Month: June 2025

What Makes us Think Differently- Ideas or their Expressions?

Image from here

As I was speaking with Sahana Simha, a dear friend and scholar studying at the Università degli Studi di Torino, the other day, I found myself wondering: Is it really the ideas that spark new thinking, or is it the expression of those ideas that makes the difference? I think it’s the latter, often, if not always. Let me exemplify.

It is trite to hear that “things were different in the past,” or that “it depends”—those classic early responses tossed around in classrooms and conversations. Everything, we are told, depends on context, perspective, and history. These are familiar tropes—so familiar, in fact, that we rarely pause to parse them consciously. But then, why do some thinkers, like Foucault—who spoke of discourse, power, contingency, and discontinuity—still strike us as so distinctive? (Foucault is just an example that comes to mind. We can also think of (e.g.,) the Buddhist notion of Śūnyatā, and see how it makes us rethink our understanding of the world we already know. While there might not be anything new, or something we have not heard or thought, it can still offer something to rethink our position.)

Take, for instance, the idea that power governs us, not necessarily people or laws, but the way we speak and think about certain things, certain people, certain practices. This is not an entirely new notion. Many of us feel this intuitively, even if we don’t always name or blame it.

Here, think of a friend who calls you at 3 a.m., wanting to discuss something serious. I might be half-asleep, or drowned in a deadline. And yet, I will likely pick up the phone—because s/he is a friend, is in need, and matters to me. And as the legends go, good friends don’t leave each other in the lurch.

In that moment, it’s not just my personality or kindness that governs my response (i.e, my choice to disturb my sleep and leave the draft I was working on). It’s also the discourse—the way of talking—about friendship, care, loyalty, karma, and so on. These ideas—these discourses—shape our behaviour. But they do so contingently, not universally.

That is, not every society expects a friend to call someone at 3 AM and expect the other person to discuss serious matters. The upshot is that these things don’t act like rules; they inhabit us through culture, emotion, and memory.

Let’s take another example. Think also of a romantic relationship. One couple in rural India may carry a significant burden of monogamy, patriarchal norms, and greater interdependence. A relationship in the West, while not necessarily free of patriarchy or monogamy, might involve entirely different expectations about emotional expression, domestic roles, and even/especially whether one should live with parents. These expectations—these meta-norms—quietly configure the power dynamics of a relationship.

And again, these are not some revelations; we already know them, feel them, live them. What gives them force is when they are named, framed, and expressed in the language and articulated using (e.g.,) history, sociology, or economics. It is then that they begin to broach some limitations in our understanding, tickle a part of our existing thinking and prompt us to ponder on things we have already known and felt.

Suddenly, an intuition begins to brim in a different light, unfurling a new set of ideas or topics that did not appear to us like that before. By nudging us and by unsettling us. It forces a reckoning with something we had already known, but not quite seen.

The rub is that it’s just the power of their ideas. Ideas, after all, are everywhere—floating, flexible, fragile. We all encounter them, even without reading the complete works of major thinkers. For example, I haven’t read all of Foucault, nor have I read many others, for that matter. And I am sure my understanding will change as I read more of them and other related materials.

Yet, some of the concepts I have encountered, when combined with my own experiences, life, and language (especially Hindi and Marwari), have generated ways of thinking for me that were not obvious before.

So … what makes some ideas resonate, I believe, is not just their content, but their grounding—the way they are pinned to specific signs (e.g., words, phrases) that they begin to feel real, different, practical, and empowering.

And that’s when they erupt, thinking and catapulting a new thought, a new idea, or an argument.

At least, I think so. What do you think?

Whither Global South’s Copyright Scholar(ship) …

Image from here

A few months ago, my winning entry in the ATRIP Essay Competition 2023, titled “Whither Global South’s Copyright Scholar(ship): Lost in the ‘Citation Game’?” was published in IIC – International Review of Intellectual Property and Competition Law. Below is the abstract of the piece. The original entry can be found on my SSRN page, and a short post discussing the essay is available at SpicyIP.

