Missiles, markets and machismo: A new Cold War brews in broad daylight

Raju Korti
There’s a strange déjà vu in the air -- like history is flexing its old Cold War muscles, but this time the nuclear posturing is louder, the energy diplomacy murkier, and the players more brazen. With Russia officially walking out of the INF Treaty, it isn’t just an arms-control document shredded. It is a signal to the world: restraint is out, escalation is in.

For India, the timing couldn’t have been more fraught. As Washington tightens the noose on nations doing energy business with Moscow, New Delhi finds itself in the crosshairs -- not just of US tariffs but of being morally lectured for a strategy the West itself had encouraged early in the Ukraine war. What was once seen as pragmatism -- keeping Russian oil flowing to stabilise global prices -- is now being branded as opportunism.

But India isn’t blinking. Its imports of Russian oil, which barely registered before 2022, now account for over a third of its crude basket. This is less about favouring Moscow and more about national interest -- the kind the West too conveniently forgets when it suits them. And when External Affairs Minister S. Jaishankar calls out Western hypocrisy, there’s an unmissable global resonance.

Meanwhile, Russia is bolting its arsenal with renewed nuclear muscle. The missiles once mothballed under the INF Treaty are back on the menu. And they could soon be stationed within striking range of Europe or Asia-Pacific. This isn’t just about NATO or American subs lurking in undisclosed waters. This is about a world where deterrence is dictated by dominance, not diplomacy.

Caught in the crossfire is a fragile global equilibrium, where rhetoric has replaced reasoning and power posturing has pushed sanity to the sidelines. The US -- under Trump 2.0 -- seems less interested in alliances and more in ultimatums. From demanding a ceasefire in Ukraine by a self-imposed August 8 deadline to repositioning nuclear submarines and threatening trade partners, America is once again acting less like a team player and more like the referee and the striker.

Enter the existential dread. Far removed from news tickers and diplomatic communiqués is a growing fear quietly documented by the Centre for the Study of Existential Risk. If doomsday does knock early, it might be because three men — Trump, Putin and Xi -- have replaced statesmanship with self-image. Their collective traits of narcissism, cold pragmatism, and Machiavellian cunning resemble the very characteristics that have led great empires to their knees, from Rome to Mesopotamia.

This isn’t mere theory. It is a pattern. Power consolidated in a few hands, backed by weapons and wealth, caged within borders where the rest can only watch. Today’s Goliaths aren’t bronze-age kings with swords but modern oligarchs with missiles, oil rigs, and algorithms. And unlike past collapses that offered post-fall prosperity, the next one might come with fallout -- literally.

India, like many others, is navigating this minefield with careful defiance. It is refusing to be bullied, even as it avoids being dragged fully into either camp. But the room for balance is shrinking. With treaties crumbling and egos inflating, the world is inching closer to a dangerous polarity. One without safety nets.

The Cold War, at least, had rules. This new era doesn’t even pretend to.

