The Cargo Cult Intelligence of the Indian Right

I am fascinated – and occasionally frustrated – by a common human habit: the tendency to derive a sense of intellectual validation from aligning our beliefs with those of seemingly authoritative figures.

Few things are more exasperating than engaging with someone smugly convinced of their moral and intellectual ascendancy yet lacking the sharpness to justify either.

This trait is particularly visible in what we can call “cargo cult intelligence” – a superficial mimicry of intellectualism. Much like the cargo cults of Melanesia, which imitated the outward symbols of technological advancement without understanding their underlying mechanisms, cargo cult intelligence adopts the appearance of knowledge through sophisticated vocabulary, complex phrasing, and name-dropping authoritative figures. It thrives in environments where the appearance of intellect is rewarded over the cultivation of critical thought.

At its core, this phenomenon manifests as:

• Reliance on rhetorical flourish to mask shallow reasoning.
• Blind adoption of beliefs because they align with perceived intellectual authorities.
• Misuse of academic terms to project expertise.
• A preference for aesthetic appeal over logical consistency.

Cargo cult intelligence flatters the ego but contributes little to genuine understanding or productive discourse.

How this intelligent posturing works

At the heart of the rise of rightwing intellectual figures like Sai Deepak, Anand Rangnathan, and Abhijit Chavda and many others we can see this cargo cult intelligence exemplified. Modern urban Indian conservatives, long feeling underrepresented in intellectual circles, now see their beliefs validated through these figures. By using language associated with intellectual authority, they create a façade of rigor that reassures their audiences while requiring minimal critical engagement. 

In a recent Indian Express article, Indian right wing luminary Sai Deepak makes a provocative case that opposition to Hindu majoritarianism amounts to “gaslighting Hindus.” He argues:

“First, to cry ‘majoritarianism’ in a democracy, without making out a case of unconstitutionality, is to question the majority principle which forms the very basis of a democracy … Hindus commit the continuing sin of existing and that too in a (dwindling) numerical majority despite the best intentions and endeavours of organised, monotheistic, iconoclastic, expansionist, and colonising worldviews.”

At first glance, Deepak’s rhetoric may seem persuasive, especially when cloaked in the principles of learned intelligence. After all, democracy is based on the majority electing its leaders, and questioning majority might appear to undermine democracy itself. But an average student of political science would quickly point to the countervailing concept of the “tyranny of the majority.” 

Electoral politics may reflect the will of the majority, but the essence of democracy lies in ensuring that this will does not erase the rights and dignity of those who dissent or belong to minority communities. A society where the majority desires to override minority protections ceases to be democratic and devolves into majoritarian authoritarianism.

Deepak’s argument, stripped of its rhetorical flourish, tacitly endorses the very systems history warns us against. Under his framework, one could rationalise the suppression of Jews and Roma in Nazi Germany, the Tutsi genocide in Rwanda, Jim Crow-era segregation in America, the persecution of Chechens in Russia, the marginalisation of Chinese and Indian communities in Malaysia, and even apartheid. By his logic, any resistance to the majority’s dominance could be dismissed as an affront to its “right to exist.”

What Deepak fails to address is the lived reality of Indian politics today. If his hyperbolic claim of Hindus being accused of the “sin of existing” were true, one might expect Indian politics to reflect it. Instead, opposition leaders like Rahul Gandhi make conspicuous visits to Hindu temples before elections, often bending over backward to reassure Hindu voters of their alignment with majority sensibilities. These actions, far from targeting Hindus, reveal an effort to navigate a political landscape shaped by the very insecurities Deepak amplifies.

Moreover, Deepak’s use of terms like “organised,” “monotheistic,” “iconoclastic,” “expansionist,” and “colonising” is less about academic rigor and more about mimicking the academic intellectual-speak. His power lies not in what is said but in how insistently, with the veneer of self-righteousness, it is said, and in the sheer weight of the emotional resonance it leaves behind for the neophyte. His sole aim is to flatter their sense of intellect without demanding the labor of true understanding.

How these arguments crumble

When an argument fails to stand on its own merit, it resorts to emotional manipulation – relying on repetition, intensity, and emotional pitch. Thought-terminating clichés, like equating criticism of the Indian Army to anti-nationalism, shut down inquiry by appealing to nationalist emotions rather than substance. Some of these arguments may appear thoughtful at first glance, but they crumble when subjected to genuine scrutiny.

Rangnathan’s recent book at one point argues that the state’s control over Hindu temples, while providing subsidies for Muslims to undertake the Haj pilgrimage, is evidence of Hindus being treated as second-class (eighth class per him) citizens in their own country. However, this premise overlooks several key historical and contextual factors. It fails to address the longstanding challenges faced by oppressed Hindu castes in attempting to access temples, a reality that has shaped state policies.