Abstract

Are some scholars more equal than others? Surely not. But some are more visible than others. What gives them this extra visibility? Of course, some (get to) write more and “better” than others. But why? Location is a significant factor, with scholars from the Global North often receiving more attention in terms of citations and reliance on their copyright-related research. This over-visibility cuts deep, invisibilizing scholars from other parts of the world and, more problematically, creating an epistemic framework. This framework knits an ideation/thinking pattern that supports certain ideas/reforms/arguments while suppressing, resisting, or discouraging others. While there are many known and unknown causes and effects of this phenomenon, this essay focuses on the history of IP teaching and research in the Global South, which, coupled with citation practices – or the “Citation Game”, as I call it –shape copyright discourses. To illustrate my claims, I problematize Art. 17 of the Berne Convention, which is typically interpreted as authorizing censorship. Using rules of interpretation, especially the provision’s history, I challenge the prevailing interpretation, which affirms the dominant “balance” discourse, and propose an alternative interpretation that empowers states to permit the dissemination of copyrighted work during emergencies such as pandemics. Grounded in Critical Legal Studies and TWAIL, this essay will help re-evaluate the history of copyright history and challenge the status quo of modern (international) legal thought.

The PDF is available here – https://link.springer.com/content/pdf/10.1007/s40319-025-01572-x.pdf

Dramatics of the Indian AI/Copyright Discourse?

Image from here

A Few days ago, Akshat wrote a piquing post problematising the MEITY report, which concludes that training Large Language Models infringes and isn’t protected under Section 52(1)(a)(i) of the Copyright Act. 

In his casually complex style, he noted:

“What’s missing from the current debate is a crucial understanding: copyright protects against unauthorized sharing of my work with others, potentially depriving me of credit or economic compensation that I could have gotten by sharing it with them myself. In simpler terms, while I cannot express your original expression without your permission, I can certainly consume your publicly available original expression without the same (maybe (or not?), barring paywall circumvention, which isn’t part of this current debate). The law focuses on unauthorized expression of original publicly available content—not its unauthorized consumption, as making content public already waives that claim.”

I agree with Akshat that the MEITY report is “missing” something and have made similar arguments in several of my previous works since 2023. E.g., see this article ​​called Taking Copyright’s “Balance” Too Seriously and this recent one named Faith-Based Fair Dealing: Beware, New Exceptions Ahead (?). Indeed, many scholars have argued that the training of AI is non-infringing work and, therefore, a non-issue for international copyright law. If you haven’t seen it, check out this fantastic piece by Oren Bracha, titled “The Work of Copyright in the Age of Machine Production.” Anyway.

Reading Akshat’s piece and reflecting on my previous works, I don’t think there’s any angle that is innocently missed. The people who wrote the MEITY report very likely knew (and should have known!) that AI training can involve a different kind of “use” compared to the type of usage the Copyright Act authorises owners to exclude. Not every use constitutes infringement—only expressive ones, as Aksaht aptly pointed out. Not every act of storing a work is problematic, either. If no human involvement or communication occurs, why apply the fair use doctrine? Fair dealing, I repeat, is a tricky terrain, and sometimes it’s best not to tread there.

But I sense something more at play here, something beyond what we consider good or bad arguments, or what makes for a desirable or undesirable policy. From my limited readings, I’ve observed the AI and copyright discourse, and it feels like a loop—repackaged arguments, recycled citations, well-worn tropes of author vs. public, incentive vs. access, and innovation vs. regulation. While there are some shifts in interpretation—debates now incorporating the technicalities and workings of AI, discussing whether a use qualifies as fair, its alignment with copyright’s purpose, or invoking the balance trope—few changes reshape the discourse in any meaningful way.

This makes me wonder: Has the discourse around AI-Copyright, the way we think about the issue, been set, controlled and regulated? As Foucault says, “In every society the production of discourse is at once controlled, selected, organised and redistributed by a certain number of procedures whose role is to ward off its powers and dangers, to gain mastery over its chance events, to evade its ponderous, formidable materiality.”

Who knows and how: whether we remain caught in the act of defending or extending our current positions? I attempted to address this question in my upcoming piece for the Journal of the Copyright Society of the USA, where I argue that a “balance” discourse is grounded in a utilitarian episteme—the general system of thought—that shapes the current approach to the issue. However, I feel I have left the issue incomplete.  There is a deeper layer here that extends beyond the existence of a discourse. 

