Can Hormones Drive Our Morality

There was a time when it was easy to know who to root for in Mirzapur. Guddu Pandit began as the underdog—the young man pushed into violence by grief, injustice, and humiliation. The audience walked with him through loss. We saw his pain. We felt his anger. His violence, at first, seemed like retaliation against evil.

But somewhere along the way, something changed. Guddu didn’t just become violent—he became brutal. And yet, strangely, many of us still root for him. Not because his actions are good, but because the show keeps reminding us that he feels human.

One of the most disturbing moments in the later seasons is Guddu’s killing of his sister’s boyfriend. It is not a righteous act. It is not justice. It is rage—raw, uncontrolled, devastating. And yet the very next scenes soften us. We see Guddu grieving. We see him broken. We see him protecting Gollu. We see glimpses of tenderness. The show does something subtle: it does not change Guddu’s actions—it changes our emotional response to them.

Meanwhile, other characters are rarely given the same humanizing lens. Their cruelty is shown without repentance. Their violence without softness. Their ambition without vulnerability. So we judge them differently. Not necessarily because they are worse, but because we are not invited to feel with them. And that raises a disturbing possibility: what if our sense of good and evil is not shaped only by morality—but by emotion? Or even deeper: what if it is shaped by chemistry?

There is growing research suggesting that hormones and brain chemicals influence moral judgment. Oxytocin, for example, is associated with bonding and trust. Dopamine is deeply involved in reward and motivation. Serotonin plays a role in mood, aggression, and social behaviour. These chemicals do not simply determine whether something is right or wrong, but they can influence the emotional processes through which we respond to people and situations. This gives us an interesting way of thinking about what I call “chemical morality”: the possibility that our moral responses can be influenced by the chemistry of our emotional reactions.

Stories are particularly powerful because they can shape those reactions before we have consciously evaluated what we are seeing. Films and television do not simply tell us what happened. They show us how to feel about what happened. A close-up of a trembling face. A pause after an act of violence. A character breaking down in regret. A particular piece of music playing underneath a moment of grief. These are not accidental. Filmmakers can use sound, lighting, editing, camera angles, performance, and pacing to create emotional proximity between the audience and a character. And once we feel with someone, we may begin to judge them differently.

Psychologists have explored related ideas through concepts such as moral disengagement, where people find ways to justify or excuse behaviour that would ordinarily violate their moral standards. Media scholars have also examined how audiences develop affective dispositions toward characters, becoming emotionally invested in some characters and opposed to others. In other words, we don’t just judge actions. We judge stories. And stories shape feelings. Feelings shape sympathy. And sympathy can reshape judgment.

This is where Mirzapur becomes particularly interesting. For those unfamiliar with it, Mirzapur is a popular Indian crime drama centred around power, revenge, violence, and survival within a brutal criminal world. At its centre is Guddu Pandit, who begins as an underdog—a young man who is deeply wronged by powerful forces. In the early part of the story, it is relatively easy to see Guddu as the protagonist and to root for him.

But as the story progresses, Guddu becomes increasingly violent. His actions become more impulsive, more brutal, and increasingly difficult to distinguish from those of the people he once opposed. The shift becomes especially striking when he brutally kills his sister’s boyfriend in a fit of rage. The act itself is horrifying. But immediately afterwards, the camera gives us something important: Guddu’s reaction. We see his shock. His regret. His emotional collapse.

The camera allows us to remain with him after the violence. We are invited to see that he is disturbed by what he has done. The scene doesn’t simply leave us with the horror of the act; it gives us access to the humanity of the person who committed it. And that matters. Because the show repeatedly gives us access to Guddu’s grief, tenderness, loyalty, and regret. We see his care for Gollu. We see his pain. We see the parts of him that remain vulnerable.

Other violent characters in the show are not always given the same narrative treatment. Their violence is shown—but their humanity is often withheld. Their cruelty is visible—but their vulnerability is less accessible. And so our judgments begin to diverge. Guddu can commit something horrific, yet we continue to hope that he will somehow recover his humanity. Another character can commit something similar, and we find ourselves thinking, “Of course. That is who they are.” Perhaps Guddu is not necessarily morally better. Perhaps we have simply been given more reasons to feel for him.

This is where the idea of “chemical morality” becomes interesting. When we see suffering, tenderness, regret, or vulnerability, our emotional systems respond. We feel attachment. Empathy. Reward. Distress. We become emotionally invested. And once we are emotionally invested, our moral judgments may become less objective. We forgive those we feel connected to. We condemn those who feel distant. We justify actions when we understand the person behind them. We may even begin to confuse understanding with moral approval.

The danger is that morality can become unstable when it is primarily driven by emotional response. If the rightness or wrongness of an action depends on how strongly we feel for the person performing it, then the same action can become morally acceptable or unacceptable depending on who performs it. This is not merely a problem with television. It is a problem with human beings. We are naturally more sympathetic toward people we know, people we identify with, people whose stories we understand. We can overlook the failures of those we love while being outraged by the same failures in people we dislike. Our emotions are powerful moral influences. But should they be our moral foundation?

This is where spiritual and ethical traditions offer an important challenge. Across cultures and religious traditions, moral frameworks have attempted to ground human behaviour in something deeper than immediate emotional response. They provide principles, narratives, commands, virtues, and practices that can act as anchors when our emotions become unstable.

Christian morality, for example, does not simply ask us to follow whatever feels compassionate in the moment. Scripture repeatedly calls believers to allow their desires, emotions, relationships, and actions to be shaped by a deeper vision of what is good. Jesus’ command to love our neighbour, to love our enemies, to forgive, to resist vengeance, and to pursue justice challenges the natural tendency to let emotional proximity determine moral worth.

The person we feel sympathy for is not automatically righteous. The person we dislike is not automatically evil. And revenge does not become justice simply because we understand why someone wants revenge.

This does not mean that emotions are bad. Far from it. Empathy is essential to human flourishing. Compassion matters. Love matters. Grief matters. Our emotional responses are part of what makes us human. The question is not whether we should allow our emotions to influence morality. They inevitably will. The question is whether we allow them to become the final authority.

Perhaps the goal is not to silence our chemistry but to discipline it. Not to reject emotion, but to allow deeper moral commitments to shape how our emotions respond. Not to stop feeling, but to learn how to feel rightly.

Mirzapur does not just blur the line between hero and villain. It exposes something about us. Why do we forgive Guddu? Why do we still hope he wins? Why does his regret matter so much to us? Why can we look at the same violence differently depending on whose face the camera shows us afterwards?

Perhaps because morality is not merely philosophical. It is also physiological. We are moved by suffering. Softened by vulnerability. Persuaded by regret. Comforted by loyalty. And sometimes, manipulated by storytelling.

The real question raised by Mirzapur may therefore not be, “Is Guddu good or bad?” It may be something more unsettling: How did we decide?

If our emotions can be shaped, if our sympathy can be engineered, and if our brain chemistry can influence the way we respond to people, then how do we ensure that our sense of right and wrong does not simply drift with every emotional tide?

Perhaps the answer is not to reject our chemistry, but to anchor it. To allow our chemistry to respond—but allow our conscience to rule. To feel deeply—but judge wisely.

Because perhaps the greatest question Mirzapur leaves us with is not simply who is good.

It is this: Are our feelings guiding our morality—or is our morality guiding our feelings?