Your plate has a split personality! The great food confusion

Raju Korti
Every morning, before my tea is even ready, my phone is already pelting me with advice. “Have bananas for instant energy.” Scroll down two more posts -- “Bananas spike blood sugar, avoid them.” Same fruit, two verdicts. If the banana were a person, it would sue for defamation.
Take twenty everyday items -- and you will find enough research to make you dizzy.
Almonds: “Brain booster.” / “Too many cause kidney stones."
Tomatoes: “Packed with lycopene, cancer fighter.” / “Triggers acidity, avoid at night.
”Rice: “Staple for centuries, gluten-free.” / “White rice is empty carbs, villain of your waistline.”
Ghee: “Ayurvedic superfood.” / “Cardiac time bomb.”
Coffee: “Improves alertness, extends life.” / “Dehydrates, raises BP.
”Eggs: “Perfect protein.” / “Cholesterol overload.”
Coconut oil: “Good for heart, hair, skin.” / “Saturated fat disaster.”
Milk: “Calcium powerhouse.” / “Indigestion culprit.”
Papaya: “Digestion aid.” / “Dangerous for pregnancy.
”Potatoes: “Comfort food, rich in potassium.” / “High glycemic index, avoid.”
Green tea: “Antioxidant magic.” / “Leads to insomnia.”
Watermelon: “Hydration hero.” / “High sugar content.”
Honey: “Natural sweetener.” / “Still sugar, fools you with health halo.”
Paneer: “Protein-rich, filling.” / “High fat, artery clogger.”
Grapes: “Resveratrol for longevity.” / “Pesticide-heavy, sugar spike.”
Peanuts: “Cheap protein.” / “Allergen alert.”
Curd: “Probiotic for gut.” / “Worsens cold.”
Spinach: “Iron-rich.” / “Oxalates block calcium absorption.”
Mango: “King of fruits.” / “King of calories.”
Butter: “Flavour enhancer.” / “Cholesterol culprit.”
And finally, sugar: A killer and saviour!
By the end of the list, the safest thing seems to be breathing -- and even that, in some cities, comes with an air quality warning. From waking up in the morning to the time you finally fall off to sleep (and yes, even sleep itself), everything is both good and bad depending on which “expert” you listen to. Too much or too little of anything -- water, sunlight, screen time, even napping -- comes with its own health report and a caution label. An existential grammar which has colon, semicolon, comma and a full stop with an apostrophe as the topping!
The confusion isn’t new. Our grandparents happily survived on home-cooked dal, rice, pickles, fried snacks, and a dessert to round it off. They didn’t Google if turmeric was anti-inflammatory or check calorie counts before a laddoo.

(Pic representational)

Today, every bite finds its way into a boardroom discussion -- carb ratio, antioxidant profile, glycemic load. By the time you finish calculating, your dinner is cold and your appetite gone.
The irony? People who avoid sugar, fat, alcohol, cigarettes, eat on time, meditate, and jog every morning… sometimes get cancer or heart attacks in their forties. Meanwhile, your neighbour’s uncle, who has survived on fried pakoras, four cups of sweet tea, and a daily beedi, is busy planning his 95th birthday party.
So what’s the magic formula? I doubt if anyone can put fingers on it. “Eat everything in moderation” is the sensible answer -- until someone finds a study saying moderation is harmful. At some point, you have to stop obsessing, enjoy your food, get some exercise, and hope the odds are in your favour. If something still goes wrong, well… in cricket and in life, sometimes even the best shot finds the fielder.

Trump’s tariff tantrums: Where the shoe pinches US!

Raju Korti
Every few years, America finds itself needing an external target to nurse internal discontent. The playbook is familiar: identify a trading partner, accuse them of unfairness, issue dramatic threats, and hope it rallies domestic sentiment. This time, the wheel of blame has landed on India. And not because India is the biggest offender on trade -- it’s not -- but because in Trump's version of economic theatre, optics always trump facts.

Let’s take a closer look. The US trade deficit with India stands at around USD 41 billion. Significant? Yes. But compare that to the USD 270 billion with China or USD 113 billion with Vietnam. In sheer numbers, India is not even in the top tier of Washington’s trade worries. Yet, Trump has singled India out for punishment—a 25% blanket tariff on all goods, plus a "penalty" for buying Russian military hardware and crude oil. The reason? Alleged “obnoxious non-monetary trade barriers” and India's growing tilt toward Russia. It is worth noting that these barriers have existed for decades and are common across many emerging economies.

So, why now? In my estimate, Trump’s timing is not incidental. With elections on the horizon, his strategy is textbook populism: revive America’s victim narrative in trade, attack India’s “high tariffs,” and spotlight India’s oil deals with Russia -- never mind that the US itself buys Russian commodities through indirect routes. He even brought Pakistan into the mix, touting a vague oil exploration deal with Islamabad and hinting -- almost childishly -- that maybe Pakistan would sell oil to India “some day.” A not-so-subtle jab.

What makes this especially troubling is the way the Trump administration has begun lumping India with America's adversaries. By associating India’s BRICS membership with anti-US intent, or calling India and Russia’s economies “dead,” Trump is attempting to recast India as an unreliable friend. This contradicts his own words, where he calls India “a friend,” showing the cognitive dissonance that often underpins Trump’s foreign policy narrative.

