As we grow older and settle comfortably into the respectable category of septuagenarians, do we gradually withdraw from the messier troubles of the real world? Do we, cocooned in the comparative safety and warmth of a reasonably comfortable retired life, begin to lose interest in anything that does not directly intrude upon our dinners, digestion, and daily routines? A few recent exchanges  –  or rather, the lack of them  –  on a WhatsApp group set me thinking about this.

The other day, on my alma mater’s WhatsApp group of about 115 members, one of our batchmates posted a song sung by him. It was a charming effort, and what followed was positively heartening. The post attracted something like nearly 60 responses in 24 hours, counting repeat contributions by some of the more musically stirred souls among us. There was praise, affection, encouragement, and then, quite impressively, a burst of informed commentary on sur, tal, meter, and other such matters on which I am gloriously unqualified to opine. This is, after all, a close-knit group, held together by the glue of several decades of friendship, nostalgia, and a shared history of youth, hair, ambition and many a get-togethers. That anyone among us could evoke such warmth and participation was, in itself, a lovely feeling.

The very next day, however, another member posted a long and deeply engaging conversation on the ongoing US-Israel-Iran conflict in the Gulf. The discussion featured Professor John Mearsheimer of the University of Chicago, Dr. Trita Parsi of the Quincy Institute, and Mehlaqua Samdani of Critical Connections – hardly lightweight company, and certainly not the sort of thing one usually stumbles upon between good morning flowers and blood-pressure tips. It was thoughtful, serious, and highly relevant to the increasingly deranged condition of the world. And what was the group’s response?

Nothing.

Not one single comment. Not even the consolation of one of those lazy thumbs-up emojis which people deploy when they wish to convey that they have seen something without wishing to burden themselves with actually thinking about it. The silence was almost artistic in its purity.

It is this contrast that started the chain of my thoughts. Why should a song, however sweetly rendered, set off such a flood of affectionate engagement, while a discussion on a war that is actually affecting world economy, global stability, and the possibility of the world sliding ever closer to collective madness, not evoke even a symbolic grunt?

One explanation, of course, is that the war in the Middle East is simply not “our war.” It is geographically distant, morally exhausting, and emotionally inconvenient. Many of us, after all, are fortunate enough not to be directly threatened by the fallout. A rise in oil prices may irritate us mildly, but it is unlikely to send us to bed hungry. Our air-conditioners may cost a little more to run, but they will still run. There is a great deal to be said for the anaesthetic effect of relative comfort. One does not have to be cruel to become detached. Often, it is enough merely to be comfortable. The world can take care of itself.

Another possibility, of course, is that we are all being pelted day and night with such industrial quantities of material that even the most diligent among us has only 24 hours to squander. True enough. But this was a close-knit group, and to imagine that all 100-plus members arrived at precisely the same thought over 24 hours does stretch credulity somewhat.

Another explanation is more charitable. Perhaps people are just tired. The world has become an endless conveyor belt of outrage – wars, bombings, collapsed democracies, massacres, climate disasters, demagogues, and expert panels discussing them in tasteful tones. There may simply be a limit to how much grief and geopolitical horror the average retiree wishes to process between breakfast and bridge. A pleasant song, by contrast, asks very little of us. It does not demand that we revise our worldview, confront our helplessness, or read, say, three articles before having an opinion. It offers the emotional equivalent of warm rasam on a rainy evening. Perhaps, then, the preference for melody over missiles is not moral failure but a survival strategy.

I might have been content with that explanation were it not for one awkward fact: in this group, as in many others, serious issues rarely generate much engagement anyway, unless, of course, they can be fitted into a familiar political or ideological cage fight. If the subject allows for a quick and satisfying “we versus they” framing, then all is well. People wake up, and even before stretching, begin typing, often within seconds. But if the matter is complicated, morally untidy, and resists being reduced to one’s favourite domestic tribal narrative, then silence descends like a cyclostyled government circular of yore.

That, I suspect, is the more troubling possibility.

It may not be that we no longer care about serious issues. It may simply be that we care only when those issues touch some nerve of identity, say, political, religious, social, or something deeply personal. In other words, we are capable of excitement chiefly when our beliefs feel implicated, not when relatively distant human suffering or global disorder is involved in the abstract. A war in a distant region may be tragic, but unless it can be turned into an extension of our own ideological anxieties, it remains just another foreign unpleasantness to be scrolled past on the way to a nostalgic Kishore Kumar clip.

This is not, I should add, a complaint against old age. Age has earned the right to seek some peace. After a certain point in life, one is entitled to prefer ragas over rockets, old friends over old conflicts, and songs over strategy. Heaven knows the world gives us enough reason to retreat into the consolations of memory, friendship, and harmless sentiment. There is something deeply human, and even beautiful, about finding refuge in warmth.

And yet, I cannot help wondering whether, in our search for emotional comfort, we have also become selectively deaf. We are moved by what is intimate, familiar, and affirming. We are much less moved by what is distant, complex, and discomfiting. The problem is not that we like songs. The problem is that the world may be burning, and we have become connoisseurs of rhythm while politely ignoring the smoke. I have observed this to be

Perhaps that is just age. Or perhaps this is just being human. Or is it the modern life? Any which way, it leaves one with an uncomfortable thought: maybe disengagement does not arrive dramatically. Maybe it comes quietly, with a nice tune, a fond memory, and 60 appreciative comments.

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