Moreover, the Indian government has not only subsidised the Haj pilgrimage but has also financially supported other major religious events. Take, for instance, the Kumbh Melas held at Haridwar, Allahabad, Nashik, and Ujjain. These enormous gatherings attract millions of pilgrims, and the state plays a vital role in ensuring their success. Central funds are allocated through state governments for infrastructure development at the mela grounds, pilgrim facilities, and security measures. In 2014, the Indian government allocated Rs 1,150 crore for the Allahabad Kumbh, while the Uttar Pradesh government contributed an additional Rs 11 crore. This broader context complicates Rangnathan’s assertion, therefore any nuance, inconvenient for his narrative, is often omitted. 

Rhetoric over reason

At its most polished, Sai Deepak’s rhetoric struggles to transcend a medley of buzzwords strung together with limited substance. In his recent book, he introduces the term “Indic consciousness,” a concept wielded to argue that Bharat – or India – has always existed as a nation-state, predating the Treaty of Westphalia by centuries, if not millennia. According to Deepak, this so-called consciousness, rooted in Vedic thought, should guide the modern Indian state, superseding “Western” ideals such as secularism.

This premise, ambitious though it may sound, collapses under scrutiny. Let us begin with “Indic consciousness,” a phrase that Deepak employs with great flourish but little definition. Beyond vague allusions to its roots in Vedic traditions, it remains unclear how such a unified consciousness could encompass the staggering diversity of the Indian subcontinent. Consider, for instance, the Lokayata school of materialist philosophy, which outright rejects Vedic doctrines, or Tamil literary classics such as the Silappatikaram and Tirukkural, which reflect ethical and cultural frameworks distinct from Vedic thought. Are these not integral to the tapestry of Indian intellectual heritage? Deepak’s argument makes no room for such pluralities, suggesting a reductive, exclusionary view of Indian history and philosophy.

In the end, “Indic consciousness” serves more as a rhetorical device than a rigorously defined concept. It is emblematic of an intellectual movement that thrives on a selective, romanticized narrative of the past, while ignoring the complexity and multiplicity that define India’s history and identity. While the right-wing vision for India aspires for intellectual legitimacy, it seems to be unable to move beyond vague slogans and repetitive tropes to grapple honestly with the diverse and contradictory realities of the Indian experience. Without this, the argument remains a hollow echo chamber, seeking affirmation rather than enlightenment.

Copycats galore

This intellectual style, relying more on repetition than reason, is increasingly prominent in a new genre of books. Titles such as Hindus in Hindu Rashtra by Anand Ranganathan, Sanghi Who Never Went to a Shakha by Rahul Roushan, and India, that is Bharat by Sai Deepak exemplify this trend. Each of these works is built upon a similar formula: a blend of superficial analysis, emotional appeal, and a heavy reliance on repetition to create a sense of urgency or truth. But when peeled back, they often offer little in the way of original thought or meaningful critique. 

Then there’s Abhijit Chavda, a conspiracy theorist cloaked in academic pretensions. With his claims that India only achieved “dominion status” in 1947 or that Gandhi was a British agent, Chavda represents the quintessential cargo cult intellectual: authoritative in tone, hollow in substance. His appeal lies in amplifying ideas that were previously relegated to whispers in drawing rooms, giving them a sheen of intellectual legitimacy. His statements, though phrased with academic pretensions, do little more than perpetuate half-baked theories designed to provoke, not to enlighten. It’s a classic case of sounding authoritative without offering any real substance or thoughtful critique. 

At its best, these cargo-cult intellectuals, repackage selective arguments under the guise of intellectual rigor. At its most crude, it devolves into derision—mocking secular citizens as “sickulars” or branding dissenters as “peaceful.” Showcasing an aversion to genuine debate, relying instead on ridicule and empty bombast to mask a lack of substantive engagement with opposing viewpoints.

This malaise is not confined to opinion makers alone. It permeates our broader cultural landscape, from films like The Kerala Story and The Kashmir Files, which are made to satiate the cravings of the Hindu majority, to our collective chest-thumping over symbolic milestones – like surpassing the United Kingdom in overall GDP – while sidestepping deeper structural issues. The pattern is unmistakable: a preference for theatrical posturing over substantive introspection.

Feeding our preconceived notions

In the end, much like our image of film stars, in India, we carry a template for our public intellectuals too – articulate anglophones, generally ‘upper’ caste, predominantly male and these men fit the square perfectly. They trade the nuanced uncertainties of academic rigor for the seduction of easy answers, the discomfort of questions replaced with the comfort of certainties. This cargo cult intelligence offers us a Faustian bargain: the illusion of knowledge in exchange for the reality of understanding.

Perhaps the most striking feature of their appeal is their unyielding seriousness – an almost comical conviction in their own authority. Yet, as Socrates taught, true wisdom begins with the recognition of ignorance. Those who genuinely grasp the complexity of the world are marked by their humility, their willingness to admit what they do not know. 

This is the gulf between those who seek knowledge and those who peddle it – between the quiet dignity of wisdom and the noisy confidence of pretenders.

Raj Shekhar Sen is based out of San Francisco and works in the area of data privacy regulations. He also occasionally contributes as a freelancer writing on politics and runs a podcast on politics called the Bharatiya Junta Podcast.