It is also a question of agency: who controls the discourse itself, how the boundaries of discourse are defined, and who has the authority to do so. There are “epistemic forces” at play which shape not just what is said, but how it’s said and by whom. The questions we ask, the terms we use, and even the arguments we entertain are all filtered through an underlying power/struggle. What I’ve missed, and what I believe Akshat also missed in his post, is that this discourse delimitation is not passive or neutral. It is actively shaped by those who have the power to define the terms of the debate—and by those who have the power to exclude alternative narratives or conceptions from entering the conversation.

So, why assume that an argument or conceptual angle is absent simply because people are unaware of it or fail to appreciate its significance? It could be a deliberate omission. The way copyright and AI discourse is unfolding—especially in the Global North, and now in India and China—isn’t simply a matter of organic, unregulated exchange. The way courts and policymakers approach the issue, and how it’s shaped by the agendas of those in positions of power, is far from incidental. This discourse is actively moulded, steered, and controlled by the dominant players in the field. It’s not a free-flowing debate where the most compelling and convincing claims naturally prevail. No, it’s carefully shaped and restricted by the agents involved—not just by the substance of what’s being said, but by who gets to speak, and more crucially, by the language in which those arguments are framed.

Akshat has highlighted Big Tech’s influence through ChatGPT’s Opt-Out mechanism at SpicyIP, another blog for which both of us write. Similarly,  we also know that tech companies are lobbying for easier access to copyrighted works. Meanwhile, authors and rights holders are pushing for licensing or remuneration. The Standing Committee on Copyright and Related Rights of WIPO is drafting a proposal on author remuneration, a key agenda item at the upcoming March 2025 meeting. Civil society groups and scholars are advocating for new research exceptions. Even those who argue that AI training doesn’t constitute infringement still (need to) frame their analysis in terms of fair dealing as a safeguard because that’s how legal arguments are structured in courtrooms and policy debates. The field is structured to work in this way. 

On top of this, since the 1980s, we’ve arguably gestated a faith in fair dealing as the default response to every new technology. It has become a kind of conceptual messiah—the go-to solution, regardless of context. At the same time, authors and copyright holders know that some uses of their works are inevitable. They can’t stop them, so they focus on monetisation—hence the push for licensing as a practical compromise.

The real issue isn’t just what arguments are being made, but who is making them, where, and why. This is a symbolic struggle for power, with different groups competing to define the world order and how copyright law fits into it. In turn, there is an effort to define how knowledge governance will happen in the coming years.

That’s all from my end for now. I’ve explored these questions in greater depth in an upcoming piece for the Indian Journal of Law and Technology, co-authored with Luca Schirru, a brilliant scholar from Brazil and a dear friend. I will share that piece once it is published.

Until then,

Thank you for reading. À bientôt

-LV

Notes from Doctoral Diary: Politics of Academic Writing

Image from here

Namaskar readers from PhilLIP,

I’m Lokesh Vyas— a blogger who, along with my dear friend Akshat, started this blog a few years ago. We called it PhilLIP — short for Philosophy, Law, and Intellectual Property. Our aim was (and still is) to reflect on IP issues, or broadly, the problems of information regulation, especially from a theoretical or philosophical perspective — to theorise or philosophise IP, if you will.

While Akshat, being the Akshat — ever-curious, ever-enthusiastic about all things IP — found time to write, I, on the other hand, let procrastination (and an overloaded schedule) get the better of my writing ambitions. But, as the wise say, better late than never. And here I am.

In the meantime, I’ve been writing occasionally for SpicyIP, IPRMENTLAW, and academic journals (see my SSRN page). However, due to my PhD life, I have many thoughts and ideas (just “musings”) — which I believe are worth developing — that don’t always find their way into thoroughly researched pieces. That’s what I hope PhilLIP can still offer space for.

Going forward, I’ll use this blog to share: short musings and critical notes, historical tidbits or archival insights I stumble upon in my research, and perhaps even unfinished thoughts that deserve conversation, if not yet conclusions. We can, I hope, keep the conversations going.

Without further ado, here’s my first post, not exactly on IP but on “the politics of academic writing”. These are working notes from a panel I recently organised at Sciences Po, Paris.

