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.

India's task cut out: Balancing power, trade and uncertainty!

Raju Korti
There are times in international relations when strategy ceases to be a matter of choice and becomes a matter of necessity. The current phase is one such moment for India. I watch closely as New Delhi attempts to manage a delicate balance in a world unsettled by post Trump tariffs and the subsequent reconfiguration of economic ties. For India, the question is not whether to take sides but how to secure its own space in a global order where alignments can change overnight.

The first challenge arises from its proximity to China, both geographically and now economically, as tariffs push old allies to rethink their equations. India has shown a pragmatic willingness to engage with China even while recognising the deep mistrust that underlies the relationship. This pragmatism is not born out of affection but out of expediency, for it is evident that isolating China is neither possible nor desirable in the present context. The paradox is that even as India cooperates with Beijing on certain economic fronts, it must remain alert to the strategic risks posed by the same neighbour.

Equally complex is the question of energy security. India’s purchase of Russian oil at discounted rates is one such calculated risk. It gives the country breathing space against rising global energy prices but it also places it in the line of fire of Western criticism. I perceive that national interests cannot be dictated by other powers, and this seems to sum up New Delhi’s stance today. Energy independence and price stability are more than economic calculations. They are survival strategies.

The unpredictability of Donald Trump adds another layer of uncertainty. His tariffs have unsettled global trade flows and his mercurial style leaves little room for confident predictions. One day he could be pressing harder on India, and another day he could be wooing it back with softened terms. India knows this and therefore refuses to build strategy around assumptions of permanence. It is choosing instead to offset steep tariffs by diversifying markets, expanding manufacturing capacities and striking new trade partnerships. This is a demonstration that resilience can be cultivated even when the global economic environment is hostile.

The effect of these manoeuvres extends beyond the major powers. The European Union finds itself squeezed between American protectionism and Asian assertiveness, forced to recalibrate its own trade strategy. Pakistan, always keen to fish in troubled waters, sees opportunities in the shifting alignments but remains too constrained economically and diplomatically to play more than a fringe role. Other smaller economies will also feel the ripple effects of tariff wars and shifting oil flows, but their strategies will depend largely on how the bigger players act.

Will this situation last for long? History shows that economic wars are rarely sustainable in the long run. It is possible that Trump, in his own unpredictable way, may eventually come to terms with the fact that softening his stand can win more than confrontation. Whether or not he does, India’s present course suggests it will not wait passively for a change of heart in Washington. It is steadily equipping itself to bear the weight of global uncertainty by ensuring that its vulnerabilities are reduced and its strategic options remain open.

The future scenario is therefore likely to be one of continued balancing. India will neither fully align with one bloc nor isolate itself. It will engage with China where required, secure its energy through Russian supplies, keep its dialogue with the United States alive and seek new markets elsewhere. This will not be an easy journey. It will demand nimbleness, foresight and above all the ability to live with contradictions. Yet if India manages this balancing act with clarity, it could emerge not just as a survivor but as a shaper of the global order in the years ahead.

Axis, angles and shifting sands; global ties on a rollercoaster!

Raju Korti
I wake up each day to a map that has shifted overnight. The English weather looks steady by comparison. Alliances bend. Old enmities soften for a moment and then harden again. The last year has been a masterclass in churn. The result is a global order that is more fluid and more brittle at the same time.

Start with Washington. Donald Trump is back in the White House. That one fact alone resets many dials at once. His second term has already brought sharp rhetoric at home and a punchy posture abroad. He has weighed in on China and Russia with the usual mix of praise, warning and provocation. Only yesterday he said he was disappointed with Vladimir Putin even as he played down the China Russia embrace. The signal is mixed by design. It keeps friends guessing and rivals off balance.

Moscow is still at war. Ukraine bleeds. The front ebbs and flows. Drones, missiles and artillery define the rhythm of days. Russia probes for advantage while Kyiv absorbs pressure and strikes back. Today’s battlefield reads like yesterday’s and yet the numbers keep climbing. Independent trackers and daily situation reports show a grind with occasional bursts of movement and a steady rain of long-range hits. That grind shapes energy flows, defence budgets and public patience far from the trenches.

Now layer in Beijing. China hosts pageantry and partners. It courts Moscow on energy and technology while managing an economy weighed down by property woes.

