Oil Dependency.

Undercover Disruptions Of War

Undercover Disruptions of War: Oil Dependency

War, I was taught early, had the decency to be visible. It came with wounds you could stitch, fevers you could measure, and grief that at least announced itself honestly. That was in the days of my father, Dr. Srinivasa Rao, and my grandfather, Dr. H. V. Hande—men who practised medicine when suffering had the courtesy to show symptoms.

Today, war is far better educated. It does not bleed. It invoices.

The 1973 oil crisis arrived not as an explosion but as an irritation—fuel queues, rising costs, and households learning, rather abruptly, that geopolitics could sit at the dining table uninvited. My father would have called it a “systemic disturbance.” My grandfather, with less restraint, might have called it organised mischief.

The pattern repeated itself with the Gulf War and later the Iraq War. Each time, oil behaved like a temperamental monarch—withdrawn, expensive, and entirely indifferent to the suffering of its subjects. Each time, we learnt nothing, which is perhaps our most reliable national habit.

And now, we have the 2026 Iran conflict—a far more sophisticated performance. Missiles are merely the background music. The real drama lies in the Strait of Hormuz, that narrow stretch of water which, like a stubborn artery, controls the circulation of global oil. When it tightens, the world develops symptoms—economic palpitations, fiscal hypertension, and a distinct loss of appetite.

Oil prices rise with admirable enthusiasm. Governments respond with statements. Citizens respond with silence, which is far more telling.

In my clinic, the complaints have evolved. Nobody says, “Doctor, oil prices are high.” That would be too direct, almost un-Indian. Instead, they arrive with insomnia, irritability, and a curious sense of dread. The LPG cylinder has become expensive, the commute unaffordable, and the monthly budget an exercise in creative writing.

“Doctor, there is tension at home.”
Of course there is. The kitchen has become a geopolitical hotspot.

Petrol rises, vegetables follow, and even the humble onion begins to behave like an imported luxury. One half expects it to demand a passport.

We speak often of national security. We rarely acknowledge that the most effective invasion happens quietly—through expenses. No army marches in, no flag is lowered, yet the household adjusts, compromises, and occasionally surrenders.

The mind, unfortunately, keeps score. Energy insecurity—an elegant phrase for not being able to afford one’s basic needs—produces anxiety with clinical precision. Depression follows, not dramatically, but with persistence. A slow erosion rather than a sudden collapse. Families begin to economise not just on fuel, but on joy. Conversations shrink. Diets deteriorate. Tempers, like fuel prices, become volatile.

India, in all its resilience and rhetoric, remains a dependent patient. Nearly 90% of its crude oil is imported, much of it from regions that specialise in instability. We are, to put it medically, reliant on an external life-support system that has a habit of malfunctioning at inconvenient times.

In Karnataka, where observation is less academic and more personal, the effects are immediate. Farmers pay more for inputs. Transport becomes expensive. The middle class tightens its belt with dignity. The lower-income group discovers that it has no belt left to tighten, only patience to exhaust.

And yet, like all chronic conditions, this one too has a treatment—unfashionable, under-discussed, but effective.

Biogas.

Yes, the same substance derived from cow dung and kitchen waste, which polite society prefers to ignore until it becomes useful. It lacks the glamour of oil and the drama of international conflict, but it has one significant advantage—it does not require permission from another country.

In rural India, biogas is almost embarrassingly sensible. Waste goes in, fuel comes out, and the household continues with a degree of independence that oil cannot offer. It is not revolutionary; it is simply logical, which may explain why it struggles for attention.

For the urban nuclear family, which has neither cattle nor patience, smaller biogas units have begun to appear—compact digesters that convert kitchen waste into usable gas. They are discreet, efficient, and, if one is willing to overcome initial hesitation, surprisingly civilised. Your morning tea, powered by last night’s vegetable peels, is both an environmental statement and a quiet act of defiance.

There is a certain satisfaction in that—turning garbage into autonomy while the world argues over oil routes.

The larger lesson, however, remains stubbornly unchanged. Wars will continue to find new excuses. Oil will continue to fluctuate with theatrical flair. Experts will debate, governments will reassure, and the citizen will adapt—because adaptation, not resistance, has been our default setting.

The real disease is not war. It is dependency.

Diversifying energy is not a matter of environmental virtue; it is preventive medicine. Decentralising supply is not ideology; it is survival. Biogas, in all its modesty, represents a step in that direction—a small, practical rebellion against a system that prefers us dependent.

Because the next war will not announce itself.
It will arrive quietly, in the monthly bill, with no need for explanation.

For those who prefer action to observation, the Ministry of New and Renewable Energy continues to promote alternatives through initiatives such as the GOBARdhan Scheme and the SATAT Initiative. They may not solve everything, but they at least acknowledge the diagnosis.

This piece is part of the Blogchatter A2Z Challenge.
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One must, after all, keep writing. It is cheaper than oil and considerably better for mental health.