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. 

A chat with Tony Greig: Chronicling the man who made Cricket talk back!

Raju Korti
My first glimpse of Anthony William Greig, better recognised by cricket buffs the world over as Tony Greig, dates back to 1972-73 when I was among the countless school-going boys hysterical about the game. The Englishmen were led by another Tony, Lewis, who looked more like a Hollywood star and became an instant hit with the Indian media for his impeccable manners. On that tour of India, however, the scene stealer was Greig with his six feet seven-inch frame and infectious energy. That was not his only claim to fame. Greig, with his aggression and crowd-friendly antics, was lustily cheered wherever the teams played. My most abiding memory of that tour is of Greig protecting the boundary and catching oranges thrown at him by exuberant spectators with the same practiced ease as he caught cricket balls.

Tony Greig (Wikipedia grab)

Greig was a revelation on that tour with his all-round performance. As a batsman, he would stride out boldly to the Indian spinners and hit them into the stands. As a bowler capable of bowling gentle medium pace and cutters, he could extract awkward bounce even from the placid Indian pitches. Greig had both height and stature, if you know what I mean. Thanks to Wisden Almanack and Sports and Pastime, which carried articles by the likes of Neville Cardus, Jim Swanton, Jack Fingleton, and Richie Benaud, we youngsters were very well informed. We knew how Greig, who could never have played international cricket because of the Gleneagles Treaty, was pitchforked into the English team due to his Scottish parentage. The Treaty barred South Africa and its players from international cricket because of apartheid, and had it not been for his ancestry, Greig would have been condemned to play alongside greats like Ali Bacher, the Pollock brothers, Eddie Barlow, and Mike Procter in domestic cricket, since the Pretoria regime remained adamant on its racial policies.

In a way, Sunil Gavaskar, who strode like a colossus on the cricketing firmament during the historic 1971 Caribbean tour, was partly responsible for introducing us to those South African giants. Garry Sobers, whom I consider the game’s greatest of all time, picked Gavaskar for the Australia versus Rest of the World series, and that team included several South Africans whose names were already legends to us.A couple of years later, Greig’s antecedents came in handy for media tycoon Kerry Packer, who used him to recruit the best of West Indian, Australian, Pakistani, and South African talent for the World Series of Cricket, derisively dubbed the “Packer Circus.” It turned out to be just that in letter and spirit. All the cricketers were banned by their national boards for their “betrayal.” For all the interest and hoopla generated by the Packer Series, the matches were largely low scoring and became little more than statistics in record books. The point, however, is that Greig’s leadership qualities had surfaced even before he was formally inducted into the MCC’s Test eleven. His role in that colourful venture later cost him England’s captaincy, which he had inherited from Mike Denness, and exposed him to criticism and bitterness.

During the home summer of 1974, England faced three Tests each against India and Pakistan. Greig averaged 42 with the bat and took 14 wickets, his hundred against India at Lord’s being the highlight. It was good preparation for the Ashes tour of Australia, where the Englishmen, uncharitably called “Poms”, were the favourites. As it turned out, they were made to hop, skip, and jump by the blistering pace of Dennis Lillee and Jeff Thomson. While most of his teammates were clueless about what had hit them, Greig stood tall with a gritty 110. He was a standout character in a losing team and won the admiration of the “hard-playing” Aussies who respected his approach to the game.

When Greig toured India again in 1976-77 as captain, he justified the mantle by winning a series in the subcontinent against the best spinning attack in the world. I was then a college-going youngster who realised how thoroughly he had done his homework. I remember watching the tall Greig holding his bat almost chest-high against pacers and then adjusting his stance quickly to bring the bat down against the Indian spinners.

By 1987, the equations had changed. I was now a journalist with The Hindu, and Greig had taken on a new role as writer and commentator. In the Press Box, I was fortunate to be seated between Greig and another commentator I deeply admired, Trevor Bailey. I was working on an in-depth feature on Bailey. Greig, who overheard our conversation, tapped me on the back and said warmly, “That was wonderful, mate.” That little boost led to an interview with him at his hotel. He was amused to know that he had once caught an orange I had thrown at him during the 1972-73 series.