Enter Kaushik Basu, former World Bank Chief Economist, who offers a clearer diagnosis. He points out the irony of Trump labelling India a “big abuser” while ignoring much larger trade gaps with other countries. Basu warns that India’s compliance with such US pressure, especially in agriculture and dairy, could devastate an already fragile farm economy. If India bends to Washington’s terms, it risks selling out its rural base -- a move that could trigger political and economic backlash at home.

So, what does India do? First, don’t panic. History shows that Trump’s policy bark often has less bite than feared. Many of his trade threats are negotiating tactics meant to extract short-term concessions. Second, India must hold its ground on core issues like agricultural protections and strategic autonomy, particularly in its defence partnerships. Any hasty agreement with the US under duress may bring momentary calm but long-term vulnerability.

Finally, India must rediscover its independent foreign policy voice. In recent years, its alignment with the US has grown tighter -- sometimes at the cost of its non-aligned legacy. That perception, Basu says, has emboldened the US to take India for granted. A calibrated recalibration -- not confrontation -- with Washington is needed. India must show that friendship does not mean blind obedience.

For the United States, the real issue isn’t India’s trade policy or oil purchases. The issue is waning American economic dominance and the rise of multi-polarity, where countries like India want to chart their own course. Trump’s tariffs, if anything, reflect that unease. The more he presses, the more the world sees through the showmanship. In trying to make America great again, he may be making global goodwill toward America weaker again.

Because when economics becomes theatre, facts are the first casualties -- and friends, the collateral damage.

In my stride: When walking becomes your compulsion!

Raju Korti
It is funny how something we take for granted – walking -- can become an existential pursuit. In 2015, I underwent a near-fatal coronary bypass. For nearly two years after, I was a picture of frailty: anaemic, feeble, with tottering feet that struggled even with short distances. The ground beneath me didn’t just feel uneven -- it felt indifferent. My cardiologist, ever cautious, told me not to run, not to exert, just to walk. “At your age and condition,” he said, “walking is the best cardio there is.” I wasn’t a walking enthusiast. But now, walking became non-negotiable. Not for fitness, but for sheer survival.

(Sketch representational)

What started as short, laboured trudges morphed over time into longer, more confident strides. Slowly, the fog of weakness lifted. Today, I average between 5,000 to 7,000 steps daily -- depending on my willpower and Mumbai’s temperament. There are days when I feel almost athletic, and others when I simply settle for an honest effort. But I walk -- every day. I have given up my motorbike and car without regret. When it rains, I pace inside. On days I miss it, I feel something’s amiss. What keeps me going is not just medical advice but a quiet conviction echoed in that old philosophical line: “Jeevan chalne ka naam hai, chalte raho subah-o-shaam.

”Of course, every wearable tracker today will flash a 10,000-step target at you like gospel. But recent findings published in The Lancet Public Health suggest we have perhaps over-walked the mark. A landmark global study led by the University of Sydney reviewed data from over 57 studies and found that 7,000 steps may be the sweet spot -- not 10,000. The researchers concluded that the benefits of walking increased steadily until the 7,000-step mark, after which gains began to flatten. In fact, walking 7,000 steps a day slashed the risk of early death by nearly 47%, dementia by 38%, and showed similar risk-reduction effects for type 2 diabetes and cardiovascular disease.

What struck me was the study’s underlying message: consistency trumps obsession. You don’t have to chase an arbitrary number. For some, even going from 2,000 to 4,000 steps makes a world of difference. Every added step counts until it doesn’t -- and that “doesn’t” begins around 7,000.I walk today not to hit a number on a screen, but because walking grounds me. It has become an inward pilgrimage, a meditation in motion. A way to tell my body, and perhaps even life itself, that I’m still moving forward. If there’s one takeaway from my journey, it is this: step counts are deeply personal. The right number is not what your fitness band flashes but what your body can sustain, enjoy, and benefit from. Walk not just to live longer, but to live better.

So, go ahead -- lace up your shoes. But remember: the goal is not to race to 10,000. The goal is simply to keep going.

Nature, not sterility, is our real shield!

