In the theatre of international trade, drama is never far away. Yet the speed, scale, and sequencing of the recent US‑India tariff crisis still managed to shock. It began quietly, with a warning. Then came a reprieve – stay of execution that many mistook for a permanent reprieve. The relief didn’t last long. Within weeks, Washington moved to a 25% tariff on a large slice of Indian exports. The blow was heavy, but survivable. Then came the big one: a brutal 50% tariff, with the tantalising cruelty of a new twist in the script—whispers of “additional, targeted sanctions” still to come.

Taken together, this was not just an import‑export problem; it was a strategic strike at Indian industry’s confidence and the livelihoods of millions. For every container, truck, or shipping manifest involved in US‑bound trade, the sequence of announcements was like a slow, methodical tightening of a vice. Yet while the economic costs mounted in market forecasts and factory floor gossip, there was one thing missing from public life: sustained, transparent communication from New Delhi. The fact that these escalations played out over months should have been a gift of time to prepare the public, industry, and policymakers for a coordinated response. Instead, it became a masterclass in how to squander it.

The government’s approach could best be described as “episodic monologue.” We learned of developments mainly through sparse press releases or curt statements from senior ministers, each packed with nationalistic resolve but light on practical detail. A seasoned observer could detect an almost reflexive rejection of the Singapore‑style playbook. There, leaders treated the tariff crisis (smaller in magnitude, but large for them) as a shared national challenge from Day One. The prime minister was visible, vocal, and insistent on walking citizens through every decision tree – what might happen, what it would mean, and how each possible outcome would be addressed. Singaporean ministries held Q&A sessions, industry was brought into joint planning committees, and scenario planning wasn’t whispered in smoky back rooms; it was laid out for all to see. Transparency was used to rally resilience.

India, in contrast, offered resilience as a rhetorical flourish rather than an operational blueprint. The moment called for scenario communication: If tariffs stay here, here’s what happens; if they climb, here’s our plan; if sanctions come, here’s how we shield the most vulnerable. But the public got little beyond the default vocabulary of sovereignty and self‑reliance—and even those were delivered sparingly. Ironically, this old‑world style is not incompetence per se, but rather a deeply rooted instinct in Indian political culture. Power, as exercised in this space, equates disclosure with weakness. It is the politics of the classic Indian male archetype in communication: firm, self‑assured, sparing with admissions, resistant to vulnerability. In this mould, the leader is supposed to know, to decide, and to inform selectively; the public’s role is to nod in approval, not to ask for the working behind the answer.

This pattern has played out before. During COVID‑19, arguably the largest domestic crisis since Independence, leaders across the political spectrum defaulted to prescriptive announcements. Whether lockdowns or vaccination schedules, communication often took the form of a national address – which was authoritative, yes, but also unidirectional. Citizens got instructions, not inclusion. Information was sanitised for political effect, uncertainty was glossed over, and worst‑case scenarios were rarely articulated in the open. That same proclivity – crafting a singular, controlled narrative and feeding it in measured, occasional doses—has resurfaced during the recent tariff escalation.

And then there’s the Operation Sindoor precedent. Those who followed it closely will recall the swift retreat of civilian political faces from public briefings as the crisis deepened. The television cameras turned instead to uniformed officers and senior bureaucrats, whose delivery was clinical, precise—and politically risk‑free. This outsourcing of voice during a crisis may be expedient, but it is also telling. When things get complicated, elected leadership in India often steps back from speaking for itself, opting to let the technocrats take the stage. In Operation Sindoor, as now, that choice projected competence of a sort – but it also signalled political detachment at precisely the moment when citizens expect their leaders to be closest to the front line.

The trouble with such distance is that it leaves space for rumour to roam. Trade bodies filled the vacuum with their own projections – some grounded, others alarmist. Exporters swapped fragments of corridor talk about possible retaliatory measures. On the WhatsApp factory floor, speculation became a substitute for strategy. In that climate, the government’s occasional pronouncements felt less like guidance and more like interruptions, momentarily breaking into a conversation that was happening elsewhere.

Crisis communication experts will tell you the same, whether you’re talking about currency collapses, pandemics, or, yes, tariff wars: a leadership that speaks early, often, and not only controls the information environment – it earns the credibility to manage change when the facts turn ugly. Honesty about uncertainty does not erode authority; it creates the trust you need to navigate an unpredictable path. Singapore seemed to understand this instinctively. Its leaders did not promise certainty; they promised competence in whichever scenario emerged. This subtle shift – communicating readiness rather than rehearsed confidence – turns the public from a passive consumer of news into an active participant in resilience.

India's political discipline

By contrast, India’s delayed and guarded messaging has had tangible costs. Weeks that could have been spent helping industries diversify markets or adjust pricing strategies were instead spent in a kind of strategic limbo. Exporters could not make timely investment decisions. Small manufacturers reliant on US orders could not weigh the costs of shifting supply chains. Workers could only guess whether layoffs were imminent. In policy terms, this is not just a communications lapse – it is a planning failure caused in part by that lapse.

At a global level, India’s handling of this growing trade spat also shapes how partners and rivals perceive the country’s political discipline. Tariff wars are not just technical disputes; they are diplomatic negotiations conducted in a theatre where both message and action matter. A well‑calibrated communication strategy can reassure potential allies, signal resolve to adversaries, and frame the crisis in ways that rally domestic energy. In this round, India’s preference for opacity denied it those easy wins.

To be fair, no leader enjoys spelling out worst‑case scenarios. Doing so invites criticism, emboldens the opposition, and risks alarming markets. But the alternative, glossing over the downside until it arrives, is worse. When the 50% tariff hit, the public shock was greater precisely because the government had not laid the groundwork for the possibility. Had leaders said in month one, “Yes, there’s a high risk of escalation to 50% and even targeted sanctions, here’s how we could respond,” the headline would have startled—but the assurance of foresight would have cushioned the blow.

This is, at heart, the choice between cultivating an audience and cultivating a public. An audience is there to watch the performance, to be reassured or entertained. The public is there to participate, to adapt, to help set the course. In moments like this, the difference matters profoundly. Singapore chose the public. India chose the audience.

And so here we stand: one of the largest economies in the world, staring down tariff levels that will bite into GDP growth, hammer several export sectors, and shake employment, all while playing catch‑up in our internal conversation. The irony is sharp. India has the talent – communications professionals, policy analysts, business leaders—capable of crafting the open, scenario‑driven dialogue that could have cushioned this shock. What it needs is the political instinct to use them in time.

For now, the US tariffs are a fact, not a forecast. The following steps – whether further escalation or a road back to the negotiating table – will come sooner than we think. If India is to manage them well, it must abandon the reflex of selective silence and embrace the discomfort of sharing the whole picture. Less theatre, more trust. Less monologue, more conversation. Less stagecraft, more statecraft.

Dr Sunoor Verma is honorary president of The Himalayan Dialogues and a specialist in global leadership and crisis communication. He writes in a personal capacity and his views are independent of his institutional affiliations. 

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