By then, I knew how brutally blunt he could be. His ebullient oratory had created quite a flutter when he commented that the West Indian players wilted under pressure. He said, “I like to think that people are building these West Indians up because I am not really sure they are as good as everyone else thinks they are. People are forgetting they were beaten 5-1 by the Aussies and barely survived against the Indians. Sure, they have a couple of fast bowlers, but I do not think we will run into anything faster than Lillee and Thomson. The West Indians are magnificent when they are on top. But if they are down, they grovel, and I intend to make them grovel.

”There was a furore as expected. The word “grovel” carried sinister connotations for the West Indians, many of whom had slave ancestry. At a time when apartheid and the Gleneagles Agreement were live issues, a white South African using the word “grovel” was bound to be explosive. Stung to the quick, the West Indian bowlers took special delight in targeting Greig, and he became their prized wicket. True to his nature, he expressed no remorse.

By then, Greig had made a smooth transition to the commentary box. As a commentator, he was expressive, animated, and sometimes theatrical. You could visualise his intense face and the excitement of the game through his words. He probably knew, and perhaps even revelled in, his enduring popularity in India whenever he commentated in matches involving the Indian team.

Partly because he had seen me chatting at length with the likes of Bailey, Henry Blofeld, and Peter Roebuck (who would later take his own life), Greig spoke with complete candour when I interviewed him. “I still think of the West Indians in the same breath,” he told me. I did not mince words either. “As a commentator, your bias often showed. You spoke as fluently as the BBC greats like Brian Johnston, Don Moseley, Jenkins, and Blofeld, but you sometimes overplayed your hand. Was it exuberance or design?” I asked. “Oh, they are all seasoned veterans and peerless,” he said with a smile, “but I am what I have to be.

”That same flourish often coloured his commentary, whether he was describing the cricket or the jewellery worn by ladies in the stands. His narration could swing from extreme to extreme, sometimes carried away by his own passion, never overly concerned about the fallout. Yet, whether one liked him or not, he remained in a league of his own.

In that conversation, Greig spoke freely. Sometimes criticising Indians, sometimes admiring them unabashedly. He was always candid, never cautious. When he later spoke matter-of-factly about his lung cancer and its inevitability, there was no trace of self-pity. Compare that with our own Yuvraj Singh, whose bout with cancer was endlessly revisited by the media and public.

In his last lecture at the Spirit of Cricket Cowdrey, Greig said, “I have never had any doubt I did the right thing by my family and by cricket.”

He truly epitomised that.

When retirement becomes a rehearsal for freedom with no quests!

Raju Korti
I have worked for donkey’s years in a profession that offered little by way of gratitude, much by way of unpredictability, and almost nothing by way of respite. The hours were odd, the demands incessant. Life was one long haul of fulfilling expectations, both spoken and unspoken, from people who rarely paused to ask: how are you doing?

In my salad days, I looked at retirement as a faraway mirage. A land meant for the weary, the spent, the purposeless. Not for me. I was so consumed by motion and meaning that I genuinely wondered what kind of soul would voluntarily hang up their boots. Of course, like many others, I too grappled with the unsettling question, Would I be able to sustain myself financially? But that anxiety soon faded when I turned to the larger ethos that had always guided my choices.

Age has its own silent curriculum. It doesn’t scream lessons into your ears, it whispers them. Softly, steadily, until the truth seeps in like light through curtains left ajar. And now I know: perhaps those who retired before me had simply walked the same spiral of realisation. You don’t suddenly become tired. You simply begin to know. In your bones. That it is time.

There comes a time when you realise you have nothing left to prove. Certainly not to those perennial auditors of your life. The naysayers, the disappointed, the hypercritical, the ones who sniff out flaws like bloodhounds. For years, I played host to their expectations. I stood by them: in their thick, in their thin, in their mess. I offered trust like one offers water to the thirsty. And like most such offerings, it was taken for granted. Sometimes spilled, sometimes thrown back.