Raju Korti
From what I gather, there’s something oddly reassuring about the fact that nearly 800 million viruses land on every square meter of this planet’s atmosphere every single day -- and yet, here we are. Breathing, living, thriving. It is not bravado but biology. Our bodies have, over millennia, evolved into magnificent fortresses, constantly engaged in microscopic battles, parrying invisible blows, dodging pathogens, and updating immune intelligence like a well-oiled operating system.

But lately, I find myself asking: are we dumbing down this natural brilliance with our obsession for cleanliness?

(Pic representational)

Think about it. We now flinch at the idea of drinking water that isn’t RO-purified within an inch of its life. Our fruits are scrubbed raw under treated water, our homes sprayed relentlessly with antibacterial mists, and our hands reek of sanitiser even when all we have touched is a doorknob. Our immune systems, once sharp with the regular exercise of exposure to nature -- to mud, rivers, dust-laden winds -- are being coddled into complacency.

One microbiologist once told me that the immune system works like a smartphone -- it needs regular updates. The older ways of life -- walking barefoot on soil, bathing in rivers, or inhaling unsanitised air -- were, in effect, data transfers. The microbes from the earth and water served as teachers, trainers, and sometimes even sparring partners for our bodies.

Today’s ultra-sterile living standards are akin to switching off mobile data. The updates stop. The immune system grows lazy. It forgets how to fight, and worse, it forgets what it is fighting.

This isn’t just romanticising the past. During the COVID-19 pandemic, Europe and the United States bore disproportionate brunt. One striking reason: microbial amnesia. Populations living in pristine, sanitised environments had immune systems that hadn’t been “trained” in years. So, when a new virus arrived, their defences scrambled to even recognise it.

Compare that to rural India, where daily interactions with natural ecosystems continue. A remarkable insight from research into the Ganga river suggests it functions like a living microbial network. When humans bathe in it, they unknowingly upload and download microbial information. In return, the river, with its intelligent bacteriophages, selectively destroys harmful microbes and educates the human immune system. Imagine a spiritual ritual doubling up as immunological training.

It might sound counterintuitive in an age where cleanliness is equated with health. But perhaps we have taken it too far. Not all dirt is danger. Not all microbes are villains. In our race to isolate ourselves from nature under the guise of protection, we have forgotten that resilience isn’t built in laboratories alone.

The real path forward is not to wrap ourselves in sterilised bubbles. It’s to reconnect -- with soil, with rivers, with microbes. With that which once made us strong. Let’s not outsource all immunity to vaccines and chemical sanitisers. The real antidote to future pandemics might just lie beneath our feet, in our rivers, and in the air we have grown afraid to breathe.

From Headlines to Herons: The man behind the lens!

Raju Korti
There are journalists, and then there is Dr Moiz Mannan Haque -- a man whose words once danced crisply across the columns of newspapers, and whose camera now coaxes poetry from the wild. From the clang of newsrooms to the hush of forests, Moiz has made an extraordinary journey -- one that reads like a slow-simmered novel rather than a hurried headline. Former Head of the Department of Mass Communication at RTM Nagpur University, erstwhile Assistant Professor at NYSS Institute of Management and Research, and before that a redoubtable name in the world of reportage -- with stints as News Editor at The Peninsula, Qatar and Senior Reporter at both The Indian Express and The Hitavada --Moiz has worn many hats, and worn them well.

Moiz with his muse -- Nature

I have had the privilege of being his contemporary and witnessing firsthand how he filed immaculate copies that could glide past even the flintiest-eyed editors without the need for a red pen -- stories so airtight, they needed no patchwork. But what’s remarkable is not just his mastery in spinning a crisp copy – it is his seamless metamorphosis into a visual raconteur, a chronicler of the untamed, whose photographs now belong more to the domain of galleries and museums than mere social media scrolls. His frames breathe. They pause. They speak. Each one, a whisper from the wilderness.

