Something intended to be a tool of responsibility, particularly when established mechanisms were found to require never-ending efforts to yield results. Cancel culture or social media at large gave voice to those who had long been silenced, particularly survivors of abuse, marginalised communities, and whistleblowers. But like most things on the internet, what started with good intentions is now walking a fine line between justice and bullying.
In India, cancel culture hasn’t just arrived — it has exploded. From celebrities and influencers to teachers and students, almost anyone with a public-facing opinion can find themselves “cancelled.” We’ve seen actors dropped from films, writers boycotted, brands forced to issue apologies, comedians threatened, and students hounded for things they tweeted as teenagers. In some cases, the outrage was warranted. But in others, the punishment seemed disproportionate, even cruel.
The problem lies in the speed and scale of it all. The internet does not wait for explanations. There’s little room for nuance. One clip, stripped of context, becomes the entire story. The mob doesn’t pause to ask, “What really happened?” It simply asks, “Who’s next?”
What makes cancel culture even more complex in India is that it often overlaps with our deeply polarised socio-political environment. What you say online isn’t just about your opinion — it becomes a statement about your ideology, your caste, your religion, your privilege. One post can be interpreted in a hundred different ways depending on who’s watching. And in a country as diverse (and divided) as ours, this is a recipe for chaos.
Let’s take a moment to ask — are we really cancelling people for being harmful? Or are we cancelling people because they made a mistake, had a different view, or simply weren’t “perfect” enough for the internet? Is this about accountability, or is it about power — the power to destroy someone’s reputation with a few retweets?
Because, ironically, cancel culture often mimics the very systems it claims to challenge. It can be elitist, dominated by those who already have digital literacy and influence. It can be selective — some people are torn apart for minor slips, while others with bigger offences walk free. And worst of all, it can be cruel, turning public shaming into a form of entertainment.
It’s also emotionally exhausting. For young Indians growing up online, there’s now a constant fear of saying the wrong thing. Every opinion is double-checked. Every joke is self-censored. We are growing up in a climate where people are more afraid of being called out than being wrong. Where public dialogue has turned into a game of survival — say the right thing, in the right tone, to the right audience, or risk losing everything.
But here’s the uncomfortable truth: cancelling someone is easy. Listening, understanding, educating, and then choosing what consequences are appropriate — that’s harder. Justice isn’t about erasing people. It’s about growth, repair, and sometimes, even forgiveness.
So, where do we go from here?
Maybe it starts with acknowledging that people are complicated. That individuals can hold ignorant views and still be capable of learning. That not every mistake needs a digital trial. That outrage can be valid, but it must also be ethical. And that, before hitting “post,” maybe we should ask ourselves not just “Is this right?” but also, “Is this fair?”
This isn’t a defence of hate speech or harassment. Those must be challenged and condemned. But it is a plea to differentiate between a predator and a person who is still figuring things out. Between deliberate harm and accidental ignorance. Between those who cause pain and those who can change.
Because the real goal shouldn’t be to cancel people. It should be to hold space for accountability with dignity.
At the end of the day, justice isn’t served by mobs. It’s served by courage, conversation, and the ability to believe that we’re all still growing. Especially in a country like India, where every voice is shaped by centuries of complexity, maybe what we need isn’t cancellation, but clarity.
And maybe, just maybe, it’s time we stop treating Twitter like a courtroom.