Facebook’s ‘Digital Royalty’: "Digital Creators" and their "followers"

Raju Korti
There was a time when Facebook was a cheerful adda for long-lost friends, old classmates, ex-colleagues, and that uncle who sends ‘Good Morning’ messages before sunrise. You could share photos, poke fun, disagree, even argue; and yet remain friends. The unwritten rule was simple: friendship meant affection, not algorithmic hierarchy.

But now, as I scroll through my feed, I realise that Facebook has been quietly colonised by a new tribe: the Digital Creators. These self-styled geniuses are convinced that everyone else exists only to “follow” them. Their profiles proudly declare, “1.8K followers, 123 following”. As if the fewer they follow, the more divine their existence.

My notifications keep telling me: “So-and-so has highlighted a post for you.” Really? Highlighted? As if it is some royal proclamation. And when I open the post, I find that I have been automatically demoted from friend to follower. In other words, a humble spectator whose sacred duty is to clap, like, and share.

(Pic representational)

Let me confess: I hate this word follower. It reeks of servitude. I joined Facebook to make friends, not to become part of some digital durbar. It is very rare that I send a friend request, yet, when I do, I find myself converted into a “follower”. A faceless minion expected to hang on to every selfie, quote, and “motivational” post my new monarch uploads.

Now, I am told that a digital creator is someone who “produces and distributes original, engaging, and valuable content.” Beautiful words, but quite meaningless when you look around. What exactly are they creating? Ninety percent of what passes for “original content” today is a recycled meme, a borrowed quote, or a dance reel set to someone else’s song. If this is creativity, then the world’s WhatsApp groups are full of creative geniuses.

And please, don’t tell me there was no creativity before the digital age. By that logic, the likes of Shakespeare, Tagore, R.K. Laxman and Sahir – to name a few -- must have been mere amateurs because they never monetized their content through reels. What unmitigated nonsense!

What irritates me even more is how these digital creators hardly ever acknowledge others’ posts. They live in a world of one-way admiration. You comment on their post, and silence follows. The royal silence of someone too elevated to notice the commoners. Yet their “followers” dutifully shower likes and emojis as though attending a daily darshan.

To me, friendship is about equality. I don’t want to lead, and I certainly don’t want to follow. I want to connect. Genuinely, without hashtags or hierarchies.

If this obsession with followers continues, perhaps Mr. Zuckerberg should consider rebranding Facebook altogether. Maybe call it Followbook or Feudalbook. At least then we’ll know where we stand, kneeling at the feet of “digital creators,” proudly part of an utterly stupid algorithm.

Some might take offence to this post. That’s fine. After all, Facebook still asks me, “What’s on your mind?” I only hope it doesn’t soon change that to, “What’s on your leader’s mind?”

Aliens are human too. They're entitled to boredom!

Raju Korti
It all began when I stumbled upon this rather delightful theory by Dr Robin Corbet of NASA. He calls it radical mundanity, which, in plain language, means that aliens might be as ordinary as us, only with slightly shinier gadgets. For years, we have imagined them cruising around in shimmering spaceships, manipulating gravity and sipping quantum cocktails. But Corbet suggests they might be no more exciting than a cosmic neighbour who once bought a telescope, got tired of stargazing, and decided to stick to their version of afternoon tea.

Pic as imagined by me, Who ese?

The more I thought about it, the funnier it seemed. Imagine an alien research council somewhere in the Andromeda Galaxy holding an emergency meeting: “Operation Contact Earth: Status?” And one sleepy alien saying, “We sent them a signal 3 million years ago. Still buffering.” At some point, even the most patient civilisation would give up and reach for a plate of samosas instead.

It turns out that sending messages across galaxies is not like sending a WhatsApp text. It takes colossal amounts of energy and time. Possibly millions of years just to get a ‘hello’ back. So, after a few cosmic centuries, our alien friends might have realised it was not worth the trouble. You can almost picture them sighing, “These humans can’t even agree on the taste of chai. Let’s move on.”Dr Corbet’s theory also punctures the grand myth of aliens being godlike. He suggests they might just have slightly better tech. An iPhone 42 instead of an iPhone 17. Which means, instead of building galaxy-sized marvels or bending space-time, they could be stuck dealing with their own version of power cuts, software crashes, and interplanetary traffic snarls.

