The recurring declaration at the Munich Security Conference that the “rules-based international order” is in terminal decline reveals something more consequential than institutional fatigue. What is eroding is not merely a framework of rules, but the political compact that rendered hierarchy tolerable. The post-Cold War order functioned because American primacy was embedded in institutions that moderated its asymmetry and reassured allies that power would be exercised within predictable bounds. Rules did not eliminate hierarchy; they softened it. Legitimacy rested on a combination of material dominance, alliance reassurance, and procedural multilateralism. When reassurance weakens, hierarchy becomes more visible, and when hierarchy becomes visible, consent begins to fray because asymmetry is no longer buffered by trust. 

This structural anxiety was expressed with unusual clarity by Friedrich Merz at Munich, where he warned that the rules-based world order “no longer exists” and that “our freedom is not guaranteed” in an era of renewed great power politics. His admission that “a deep divide has opened between Europe and the United States” reflects not merely diplomatic disagreement but a shift in strategic self-understanding. Europe’s security architecture was premised on dependable American stewardship. If that stewardship becomes conditional or transactional, the equilibrium that depended upon it cannot simply persist by inertia. It must either be renegotiated or redistributed. 

Under Donald Trump, American foreign policy has foregrounded leverage over reassurance, and bargaining over institutional continuity. The result is not only policy divergence but psychological dislocation among allies whose strategic identities were built around alliance stability. Dependence, once rational and efficient, now appears vulnerable to political contingency. When the guarantor of order treats commitments as negotiable instruments, secondary powers are compelled to reconsider how much insulation they require from their protector. 

It is within this atmosphere of recalibration that middle-power rhetoric has intensified. In his Davos speech, Mark Carney argued that the multilateral institutions on which middle powers relied are under threat and that the architecture of collective problem-solving is fraying. Countries, he suggested, are concluding that they must develop strategic autonomy across energy, food, critical minerals, finance, and supply chains. His formulation that middle powers must choose between building “higher walls” or pursuing something “more ambitious” captures a deeper structural dilemma. Autonomy pursued defensively can accelerate fragmentation, while autonomy pursued cooperatively can redistribute stabilising capacity. His warning that “if we’re not at the table, we’re on the menu” underscores the vulnerability of states whose influence depends upon rules that stronger actors may ignore. The anxiety is therefore not ideological; it is systemic. If the hegemon ceases to underwrite predictability, the burden of stabilisation must be shared, or the system will drift toward coercive rivalry. 

Within this redistributed landscape, India’s role acquires renewed analytical significance. For much of the post-Cold War period, India was described in language that deferred its relevance to the future. It was emerging, rising, aspiring. Its insistence on strategic autonomy was often interpreted as a reluctance to assume responsibility or as a vestige of non-alignment. Continued engagement with Russia, participation in BRICS, and hesitation to align fully with Western sanctions regimes were treated as ambiguity rather than design. Such readings assumed that alignment with the dominant pole was the natural endpoint of responsible statecraft. 

This interpretation often overlooked the structural logic underlying India’s posture. Indian foreign policy has long been shaped by the assumption that great powers ultimately privilege interest over obligation. In such an environment, alignment without insulation exposes a state to strategic vulnerability. Autonomy, from this perspective, is not ideological nostalgia but institutional insurance. By diversifying partnerships and avoiding alliance entrapment, India sought to preserve decision-making latitude in a world where guarantees are conditional. Its engagement with the United States deepened even as it retained defence ties with Russia and cultivated relationships across non-Western groupings. The objective was flexibility, not equidistance, and insulation, not isolation. 

When S. Jaishankar observed that the world is moving toward “many more independent or autonomous centres of decision making,” and described Europe’s current posture as a “strategic reawakening,” he implicitly highlighted a convergence. Europe is rediscovering a strategic vocabulary that India never really abandoned. What appears as novelty in Brussels or Berlin has long been embedded in New Delhi’s calculus. The change lies less in India’s orientation than in the strategic psychology of its partners. 