But something shifted. Rancour, that old rusted emotion, eventually wore out. And in its place, I discovered a calm relief. I do not miss those who walked away. I do not mourn those who failed me. In fact, I silently thank the invisible hand of nature for taking out the emotional trash. Good riddance is not an act of bitterness. It is ecology. A defence mechanism that helps you survive with grace.

So here I am, looking at retirement not with dread, but with curiosity. Perhaps even glee. I turned 70 on August 31 last. A milestone, not of age, but of arrival. I looked forward to announcing, not with fanfare but with quiet satisfaction. The over-riding thought was: I am done. The race is run. The boots, finally, are hung.

Idleness does not scare me. I have walked enough to now enjoy sitting still. The mind, thankfully, has not retired. It reads, it writes, it stirs a pot of curry every now and then. These small acts of creation are what keep me gently tethered to the world.

I have no doubt that solitude will embrace me like an old friend. Not the cloying loneliness people dread. This is something more elegant. It is space, it is silence, it is sovereignty. I do not count regrets anymore. I do not run a ledger of things left undone. I live simply, perhaps invisibly. And that, to me, is liberation. Almost like nirvana where even your own identity becomes irrelevant.

Retirement, I have observed, is often viewed through a lens of reinvention. The bucket lists, the travel plans, the long-postponed passions. Others see it as a void to be filled. But I feel neither. I seek not activity, nor reinvention, nor reflection. I seek simply being. A slow, intentional existence with no badges to wear, no scores to settle, no self to sculpt.

There is life after retirement. Mine will be modest. No pension, no windfall. Just a gentle clamour within that says: Go get a life. And that is what I intend to do.

In retreating, I will not disappear. I will arrive. Into myself.

Dev Anand and the untold story of his misplaced picture!

Raju Korti
There are stars, there are legends. And then there is Dev Anand. Even in a city overpopulated with charm and charisma, Dev Anand stood apart. You couldn’t quite put a finger on what made him the cynosure of all eyes, but when he entered a room, the atmosphere changed perceptibly. The air thickened with awe and admiration. My most unforgettable experience of this phenomenon was in 1982 during the premiere of Swami Dada. The cast included rising stars like Mithun Chakraborty, Jackie Shroff, Padmini Kolhapure, and Rati Agnihotri. Yet they stood almost forgotten in a quiet corner, swallowed by the magnetic presence of (then) 59-year-old Dev Anand. Angular swagger intact, toothy smile firmly in place, his screen persona had simply spilled into real life. You saw the flesh-and-blood silhouette of a man who had eluded the clutches of age and irrelevance.

Over the years, I met him several times. At events in 2003 and 2007, and many more informally at Navketan Studios over his favourite snack sukhi bhelpuri. I normally steered clear of glittery events, wary of filmy noise and flashbulbs. But with Dev Anand around, all scepticism dissolved. I saw something remarkable: even when surrounded by stars like Hema Malini, Salman Khan, Girish Karnad or Boman Irani, the gravitational pull was always towards him. It wasn’t about seniority or legacy. It was something deeper, subtler. An aura that made even the accomplished appear as part of the crowd. As Asha Parekh once narrated to me, during the shooting of Jab Pyar Kisise Hota Hai, fans swarmed the sets only for Dev Anand. And after hours of shooting, he would patiently sign autographs, never once losing his temper or his radiant energy.

However, as claimed by producer-director Raj Khosla in his autobiography, that same overpowering charisma didn’t always sit well with co-stars. During the shooting of Bombai Ka Babu, Suchitra Sen, already a reigning superstar in Bengal, would sit sulking when crowds in Kullu gravitated entirely towards Dev Anand. She wasn’t used to playing second fiddle in public affection. Things came to a head when a wrap-up party celebrating Dev Anand’s shoot disturbed her and her husband’s rest. The resulting friction nearly derailed the schedule, until she returned to the set with a pointed quip, “You think she (the body double) can act better than me?”

