Of the commons and their undoing

“That which is common to the greatest number gets the least amount of care. Men pay most attention to what is their own; they care less for what is common,” wrote Aristotle, describing the tragedy of the commons. Centuries later, Garrett Hardin would shape the term in his 1968 essay with the image of a lush meadow, overrun by sheep and the ambition of herdsmen. “Therein is the tragedy. Each man is locked into a system that compels him to increase his herd without limit—in a world that is limited,” Hardin reasoned.

It was a Saturday evening, and we had gathered to dust the week off our shoulders. Somebody said, “So I took an Azithro and now feel better.” This was promptly met with a lecture from the doctor, who—between sips of his drink—rued the reckless use of antibiotics in India. “Superbugs send their thanks to your kind,” he said dryly. “Pray accept.”

From there, the conversation began to unspool into other commons and their undoing, like how each of us had driven to the venue alone, putting comfort first, while dipping into the city’s stock of clean air and finite road space. Someone mentioned the ten-member committees at work—the sort where three people labour, two talk, and the rest bathe passively in the soft mist of collectivism.

It’s not just people—nations do it too. Rich countries, with their heavy carbon footprints past and present, still shy away from putting up real money for climate action in places that didn’t cause the damage—and where most of the world lives.

The conversations stretched well into the night, meandering from one thought to another until words began to feel heavy with sleep. And then, one by one, everyone left. I readied myself for bed. There was a deep hush all around, save for the occasional rustle of leaves stirred by the breeze. I felt thankful for the calm and peace the silence brought. My mind still lingered on the evening’s talk of commons and their tragedies, and I found myself thinking how rare such moments of quiet had become in the daytime bustle of city life. Silence is a fragile, finite resource—whose depletion by one reduces it for all. A honk, a loud phone call on a train, a jarring ringtone in the stillness of an art gallery, or a booming late-night party—each of these chips away at our shared pool of silence. And unlike some commons that can grow with technology or innovation, silence cannot be scaled and has no substitutes. Countries and societies differ widely in how they treat this commons—from a serious recognition of its communal nature to barely any expectation that silence is something to be shared.

Of course, not all sound is noise, nor is all noise intrusive. The notes of a violinist on the sidewalk, the strum of an ektara on a city bus, or a necessary public announcement do not deplete the public quiet. As with all commons, the tragedy is born not of the commons themselves, but of their mismanagement.

But few things come more naturally to humans than managing the commons. It is the ability to find ways to balance individual interest with the common good that has shaped societies, built nations, and underpins international order and exchange. The story of civilisation is, in many ways, the story of shared stewardship of the commons.