There is a particular brand of arrogance reserved for the American Treasury Department, a belief that the world’s complex, blood-soaked energy markets can be managed with the same bureaucratic fussiness one might use to oversee a suburban HOA. The latest dispatch from the reality-denial front informs us that Russia is 'working to circumvent' sanctions to ensure India remains its primary ATM. It is a revelation that should surprise absolutely no one with a pulse, yet it is being treated with the shocked sobriety of a Victorian aunt discovering a gin bottle in the vestry. The truth, as usual, is far more sordid and infinitely more boring: everyone is lying, and everyone is getting exactly what they want.

Moscow, currently the world’s most decorated pariah state, has discovered a revolutionary loophole in the West’s moral crusade: the fact that human beings, when forced to choose between virtue and a twenty-percent discount on heating bills, will choose the discount every single time. India, for its part, has emerged as the world’s second-largest purchaser of Russian crude, playing the role of the 'neutral observer' with the practiced grace of a looter during a department store fire. To call it 'strategic autonomy'—the preferred euphemism in Delhi—is a masterclass in linguistic gymnastics. It is, in fact, a simple calculation of pennies and pints. While the West performs its nightly ritual of self-flagellation over democratic values, India is busy filling its reservoirs with the very molecules that are supposedly being 'embargoed' out of existence.

The mechanics of this charade involve a 'shadow fleet' of rusting tankers that operate with the frantic energy of a low-budget heist movie. These vessels, often older than the sailors manning them, spend their days turning off transponders and engaging in mid-sea transfers that would be comical if they weren't so transparently illegal. It is a maritime ghost dance designed to appease the ledger-checkers in Washington while ensuring the oil continues to flow. The US Treasury issues a fresh list of sanctioned tankers, and like a particularly pathetic game of Whac-A-Mole, three new shell companies spring up in Dubai or Hong Kong to replace them. It is an exercise in futility that provides lucrative employment for lawyers and bureaucrats, while doing absolutely nothing to stop the flow of capital to the Kremlin.

But the true comedy lies in the European reaction. The European Union, that bastion of moral consistency, has 'banned' Russian oil while simultaneously importing record amounts of refined diesel from India. It is a miracle of modern alchemy: Russian crude enters a refinery in Gujarat, is blessed by an Indian technician, and emerges as 'Freedom Fuel,' ready to be sold back to the Germans at a significant markup. The molecules don’t change, but the paperwork does, and in the world of modern diplomacy, the paperwork is all that matters. The Western consumer gets to feel righteous while driving to the grocery store, and Putin gets to keep his war machine humming. The only casualty is the collective intelligence of anyone paying attention.

The Americans, meanwhile, are trapped in a performative loop. They must threaten sanctions to maintain the illusion of global leadership, yet they cannot actually enforce them for fear of a global price spike that would incinerate their chances at the next election. It is a hostage situation where the kidnapper and the negotiator are the same person. They squeeze the tap just enough to satisfy the headlines, but not enough to actually stop the leak. It is a symphony of hypocrisy where the conductor is deaf and the orchestra is playing for tips.

Ultimately, this is the natural state of a species that values its creature comforts far more than its supposed principles. We are watching the slow-motion collapse of the 'Rules-Based International Order,' a phrase that has always been a polite way of saying 'the rules we made for you to follow.' India and Russia aren't breaking the system; they are simply acknowledging that the system was always a polite fiction. As long as the world runs on the compressed remains of prehistoric organisms, the geography of morality will always be dictated by the location of the nearest pipeline. We are all complicit in this oily masquerade, staring at the pump and hoping the lies remain cheap enough to afford.