voice must be heard in shaping the global order.” He is not asking for charity; he is demanding recognition.

India’s diplomacy is no longer polite. Delhi is calling out hypocrisy in real time. External Affairs Minister S. Jaishankar argues that Security Council reform is the world’s most urgent structural correction. He means what he says: an order that excludes 4.3 billion people from real power cannot preach democracy to anyone.

During its G20 presidency, India forced the system to listen — bringing the African Union into the room not as a guest but as a member. It was a crack in the colonial glass ceiling of global governance.

The West built the system. China wants to capture it. India intends to rewrite it.

The multilateral world is not collapsing — it is mutating. And the biggest shock to the old guard is this: India is no longer willing to play by rules written to keep it small. The heirs of the empire must finally confront a world where they no longer get to decide who counts as powerful.

The Indian Ocean imperative: New Delhi’s strategy for influence and security at sea

India’s strategic imagination has increasingly shifted from the Himalayas to the high seas. The Indian Ocean, long treated as a backdrop of national defence, is now recognised as the arena where India’s economic security, geopolitical aspirations, and civilisational outreach converge. 

More than 90 percent of India’s trade by volume is seaborne; its energy lifelines pass through narrow chokepoints vulnerable to disruption. Geography, therefore, dictates that India cannot afford to be a bystander in its own maritime neighbourhood. The ambition to act as “guardian of the blue waters” is not merely aspirational — it is essential.

However, India’s path to maritime primacy is complicated. The Indian Ocean of today is not the relatively uncontested space of the late twentieth century. It has become a crowded, competitive, and contested geostrategic highway. India is attempting to consolidate influence in a domain where multiple powers — especially China — are asserting themselves with growing confidence.

Beijing’s expanding presence across the Indian Ocean has transformed regional dynamics. Its investments in ports from Gwadar to Hambantota, along with the establishment of its first overseas military base in Djibouti, indicate long-term strategic intent. Frequent deployment of Chinese warships and submarines in waters close to India’s critical sea lanes and island territories is viewed in New Delhi as more than normal naval diplomacy. The result is a growing perception of encirclement — a maritime “great game” unfolding around India’s periphery.

India has responded by accelerating its naval modernisation and diplomatic outreach. The Indian Navy remains the most capable regional force, fielding aircraft carriers, nuclear submarines, and modern surface combatants. Doctrinal shifts toward sustained deployments, intelligence-sharing, and humanitarian assistance reflect a confident assertion of leadership. Initiatives like SAGAR (Security and Growth for All in the Region) and Maritime India Vision 2047 project India as a net security provider, a nation ready to secure sea lanes, support coastal states, and promote rules-based maritime governance.

Yet, ambition outpaces capability in important ways. India’s maritime strategy competes for attention and funding with pressing continental challenges. Significant delays in shipbuilding and defence technology development persist. Internally, maritime governance remains fragmented, demanding better coordination between naval modernisation, coastal security, and blue-economy policies.

Partnerships with the United States and European navies are helpful, but limited. Washington’s primary priority is the Western Pacific, not the Indian Ocean. European naval engagement fluctuates based on global crises. And India’s own insistence on strategic autonomy ensures that no partnership can fully substitute for independent capability. The West may assist India — but will not underwrite its dominion.

Adding complexity, the Global South — where India seeks moral and political leadership — is deeply divided. Smaller coastal and island nations often hedge between India and China, driven by economic necessity rather than strategic loyalty. Influence must be earned continuously, not assumed.

India’s maritime rise, therefore, requires balancing ambition with realism. Absolute dominance in the classical sense may be neither possible nor necessary. What India can — and must — achieve is decisive influence: ensuring that no hostile power can threaten its maritime security, and that regional states view India as an indispensable partner.

If New Delhi can sustain economic growth, modernise its naval power, and unify its maritime governance, India’s role as a responsible steward of the Indian Ocean will not remain a distant aspiration — it will mature into a defining element of Indian statecraft in the twenty-first century.

Sankhya and Yoga as one truth: The metaphysical harmony of the twin philosophical systems

Bhishma Lying on the Bed of Arrows

Among the six classical systems (darshanas) of Indian philosophy, Sankhya and Yoga stand as closely related schools that complement each other in both doctrine and purpose. 

Sankhya, traditionally attributed to the sage Kapila, is regarded as one of the oldest philosophical systems in India. It lays out a profound theory of cosmic evolution through the interaction of Purusha (pure consciousness) and Prakriti (primordial nature). 

Yoga, systematized by Patanjali in the Yoga Sutras, builds upon Sankhya’s metaphysics but translates its insights into a practical discipline—a method for the realization of the self through moral restraint, meditation, and concentration.

Both systems share the same metaphysical foundation; their distinction lies not in essence but in method. While Sankhya seeks liberation through the power of discrimination and knowledge (jnana), Yoga pursues it through disciplined physical and mental practices that still the movements of the mind.

The Mahabharata, that monumental repository of India’s philosophical heritage, contains nearly 900 references to Yoga and about 150 to Sankhya. In many passages, the two are mentioned together, indicating not opposition but integration—a recognition that the pursuit of truth demands both knowledge and practice.

In the Shanti Parva (specifically the Moksha-dharma Parva), Yudhishthira asks Bhishma to explain the difference between Sankhya and Yoga. Bhishma’s reply encapsulates the spirit of Indian philosophical pluralism:

“The followers of Sankhya praise their system, and the Yogins praise the Yoga system. Each proclaims that their own path is the best for attaining life’s highest ends. I consider both these views to be true. I approve of both Yoga and Sankhya. There is no knowledge equal to Sankhya, and no power equal to Yoga. If practiced with devotion, either will lead to the highest goal.”

The essence of Bhishma’s teaching is unmistakable: Sankhya and Yoga are two expressions of the same quest. What the followers of Sankhya experience through discernment and wisdom, the Yogins realize through meditation and discipline. To those who have attained insight, there is no real difference between the two.

This harmony of doctrine and practice is reaffirmed in the Bhagavad Gita, where Krishna tells Arjuna: “Both Sankhya and Yoga lead to the same goal; only the means differ. Yet among the two, Yoga is superior for those who act.”

In this synthesis, Indian thought dissolves the apparent conflict between knowledge and action. Sankhya offers the vision—the metaphysical map of consciousness and matter—while Yoga provides the discipline to traverse it. Together they represent the twin wings of liberation: wisdom and effort, contemplation and action, understanding and realization, converging toward the same eternal truth.