And if you think that’s the end of the story, think again. Moiz is nothing if not a chameleon of talent. A beloved professor, adored -- nay, hero-worshipped -- by his students for his rigour and humour alike, he has also ventured into the world of fringe theatre. In a production titled Adieu, staged in the unorthodox format of a "Shot Play" -- a performance recorded in one fluid take without retakes or audience -- he dived into the role of a dying father. The lines were simple, the emotion anything but. In his own words, “It was a lot of fun… a new format and challenging.” True to form, he aced it with aplomb.

Perhaps what makes his photographic artistry irresistible is this: if the images are lush slices of sponge cake, the captions he pens are the glistening, whip-smart icing on top. Wry, wise, wistful -- always pitch perfect.

What follows is a freewheeling exchange with Moiz -- who has now traded news desks for nesting birds, deadlines for dew-dropped mornings, and the clickety-clack of typewriters for the meditative click of a camera shutter.

Let’s step into his world, frame by frame.

(Both collages courtesy Pragati Korti)

Photography for Moiz began in black and white -- quite literally. As a curious teenager on a tour of South India, armed with his uncle’s borrowed camera and eyes wide open to the marvels of heritage architecture, his first brush with image-making was more than just recreational. It was instinctive, almost ritualistic. A humble plastic-bodied HotShot 110 camera became his first personal tool -- rudimentary, even toy-like -- yet it offered him a window into landscapes, especially during a formative tour of Kashmir. Long before he fully understood aperture or exposure, the language of visuals had already begun whispering to him.

His photographic journey took a historic turn during his journalism training in West Berlin in 1990. Out of his modest scholarship, he bought his first SLR film camera -- the iconic Pentax K1000. That camera would bear witness to one of the defining moments of the 20th century. As the Berlin Wall crumbled and the merger of East and West Germany unfolded before his eyes, Moiz was there -- not just as a student of journalism, but as a chronicler of history. Some of the images he captured during that euphoric moment found their way to publication, affirming his instinct that storytelling through the lens was a calling, not a coincidence.

Growing up in Nagpur in a family where weekends meant picnics by lakes, rivers, and forests, Moiz was steeped in nature without even realizing it. Though his early professional life was anchored in journalism -- covering elections, capturing newsmakers, writing headlines -- the love for imagery simmered in the background. But it wasn’t until he could afford a decent camera that he began framing the world not just in his mind, but on film. The shift from hard news to herons wasn’t abrupt -- it was a gentle, organic evolution. He often quips, “It was a ‘natural’ progression.

”He describes himself as a photographer guided more by instinct than by rigorous training. The photographic eye -- that elusive gift of knowing a good frame even without a camera -- seemed to develop with time. “Practice may teach you the buttons, but instinct guides the frame,” he says, summarizing his belief in spontaneous vision over mechanical mastery.

Moiz’s transition from journalist to nature photographer was not an escape, but an extension. Visual storytelling was always in his DNA. In newsrooms in India and abroad, he shared a deep rapport with photojournalists, and later taught photojournalism himself, often urging students to find the “intro” -- journalism’s sacred first paragraph -- within every image. That same instinct shapes his wildlife photography today. He doesn’t aim merely for beauty, but for narrative. “My photos are not meant to be pretty postcards. They must speak.

”If journalism taught him to chase stories, nature photography taught him to wait for them. “It’s a form of meditation,” he reflects, “not about losing oneself, but becoming so aware of nature that you almost vanish into it.” Unlike reporting, where deadlines and readers dominate the rewards, nature photography is deeply personal. “The satisfaction is inward,” he says, “and the patience you build is the dividend.

”Despite living in an age of AI filters and superficial beauty, Moiz is unshaken in his core belief -- that composition is the soul of photography. “Fifty per cent of photography is where you stand,” he states. Good photos are born in the mind, not the camera. Whether it’s trimming excess in a news report or excluding non-essentials in a photograph, the parallels between editing words and composing images remain vivid to him.

His most dramatic moment in the wild? Undoubtedly the heart-racing encounter in Tadoba in 2019, when the young tiger Chhota Matkasur launched an ambush on a herd of Indian gaurs -- with Moiz and his team caught smack in the middle. The tension, the chase, the blur of hooves and paws -- and amidst all that chaos, he managed to click a few electrifying shots. One even made it to the front page of a prominent daily. But perhaps more unforgettable was a childhood memory -- barely six or seven years old, tumbling off an elephant’s back during a safari in Kanha, only to find himself face-to-face with a tigress and her cubs. Miraculously unharmed, the memory still carries the scent of forest and a quiet awe.