In fact, this makes the universe feel oddly familiar. The Fermi Paradox, the question of why we haven’t heard from anyone yet, might just have the most human answer imaginable: they got bored. Picture the aliens tuning into Earth’s broadcasts, watching endless election debates on television, and deciding that advanced communication with us was a bad idea.

But on a serious note, there is something oddly comforting in this mundanity. If they are indeed out there, maybe they are not perfect, not terrifying, just as flawed and easily distracted as we are. Maybe their greatest invention wasn’t some interstellar engine but a better version of the pressure cooker.So yes, the universe might be full of intelligent life, but it could also be full of civilisations that simply lost interest halfway. In the end, perhaps we are all, humans and aliens alike, victims of the same cosmic condition: short attention spans and the irresistible lure of comfort over curiosity.

After all, even in the grand theatre of the cosmos, it seems boredom truly is universal.

When the monster turns: Pakistan’s Taliban dilemma and India’s calculus

Raju Korti
I have always believed that history punishes those who ignore its lessons. The events now playing out between Pakistan and the Taliban are a grim reminder of that truth. Creating a monster in the hope of controlling it is a strategy that never ends well. From a diplomatic and strategic standpoint, nurturing groups like the Taliban was a miscalculation of monumental proportions. And now, the fallout is at Pakistan’s doorstep.

What was once Islamabad’s prized proxy has evolved into its most formidable adversary. The recent breakdown of talks between Pakistan and the Taliban has set the stage for a dangerous confrontation. The Tehrik-e-Taliban Pakistan (TTP), emboldened by ideological kinship and territorial sanctuary in Afghanistan, has declared open hostility toward its former patron. The hunter has indeed become the hunted.

Divided by barbs

The Taliban’s defiance of Pakistan’s pleas to rein in TTP is not mere brinkmanship. It signals a deeper shift in regional power equations. The Taliban, now in control of Kabul, no longer needs Pakistan’s patronage or protection. For the first time, it sees itself as an independent force. Perhaps even as the arbiter of South and Central Asian jihadist politics. That confidence, or arrogance, makes the situation far more volatile.

Pakistan’s military, long seen as the orchestrator of regional power plays, suddenly finds itself cornered. The optics of TTP fighters moving freely in Khyber Pakhtunkhwa and mocking the Pakistani army are not only humiliating but also destabilizing. For Islamabad, this is no longer about containing insurgency. It is about surviving a rebellion it once armed and funded.

In this shifting dynamic, India inevitably enters the frame. Pakistan’s accusation that the Taliban is now acting as an “Indian puppet” borders on the absurd. India has maintained a consistent distance from the Taliban, both ideologically and diplomatically. No senior Taliban leader had set foot in India since the group recaptured Kabul on August 15, 2021; until now. The visit of acting Foreign Minister Amir Khan Muttaqi to New Delhi marks a cautious, calibrated engagement, not an embrace.

India’s position must remain clear-eyed. Any engagement with the Taliban must serve two purposes: safeguarding Indian interests in Afghanistan and ensuring that terror networks with cross-border ambitions find no sanctuary there. While dialogue is not endorsement, it does signal a pragmatic recognition of the new realities in the neighbourhood.

But caution must remain the watchword. The Taliban’s past record of duplicity, ideological rigidity, and support for extremism cannot be overlooked. Its promises of moderation have so far been largely rhetorical. India must balance outreach with vigilance, ensuring that any diplomatic engagement does not legitimize or embolden a regime still struggling to align with international norms.

For Pakistan, the crisis is existential. Its decades-long use of militant groups as instruments of state policy has finally imploded. The Taliban, now its nemesis, refuses to dance to Islamabad’s tune. The threat is not only military but also psychological. Pakistan’s strategic depth has turned into a strategic disaster.