There was also the warmth. Dev Anand never played the aloof matinee idol. He remembered names. He connected. Picked calls himself, never left it to his secretary. He exuded the kind of friendliness that made each person feel uniquely seen. He had no need to attract attention. It came to him effortlessly, like iron filings to a magnet. He didn’t have to retreat behind walls; he remained accessible, almost humbly so.

Many people realised pretty late that Dev Anand could be easily approached. In person, even over a call. That human accessibility, combined with his surreal stardom, was the enigma. His charm wasn’t just in the way he looked, but in the way he spoke. Distinct, stylised, with that peculiar cadence of words that drew you into his world. Everyone who met him felt as though they had glimpsed something intimate, something enduring. And perhaps, that only they had been privileged to be its privy.

Through it all, he remained ever-youthful. Dev Anand refused to be defined by time. He once told me, half-jokingly, that he was life itself. And in some way, I believed him. He would smile at me and say, “Ah, Raju Guide!”, a nod to Guide, his masterpiece. There couldn’t have been a more perfect metaphor for PR and communication. He was his own brand, his own campaign, his own message. No birthday tribute or memorial event can truly capture Dev Anand’s essence. Because legends like him don’t die. They simply move offscreen, letting the reels of memory play on.

Epilogue
There is an interesting piece of history behind the picture that I actually wanted to use with this blog. I thought it deserves a honourable mention, at least as a sidelight. My father had bought an Agfa-Gevaert camera from Rangoon way back in 1950 which lay unused for years in his almirah. I was (and am) no photographer, nor had the instincts for it. Yet, on an impulse, I decided to check out if the camera worked; and took it along for this event. Our official photographer (the late) Ashok Sawane looked at it curiously, chewed his pan, spat viciously before saying, “chal jayega shayad” (it might just work). It did and I clicked a picture with Dev Anand standing and making a point. DA autographed the back side of the printed invitation for the event; which I got affixed below the picture. Yesterday, I spent hours searching for the picture which now seems misplaced from my burgeoning memorabilia. Discarding all other picture of him with me, I finally decided to make do with this picture which Ashok had clicked; for sheer topicality!
Photo photo pe likha hota hai kheechne waale ka naam!

My encounter with Henry Blofeld: A voice, a presence, a memory

Raju Korti
My first encounter with Henry Blofeld came during the Reliance World Cup of 1987. And it left me, well, a little startled. On hindsight, it reminds me of that theme from Satyam Shivam Sundaram, where a voice beguiles you into imagining a visage that doesn’t quite match reality. Having heard Blofeld's voice, rich, full-bodied, and impossibly British, I had expected a tall, dapper man, the kind who might have walked off the lawns of Lord’s in a cravat. What I got instead was a balding, slightly portly gentleman whose wavy locks fluttered in the breeze. But what a voice! It shook your hand long before he did. “Hello Raju,” he said as I introduced myself, his tone a perfect mix of polish and warmth -- practiced, perhaps, but never impersonal.

Unlike Trevor Bailey’s more studied detachment or Peter Roebuck’s analytical flair, Blofeld was instinctively affable. We spoke on and off around the match, and he seemed genuinely pleased, even mildly amused, that BBC’s Test Match Special had a loyal Indian following. I remember asking if it was an unwritten rule that TMS commentators had to christen each other with nicknames. Boiley for Bailey, Johnners for Brian Johnston. Blofeld burst out laughing. “I know what you're hinting at,” he said, eyes twinkling. “Johnners called me ‘Blowers’ and there was no escaping it.” His delight in recounting that was almost childlike, and I understood in that moment what made him so beloved.