Though tigers draw attention -- and rightly so -- they aren’t his singular fascination. For Moiz, nature’s drama plays out equally in humble corners. A spider trapping a moth at home, a Shikra diving for a dove, a water snake lunging at a fish -- all equally riveting. He believes that even the most overlooked creatures -- the ants and grasshoppers -- deserve the reverence we reserve for tigers and leopards. “Nature has no hierarchy,” he says. “Every character in her theatre matters.

”While he does not proclaim to be an ornithologist, his love for birds – whom he calls as nature’s beautiful creations -- is visible in every frame. Common sparrows or rare eagles -- he sees himself as a storyteller, not a scientist. The goal is not taxonomy, but empathy.

Ask him whether nature photography is more cathartic than journalism and his answer is gentle but firm: “Reporting was for others; this is for myself.” The newsroom was often a race; the forest is a sanctuary. There are no deadlines, only dawns and dusks, no editors -- only instincts.

On how the media can better handle environmental issues, his suggestion is insightful: stop preaching, start showing. “Rather than quoting experts, showcase successful community actions,” he urges. “Don’t tell people what to do -- show them how it’s done.

”What next, then? A rare snow leopard? A volcanic eruption? A glacier collapsing? “Actually, I’m leaning toward street photography,” he says with a quiet smile. “There are so many untold stories around us -- stories of people, markets, alleys, and moments that flicker past in a second.” With more time on his hands and no formal job constraints, Moiz is ready to rediscover the world with the same lens, this time tilted toward humanity again -- as always, in search of stories.

(Sample pics have been selected from Moiz's vast repertoire).   

When “Auto” goes rogue: A comedy of corrections

Raju Korti
The other day, Karnataka Chief Minister Siddaramaiah had the unenviable misfortune of reading his own obituary -- courtesy of Meta’s Kannada-to-English auto-translation tool. What was meant as a solemn condolence for the late actress B. Saroja Devi became a digital death sentence for the CM himself. One can only imagine his expression upon reading: “Chief Minister Siddaramaiah passed away yesterday…” No wonder he had to clarify that he’s very much alive -- and presumably not browsing tributes to himself over morning "philter kaapi. It is not for nothing that in the Indian context, one who has been mistakenly declared dead, is wished a longer life. Maybe an auto-correction!

This, ladies and gentlemen, is the dark comedy of the “auto” world where your words go on unsanctioned adventures. A friend once tried to text, “You have my full condolences,” and it turned into “You have my full condoms.” If you have ever tried explaining that typo at a funeral, you’ll know why autocorrect can be a career hazard in emotional situations. Another typed “I stand corrected” which, through the cruel whims of predictive text, came out as “I stand erected.” Not the kind of standing ovation anyone asked for.

Inadvertent humour!

Then there is the unforgettable edit of “The buck stops here” that auto-morphed into “The fucks stop here” -- which, to be fair, did make for a more dramatic political slogan. I once typed “Let’s do it at your convenience,” which became “Let’s do it at your convent niece” --raising enough eyebrows to merit a family meeting.

The word auto, which proudly means self, often hijacks the self and delivers it to a land unknown. It’s like your phone believes it knows you better than your own soul. You say Namaste, it types Nastiness. You want to say Mahabharat, it gives you Mahesh Bhatt. You type voting is sacred, it turns into vomiting is scared. Maybe all this automation needs an exorcism, not an update.

By the way, when a phone autocorrects without consent, does it technically become an automobile? Let’s face it: what started as a harmless spell-check genie has become a chaos factory. Autocorrect doesn’t just fix typos. It rewrites your fate. Somewhere between "send nudes" and "send notes," entire friendships have been destroyed, marriages questioned, and in Siddaramaiah’s case, a life prematurely declared over.

Moral of the story? Always check before you hit “send.” Or better still, switch off “auto” and take the wheel yourself before you are misquoted into martyrdom.