As the dust settles on this dangerous confrontation, one thing is clear: Pakistan’s experiment with terror as foreign policy has collapsed under its own weight. The Taliban’s rise may have changed Afghanistan’s power map, but its newest battleground lies within Pakistan itself. For India, this is a moment to watch, not rush. In the great game of the subcontinent, patience, prudence, and preparedness will be the best weapons.

The paradox of Death: Routine, yet always exceptional!

Raju Korti
To me, death has always existed on two irreconcilable planes. One philosophical, the other painfully real. In thought, it overwhelms; in experience, it devastates. No amount of spiritual discourse can cushion the blunt force of absence. The unbearable knowledge that you will never again see that person in flesh and blood. The mind can debate eternity; the heart cannot bear finality.

Board at a crematorium

Yet, amid this emotional chaos, I find myself observing those who live and work in the orbit of death, people for whom it has become almost procedural. In hospitals, nurses and doctors steel themselves before breaking the news to a waiting family. Their faces, often expressionless, betray the fatigue of repetition. It is not callousness, but a necessary armour, a coping mechanism that allows them to serve without collapsing.

At crematoriums and burial grounds, attendants perform their duties with an economy of gesture that borders on ritual precision. They lift, place, and light pyres, their hands moving through smoke and ash as if through air. To them, the end of life is another beginning of a shift, a routine, a livelihood. I often wonder whether the smell of burning wood still stirs anything in them or whether familiarity has numbed them into quiet acceptance.

Even in government offices, death finds bureaucratic expression. A death certificate is printed, stamped, and filed away like any other document. The clerk behind the counter may not flinch at the name, but somewhere, that piece of paper marks the end of someone’s world.

My own tryst with loss, the untimely death of my 37-year-old nephew, tore open this contemplation. Grief, I discovered, is not a moment but a state of being. People say time heals; perhaps it only dulls. The death of someone close is a terminating pause. From where one does not move on, only around.

Science explains death as the irreversible cessation of vital functions. Philosophy frames it as transition, religion as liberation. Yet no definition has ever truly captured its essence. Death remains the one mystery no living being has ever returned to decode.

Perhaps those who deal with it daily are the closest we have to understanding it. Not through theory, but through endurance. Their detachment is not indifference, but wisdom earned through proximity. They remind us that while death may be universal, the way we meet it -- with grief, grace, or grim duty -- is profoundly human.

Death may be an illusion, as some say, but never illusive. We can study it, philosophize about it, even grow accustomed to it, yet never truly know it.

Ram Ram! Random Access, Random Memories: Becoming a late-in-life psychologist

Raju Korti
A few days back, I happened to read an article that has provided grist to my counselling mill. It was about how the brain “rescues” fragile memories and discards others. The study, published recently in Science Advances, explores how our memory system gives ordinary moments staying power when they are linked, before or after, to emotionally charged or rewarding experiences.

I am no cognitive psychologist or memory researcher, but I find this fascinating. My own vault of memories is cluttered not with grand moments but with stray, inconsequential ones. I can recall the pattern on a teacup from a forgotten afternoon or the exact sound of a ceiling fan from a childhood home, but not the details of a far more significant event. None of these recollections seem to fit neatly into the categories scientists describe. How does science explain such random retention? Perhaps even the brain does not always know why it keeps what it does.

Pic merely representational

The study argues that memory is not a passive recorder but an active decision-maker. It “rescues” fragile memories if they share a sensory or conceptual link with a meaningful event. My little research tells me that this phenomenon, called graded prioritization. means that the brain’s emotional circuitry can reach backward or forward in time to stabilise related experiences. For instance, an emotional high or shock can strengthen the memory of neutral moments that came just before or after it.In simpler terms, the brain saves stories, not snapshots. It chooses fragments that fit into a narrative it can later reconstruct. That to me explains why emotional significance, attention, and relevance to current goals weigh heavily in memory formation. The brain privileges what it finds useful for survival, learning, or identity building. Emotional events, especially those invoking stress or reward, activate the key regions that signal the brain to consolidate the experience into long-term storage.