This perceptual shift is visible in the remarks of German Foreign Minister Johann Wadephul, who acknowledged that it was “wrong” to categorise India primarily through its BRICS membership because doing so obscured shared democratic values and strategic trust. By sharply differentiating India from China despite institutional overlap, Wadephul signalled a reclassification within European strategic thinking. India is increasingly viewed not as an adjunct within a non-Western bloc but as a distinct centre capable of reinforcing systemic resilience. This differentiation is pragmatic rather than sentimental. It reflects an emerging search for partners who can contribute to stability without demanding ideological conformity or hegemonic submission. 

The language of a “third pole” must therefore be treated cautiously. Recognition alone does not confer stabilising capacity. Multipolarity does not automatically produce equilibrium; it can intensify insecurity when emerging centres lack restraint or the ability to provide public goods. A genuine pole must shape expectations, deter coercion, absorb shocks, and offer credible alternatives to smaller states seeking insulation from great power rivalry. Scale and demographic weight are insufficient on their own because recognition without provision produces influence without durability. 

India’s expanding economic base, demographic depth, and military modernisation strengthen its candidacy as an autonomous centre. Its activism within the G20 and outreach to the Global South demonstrate diplomatic ambition beyond its immediate region. Unlike European middle powers, it is not structurally embedded within alliance guarantees that constrain its strategic manoeuvrability. Unlike China, it does not articulate a project of hierarchical reordering. This combination allows India to present itself as an independent anchor within a fragmenting system. However, the burden of stabilisation exceeds the privilege of recognition. Smaller states will assess India not by rhetorical commitment to autonomy but by tangible delivery in infrastructure, supply-chain integration, technological collaboration, and security reassurance. China’s entrenched economic networks remain formidable, and stabilising multipolarity requires competing in the domain of provision rather than symbolism. 

There is also an internal dimension that conditions external credibility. India’s differentiation from authoritarian centralisation rests partly on its democratic identity and institutional continuity. If it seeks to occupy a distinct position between hegemonic paternalism and revisionist assertiveness, it must sustain the domestic foundations that render that distinction credible. External leadership in a fragmented order depends upon internal coherence. Strategic autonomy that is not matched by institutional resilience risks appearing opportunistic rather than principled. 

Carney’s argument that “collective investments in resilience are cheaper than everyone building their own fortresses” illuminates the central dilemma facing middle powers. Autonomy pursued in isolation hardens fragmentation, while autonomy coordinated among like-minded states can distribute stabilising functions across the system. For India, this implies moving beyond hedging toward structured collaboration without surrendering independence. The challenge is to reconcile insulation with cooperation and flexibility with reliability. Strategic autonomy cannot mean strategic solitude if multipolarity is to avoid devolving into competitive fragmentation. 

The present conjuncture, therefore, presents a problem of exposure and opportunity. For decades, India argued that durable stability could not rest on a single hegemon and that multipolarity required responsible centres of power. As leaders now concede that the old order is not returning, India and its intuition seem pertinent. India’s relevance in this transition, however, is contingent. Multipolarity is deepening, but its character remains unsettled. If American commitments partially recover or if middle powers retreat into defensive nationalism, the momentum toward cooperative multipolarity may stall. Whether it evolves into competitive rivalry or coordinated equilibrium will depend on whether emerging centres can combine independence with provision and autonomy with restraint. India’s moment is defined not by arrival but by responsibility, because stabilising multipolarity requires assuming systemic obligations without seeking hegemonic dominance. If India can translate long-standing strategic instincts into sustained institutional capacity and credible delivery, it may anchor a more distributed order. If it cannot, multipolarity will proceed without equilibrium, and recognition will prove fleeting. The test before India is structural rather than symbolic, and the work of stabilisation has only begun. 

Further Reading on E-International Relations