I’ve been mulling over the politics of academic writing for a while now, thanks to my friend and co-author on this project, Aditya Gupta—an enterprising Indian scholar with a sharp eye for these things. We named this project “Namaskari Scholar”—a scholar who treats academic writing as performance while resisting and unpacking its symbolic violence. The central idea behind Namaskari Scholar is simple: in academia, it’s not just what you write that matters, but how you write it. And the “how” is often shaped by assumptions that determine whose voices are considered legitimate, and whose are dismissed as noise, excess, or emotion.

This broader reflection led me to organise a panel at Sciences Po, Paris — my current academic home — as part of our intensive doctoral week. I’m grateful to my kind and encouraging professor, Jean d’Aspremont, who first suggested that I put together something for the event. Last week, we successfully hosted the panel, featuring three truly outstanding speakers: Professor Surabhi Ranganathan, Rashmi Dharia, and Professor Jean d’Aspremont himself.

How It Began

The idea first occurred to me while I was reading “The Geopolitics of Academic Writing” by Professor Suresh Canagarajah. He argues — and persuasively so— that academic writing isn’t neutral. It adheres to Western conventions and expectations, often enforced through citation norms, peer review standards, and publishing structures that disproportionately favour certain voices, styles, and regions.

One example that stayed with me: In many South Asian traditions, texts often begin with an invocation or blessing. A Hindu might start with “Shri Ganeshaya Namaha,” a Muslim with “Bismillah ir-Rahman ir-Rahim.” Even in older European academic writing, scholars would begin with “Dear Editors” or “Dear Readers.” These gestures — forms of address that locate the scholar in a social or spiritual world — are rarely found or accepted in today’s academic writing, which prefers the impersonal, third-person, “neutral” voice.

That point resonated deeply. In my own experience, I’ve often been told that I write “too personally” — mainly because I blog and reflect in ways that aren’t always seen as “academic.” That made me pause. Why is the personal voice seen as less rigorous? Why are different styles of expression seen as less valid?

Of course, academic writing is just one of many issues in academia. Regarding the politics of academic writing, two key issues warrant deliberation:

First, there seems to be an unspoken capital—a kind of cultural and epistemic currency—that one must possess to succeed in academia. Simply put, to be an academic, one must have what Bourdieu would call capital: the right style, tone, cadence, and codes, or, in the interest of brevity, the right performance. Those who perform academic writing can gain access and authority; those who don’t are often sidelined or branded as non-academic, radical, deviant, or unreadable. Seen this way, academic writing doesn’t just express thought—it defines what counts as thought, and who counts as a thinker. It controls discourse—the way of thinking and talking about academia.

This panel began from the premise that academic writing is not neutral. It disciplines. It subjectivises. It polices. It silences. It shapes who can speak, in what form, and with what consequence. Drawing on lived experiences and theory, the panel explored how academic writing is taught, performed, and policed through various mechanisms, including pedagogy, peer review, citation norms, and editorial gatekeeping.

Now, to be clear: I’m not arguing that we abandon structure or start writing purely or only in slang. Resistance can take many forms. In fact, new forms of writing are being accepted in academia. I am advocating for more diverse modes of academic expression — more openness to multiple voices, idioms, and epistemic styles. Because when we privilege only one kind of voice, we don’t just limit access; we reproduce exclusion, silently but surely. (See generally, Melonie Fullick‘s potent post on politics of knowledge and academic writing. Check its comment sections!)

So the question is: should we continue to privilege a narrow, often US- or UK-centred idea of what “good” academic writing looks like? Or can we imagine more inclusive, plural modes of scholarly expression? Because if we don’t, then it’s not really about what you say—it’s also about how you say it. And only when you say it in the “right” way does your thought get recognised as a legitimate thought. Otherwise, it’s just dismissed as noise, emotion, or cultural excess.

This conversation is even more urgent today, in the age of AI. Generative AI has already begun to reshape how we write and think. However, if AI is primarily trained on dominant academic styles—such as objective, third-person, and de-personalised—then future writing produced with its help will likely reproduce the same epistemic hierarchies. That’s why I believe we must reflect on these questions now.

In sum, to write differently — with subjectivity, feeling, emotion — is not to write less seriously. It is to take writing seriously enough to ask: Who is it for? What does it silence? And what could it become if we did it otherwise? Here, the figure of Namaskari Scholar comes— the one who bows in greeting, writes with intention, and refuses to flatten themselves just to fit the page.

More soon. À bientôt !

— LV