Yet what intrigues me most is how arbitrary it still feels. Many of my most vivid memories have no emotional weight or logical purpose. They are sensory fragments. Smells, sounds, and fleeting visuals that seem detached from context. Maybe they once brushed against a meaningful experience, or maybe they were just efficiently encoded by chance. Science might call this selective capture, the brain’s way of economising energy by keeping only what fits its evolving model of the world. But that explanation feels, at best, partial.

This puzzle becomes even more interesting when we think about dreams. Some researchers believe that dreams are the brain’s nocturnal workshop, replaying and reorganising fragments of waking life to strengthen certain connections. Others suggest they are a by-product of random neural firing with no structured purpose. The boundary between dreams and memories often blurs. I have woken up unsure whether a vivid scene was a remembered event or a dream. Proof, perhaps, that both arise from the same creative, reconstructive process.

I understand that memory science is fundamentally an approximate science rather than a perfect one. It relies on observation, experimentation, and evolving theories to make sense of a fallible biological process. Even the most sophisticated brain imaging cannot fully decode how a fleeting sensory impression becomes an enduring recollection. Researchers are still uncovering how memories are encoded, stored, and retrieved, and how the emotional brain decides which ones to rescue and which to release into oblivion.

That uncertainty, in a way, makes the science even more beautiful. Memory, after all, is not about accuracy. It is about meaning. The fact that our minds sometimes cling to the trivial and discard the important may not be a flaw but a reflection of how deeply human, creative, and imperfect the process really is.

Inside the Solitude Zone: Are We Truly Alone in the Cosmos?

Raju Korti
Are we truly alone in the universe? It is a question that has stirred human imagination for centuries, and one that science keeps trying to answer with logic rather than longing. A new theory known as the “Solitude Zone” offers a startling possibility: that our civilisation may be the only one of its kind in existence right now.

The “Solitude Zone” is not a cosmic boundary or mysterious void, but a mathematical probability model suggesting that, under certain conditions, a single technologically advanced civilisation (ours) could exist at a time. Conceived to address the Fermi Paradox, which questions why no alien life has yet been detected, the Solitude Zone reframes the issue as one of statistical emergence rather than physical absence.

As I understand, one approach proposes that for a civilisation to emerge, three factors must align: the number of habitable planets, the complexity of the civilisation, and the likelihood of such complexity arising. When the probability of emergence is finely balanced, neither too rare nor too common, it creates a statistical window where one civilisation can exist in isolation. Humanity, by this model, could occupy that window.

The implications are profound. If correct, the Solitude Zone suggests our loneliness is not by design or cosmic neglect, but by probability. It paints intelligence as a fleeting, perhaps self-limiting phenomenon, appearing sparsely across the vast universe. This idea tempers the optimism of projects like SETI and challenges the assumption that advanced civilisations are waiting to be found.

For the uninitiated, SETI stands for Search for Extraterrestrial Intelligence. It is a collective term for scientific efforts to detect signals or signs of intelligent life beyond Earth. SETI researchers use large radio telescopes and other instruments to scan the skies for non-random, structured radio waves or laser pulses that could indicate communication from alien civilizations.

The idea behind SETI is that if intelligent beings exist elsewhere in the universe, they might use electromagnetic signals, just as humans do, to communicate across space.

However, the theory’s credibility remains limited by its reliance on assumptions. The variables such as how often complex life evolves or survives long enough to be noticed, are largely speculative. Without empirical evidence of other civilisations or clearer understanding of life’s distribution, the Solitude Zone remains a mathematical abstraction, not a definitive conclusion.

As for any connection to Comet Atlas 31’s recent erratic behaviour, there is none scientifically established. The comet’s trajectory changes and unexplained luminosity are natural astrophysical phenomena, not evidence of extraterrestrial design. The idea of alien involvement belongs more to imaginative conjecture than to credible science.

In essence, the Solitude Zone theory reframes our existential question. It neither proves nor disproves alien existence but suggests that cosmic silence may simply be the statistical norm. Whether that solitude is comforting or disquieting depends on how humanity chooses to see its singular place in the universe.