Blofeld’s cricket commentary was a tapestry. Not just of overs and wickets, but of pigeons on the outfield, construction cranes on the skyline, a lady in a pink sari in the upper tier, or an airplane buzzing overhead. Purists often scoffed at these ‘digressions,’ but to me, they were the seasoning in the cricketing stew. I told him that, and he seemed pleased. That voice, seasoned by years of TMS duty since the 1970s, had a cadence that could make even a dull draw feel like a Shakespearean drama. I still remember, vividly, when Srikkanth flicked Danny Morrison to fine leg and Blofeld turned to me and exclaimed, “That was a marvellous shot!” I didn’t care about the analysis that followed. I just wanted that voice to linger in my ears a little longer.

There were others I wished I had spoken to. Christopher Martin-Jenkins for one, though I treasure the copy of his autobiography CMJ – A Cricketing Life, gifted to me by my friend Dr Rashmin Tamhane. Alan Wilkins, to my good fortune, did not escape. We had a lovely chat and he even signed his book Easier Said Than Done. But with Blowers, it was different. It was less about the man and more about the aura, the theatricality, the self-effacing humour, the occasional bumbling charm. He once famously went on talking after the commentary had gone off-air, unaware, while Johnston couldn’t stop laughing. And then there was that ever-cherished catchphrase: “Oh my dear old thing”. It had a way of wrapping around you like a warm scarf on a chilly London evening.

Blofeld has since stepped out of the commentary box, his farewell marked by a thunderous ovation during an England–West Indies match. I am sure he met it with that same whimsical sign-off: “Oh my dear old thing…” Yes, I never did get my hands on his memoirs Squeezing the Orange or Over and Out, but I suspect I don’t need them. Because for me, the memory of that singular voice, and that unexpectedly delightful man behind it, remains far more eloquent than any book could be.

We talk the weather but forget the climate!

Raju Korti
Climate change is perhaps the least of human concerns for many, overshadowed by immediate crises like economic instability, political turmoil, and public health challenges. Yet, as the deadline for updated climate action plans draws near, the urgency of the environmental crisis becomes impossible to ignore. The upcoming UN Climate Summit in New York, with over 100 countries, including 40 heads of state, set to attend, will focus on turning the promises made under the Paris Agreement into tangible actions. This summit is a crucial moment for nations to demonstrate whether their climate goals are more than just political rhetoric and whether they can shift from abstract pledges to real, impactful measures for the planet's future.

From green to charcoal black!

However, the road ahead is fraught with challenges. I understand that as of mid-September, only 36 countries have officially submitted their updated nationally determined contributions (NDCs), falling far short of expectations. The Paris Agreement, signed by 196 nations in 2015, set the ambitious goal of limiting global temperature rise to 1.5 degrees Celsius above pre-industrial levels. This agreement did provide a roadmap for global climate action, but then, its success would depend on nations' ability to not only set targets but also execute them. The extension of the deadline for submitting NDCs until the end of September has offered more time, but the window for meaningful action is closing rapidly.

One of the most significant areas of concern is the implementation gap. The world has witnessed some progress. India, for instance, exceeded its initial target of sourcing 50 percent of its installed power capacity from non-fossil fuel sources. Yet, despite such victories, experts warn that current efforts are insufficient to meet the 1.5-degree target. The climate crisis is worsening, and if we remain on our current trajectory, the world is heading toward a 3-degree rise in temperature by the end of the century. As I had borne in one of my blogs months ago, this trajectory could lead to widespread climate disruptions, from intensified heatwaves to devastating floods and droughts, threatening ecosystems, economies, and livelihoods.

The role of India in this context is critical. As one of the world's fastest-growing economies and a major emitter, India's actions will have a significant impact on the global climate trajectory. While it has made strides in clean energy and emissions reductions, much remains to be done. The country’s leadership, alongside other major emitters like China and the European Union, will be key to bridging the ambition-implementation gap. The upcoming UN Climate Summit is expected to showcase the plans of these nations, and the world will be watching closely. Will they step up with the bold, transformative actions required, or will the rhetoric fall short once again?

