In the early ’80s, I read Nirad C Chaudhuri as a college student and was delighted. He noticed things others walked past. He looked at the Indian habit of noisy, chatty public life, a trait that could easily be called a nuisance, and found something almost charming in it. He contrasted it with what he saw in England, where crowds moved in what he called an eternal silence. That silence frightened him. I nodded along then. Forty odd years later, I am not nodding.

Chaudhuri had a point, of course. Indians treat public space like an extended living room. Strangers on a Bengaluru bus will discuss health, marriage, politics, and the price of tomatoes, often within 10 minutes of meeting. There is warmth in that. But a living room has walls, and a bus does not. What was once a delightful observation has become a daily test of patience.

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Train journeys can be worse. Someone is on a phone call, and the conversation seems to be with someone in the next district, possibly the next state. Seriously, nobody asked about their neighbour’s property dispute, yet here we are, fully briefed. Then there is the man across the aisle watching a video at full volume, without earphones. Perhaps he even believes he is running a small public cinema.

On planes, it gets more creative. There are reports of passengers singing devotional songs and even dancing on the tarmac. In lifts, too, the assault continues. A group cracks jokes and bursts into laughter, filling the steel box with sound that has nowhere to go but into everyone’s ears. The joke is rarely that good.

Well, this is not a new complaint. It recently went viral after Carnatic singer Sivasri Skandaprasad posted on X about her “traumatic” train journey. Her celebrity status, coupled with her husband’s (Tejasvi Surya, the young parliamentarian), pushed the issue into the open. Sometimes a problem needs a famous name to be taken seriously. It is sad, but it works. However, what bothers me more is that this ugly habit travels. On the streets of London and Los Angeles, Indians are, quite often, carrying the same volume. And, no doubt, that’s quite embarrassing.

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Now, why does this happen? Behavioural science offers a few clues. One is the idea of social norms: We tend to copy what those around us do. If everyone on the platform talks loudly, then talking loudly feels normal, even polite. Nobody wants to be the odd one out. Another is the bystander effect. When many people are affected, each assumes someone else will speak up, and so nobody does. There is also the “spotlight effect” in reverse. Most of us overestimate how much others notice us, but the loud talker seems to have the opposite problem. He simply does not register that others are there at all. In his mind, the public space is private. Finally, the tragedy of the commons. Public space belongs to everyone, so it is treated as belonging to no one.

So, should we change? Of course. But what should change? Not the warmth. Chaudhuri was right that Indian public life has an easy friendliness that many colder societies would envy. What is needed is a small adjustment: A lower volume, a pair of earphones, a call taken quietly, or postponed. The good news is that norms can shift. Didn’t they shift for seatbelts in cars, and for littering in some cities? Every time someone lowers their voice on a train, the person next to them notices, and perhaps does the same.

The writer is former professor and dean, Christ University, Bengaluru