Crisis in PoK: Opportunity wrapped in risk for India

Raju Korti
As I watch events unfold across Pakistan-occupied Kashmir (PoK), it is clear that Islamabad’s control over the region has begun to crack. The massive protests that forced Pakistan’s government to accept a sweeping 38-point charter mark more than just civil unrest. They signify the people’s accumulated anger against decades of exploitation, neglect and empty promises. For India, which has consistently claimed PoK as its own, these developments carry serious implications, both as a potential opening and as a test of restraint.

The Pakistani military establishment clearly appears rattled. In recent months, its tone has grown more defensive, almost panicky. Prime Minister Narendra Modi’s statement that Operation Sindoor was only “paused,” and the unequivocal comments by Defence Minister Rajnath Singh, External Affairs Minister S. Jaishankar and Army Chief General Upendra Dwivedi, have unnerved Islamabad. Pakistan’s predictable response has been to issue its routine threat of “cataclysmic” consequences, invoking its nuclear arsenal as it has done many times before.

This nervousness is not without reason. The growing domestic anger in PoK has coincided with India’s aggressive diplomacy and clear articulation of its rightful claim over the territory. Posters calling for merger with India have emerged during protests in towns like Muzaffarabad and Rawalakot. Rajnath Singh’s remark that India may not even need to use military means to reclaim PoK carries symbolic weight. It suggests that Pakistan’s own citizens in the occupied territory may become the agents of change.

For Islamabad, the timing could not have been worse. The Pahalgam terror attack, which killed 26 Indian tourists, was followed by India’s stern warnings and heightened military readiness. Meanwhile, Pakistan’s ruling elite seemed to misread the situation, buoyed by false perceptions of global support. US President Donald Trump cosying up to Pakistan’s army chief Asim Munir, though transactional, has led Pakistan to believe it has regained international relevance. The defence pact with Saudi Arabia added to that illusion. Yet beneath this veneer of confidence, Pakistan’s internal rot has become visible, and the PoK protests have laid it bare.

The character of the agitation is worth noting. It is not externally instigated but locally driven. What began as anger over inflated power tariffs, food shortages and bureaucratic privileges has evolved into a full-blown civic movement demanding transparency, local rights and resource justice. The Jammu Kashmir Joint Awami Action Committee has become the voice of this movement. The fact that Islamabad had to capitulate to most of its demands underscores how brittle its hold on PoK has become.

For India, this moment must be handled with both sensitivity and foresight. It is tempting to view Pakistan’s crisis as an opening for bold action, but prudence is key. India’s best move lies not in military adventurism but in narrative precision and diplomatic assertiveness. The unrest offers a powerful counterpoint to Pakistan’s long-standing rhetoric about human rights in Kashmir. India can use this to expose the hypocrisy of Islamabad’s position, preaching self-determination while denying the same to those living under its administration.

New Delhi should take this opportunity to amplify the issue in multilateral forums, highlighting the denial of rights and economic exploitation in PoK. By maintaining diplomatic pressure and moral high ground, India can reinforce its legitimacy without crossing lines that might trigger reckless responses from Pakistan. It is equally important not to mistake turbulence for collapse. Pakistan’s security apparatus remains formidable, and its leadership could easily resort to diversionary tactics, including cross-border provocations, to unify a restless population.

That said, India must not let the moment slip away. The people of PoK have begun to see the stark difference between their stagnation and the visible development across Jammu and Kashmir after Article 370’s abrogation. Their demands for accountability and equitable resource distribution are, in essence, demands for dignity. India can quietly acknowledge and morally support these aspirations without overt interference.

If India plays this phase with composure and strategy, it can strengthen its position both diplomatically and ideologically. The unrest in PoK underscores that Pakistan’s narrative on Kashmir is collapsing under its own contradictions. For India, this is not just a vindication of its long-held stand but a reminder that patience, not provocation, will yield the greater reward.

The winds of change in Pakistan-occupied Kashmir may not yet be a storm, but they are unmistakable. India must watch closely, act wisely and prepare for a future where the people across that line may one day decide their own destiny, and perhaps, align it with India’s.