Looking ahead, the future remains uncertain. The commitments made at COP28, such as tripling renewable energy capacity, halting deforestation, and doubling energy efficiency, are ambitious, but they require not only political will but also substantial investment in green technologies and infrastructure. The next decade will be a test of multilateral cooperation and the ability of nations to make hard choices in the face of a rapidly warming planet. The success of the Paris Agreement hinges on the strength of these upcoming commitments and their translation into concrete policies.

At this critical juncture, the question is no longer whether the world can afford to act; it is whether we can afford not to. The stakes have never been higher. The window for meaningful climate action is narrowing, and the decisions made in the coming months will determine the future of the planet. Whether those decisions lead to a sustainable, resilient world or a future defined by environmental collapse remains to be seen.

Immortality’s illusion: When longer life may not mean living!

Raju Korti
Almost every day, I read with morbid curiosity (!) the internet awash with dazzling headlines about scientists creating artificial hearts that could beat forever, stem cell therapies promising to wipe out diabetes, and organs that might one day resist all forms of damage. Read together, these advances carry an intoxicating suggestion: that humanity is inching towards immortality. But if you pause and think, the prospect is as troubling as it is exciting.

It is fine to wish that someone lives 100 years (literally) or 1000 years (figuratively). But I seriously wonder if anyone would really want to live beyond 150 years, walking on an earth that continues to age, fracture, and recycle its sorrows, while you remain unnaturally preserved. The body may not crumble, but the world around you surely will. Political strife, climate scars, and unchanging human mindsets would still persist. In fact, the longer you live, the more weather-beaten and time-scarred you might feel. Longevity could deepen disillusionment rather than erase it.

(Pic representational)

Human immortality still belongs more to theory than reality. Yet advances in biotechnology and nanotechnology suggest lifespans could increase dramatically. Some scientists insist there is a natural ceiling to human life. Others believe that merging artificial intelligence with biology could help us defeat aging itself. In truth, much of the current focus is less on endless life and more on extending health, repairing the body, and delaying decline.

I recently stumbled upon research that seeks to remind us that biology has its own ceiling. Even with perfect health, resilience steadily erodes. Young bodies bounce back completely from illness or injury. Older bodies only reclaim part of their former vitality, and this erosion continues until a tipping point is reached. Studies suggest that the upper limit of recovery lies somewhere between 120 and 150 years. That figure is not merely a statistical curiosity. It is a reminder that the end of life is coded into our very biology.

And yet, even if science breaks this ceiling, can it solve the crises of meaning that come with existence itself? Existential angst may only sharpen in a world where you cannot escape time’s sameness. Would endless days make us more purposeful, or merely more restless? It is worth recalling the timeless dialogue from the film Anand: “Babumoshai, life should be big, not long.” The wisdom lies not in stretching years but in deepening experience.

There is also a beauty in life’s ironies, in its oscillation between joy and grief. As one song reminds us:
न मिलता ग़म तो बर्बादी के अफ़्साने कहाँ जाते
अगर दुनिया चमन होती तो वीराने कहाँ जाते
चलो अच्छा हुआ अपनों में कोई ग़ैर तो निकला
अगर होते सभी अपने तो बेगाने कहाँ जाते.
(If sorrow did not exist, the tales of ruin would not be told.
If the world were only a garden, where would the deserts go?
It is perhaps good that among loved ones a stranger appears,
If everyone were one’s own, where would the outsiders go?).
Another lyric lingers in memory:
ज़िन्दा रहने के मौसम बहुत हैं मगर
जान देने की रुत रोज़ आती नहीं
(There are many seasons for staying alive,
But the season for surrender does not come every day.)

Immortality, stripped of these contrasts, risks becoming unbearably monotonous. For without endings, beginnings lose their magic. Without fragility, strength has no meaning. Without death, life loses its urgency.

In chasing immortality, humanity may achieve a technical triumph but suffers a philosophical defeat. For it is not the length of our years that matters but the depth with which we inhabit them. Perhaps true immortality lies not in endless time, but in living moments so intensely that they defy time altogether.