Evergrande’s long unwind tells its own story. Creditors wait. Confidence wobbles. The state smooths edges but does not erase losses. Markets read that as caution from the top and fragility below. The geopolitical message is simple. China projects calm power even as it paddles hard under the water. Then the triangle of Washington, Moscow and Beijing meets the arc from New Delhi to Islamabad. India plays long game realpolitik. It deepens technology and defence ties with the United States. It keeps its energy lifeline with Russia alive on price and volume. It competes and cooperates with China depending on the file. That balancing act has grown harder in recent weeks. Think sanctions overhangs. Think trade frictions. Think a sharper American tone when India hunts for cheap barrels. The logic in Delhi is clear. Strategic autonomy is not a slogan. It is a daily spreadsheet.

Pakistan tries to steady itself under Shehbaz Sharif. The coalition is broad. The economy is tight. Security threats chew bandwidth. Islamabad looks to Beijing for projects and to Washington for trade relief where it can get it. Every move is constrained by politics at home and debt math on the table. The room for manoeuvre is narrow but not closed. Across the wider chessboard, clubs and coalitions keep morphing. NATO grew when Sweden joined in March 2024. That was a clear line drawn after Russia’s invasion. On the other side, BRICS added new members and even new partners. Indonesia’s entry this year, after last year’s wave from West Asia and Africa, gave fresh weight to talk of a multipolar world. Labels aside, the hard test is delivery. Can alternative blocks clear payments, insure cargoes and settle disputes at speed. That is where theory meets practice.

Leaders add their own theatre. Trump and Putin have traded compliments and criticism in equal measure. The tone changes by the week and sometimes by the hour. Trump salutes Xi one day and needles him the next. Media and experts feast on each swing. Op-eds frame it as strategy. Others call it improvisation. Think tanks urge pressure on Moscow. They also warn against treating every rival camp as a single monolith. I read them all and then return to the scoreboard of actions and outcomes.

What does all this churn mean in practice. Three things stand out.

First, deterrence now travels with discounts. Energy, chips and critical minerals sit at the heart of diplomacy. Russia offers deeper crude discounts to keep India in the buyer’s queue as sanctions bite. China courts commodity security and export control relief through side deals and summit optics. The price at which a barrel moves says as much about the war as any communiqué.

Second, alignments are broad but not deep. The China Russia North Korea embrace has grown tighter on paper with new treaties and talk of mutual help. Yet even there, caveats abound. Analysts note the limits of trust and capacity. Reports point to North Korean personnel heading to Russia in support roles, not front-line combat, which is telling. It shows Moscow needs manpower elasticity, while Pyongyang seeks relevance and aid. It is alignment by necessity, not destiny.

Third, middle powers act like system managers. India hedges across capitals. The Gulf states arbitrage energy and logistics. Turkey brokers talks when it suits. Southeast Asia adds BRICS heft while keeping the United States close. This is not fence sitting. It is risk management in a world of sudden gusts.Experts and media have had a field day. Some frame the moment as the rise of a new axis. Others insist it is a messy marketplace of deals. Brookings calls this a challenging moment for India United States ties with many frictions breaking at once. Atlantic Council voices push the White House to bear down harder on Putin. The split in prescriptions is the point. It reflects a global order with too many moving parts for one neat narrative.

Where do I land. I see a world that rewards speed and punishes rigidity. Trump’s Washington runs hot and cold by design. Putin’s Moscow seeks relief and time. Xi’s Beijing wants stability at home and leverage abroad. Modi’s New Delhi wants freedom of choice at scale. Ukraine fights for survival and sovereignty. Pakistan searches for oxygen. Markets mark every tremor in oil, freight and metals. Culture and society absorb the shocks through inflation, migration and a new edge in public discourse.

Now you know why I have kept my short. Almost like in a school-boyish essay. The map will move again tomorrow. Maybe by this evening. My only safe bet is that the political mercury will keep misbehaving. And that we will all keep learning to read it faster.

Playing ball at SCO: India, China and Russia!

Raju Korti
By all available indications, a new power axis is quietly taking shape in the East. The just concluded SCO Summit in Tianjin suggested as much, as India, China and Russia appeared to move in closer concert at a time when the United States finds its own tariff regime questioned in its courts and its global influence increasingly challenged. What emerged was not routine diplomacy but the outline of a counterweight to Western dominance, with images of bonhomie among Xi Jinping, Narendra Modi and Vladimir Putin carrying echoes of a world order in transition.

Modi, Putin & Xi

As images of Xi Jinping, Narendra Modi and Vladimir Putin exchanging warmth and laughter made global headlines, what resonated louder was the symbolism. The three leaders, representing vast civilisational legacies and commanding significant economic and military weight, looked less like rivals jostling for space and more like a compact capable of shaping an alternative order. The parallel with the BRICS moment of 2018 was hard to miss, only this time the undertone was far stronger.

Xi Jinping in his address targeted what he called bullying behaviour in the world order, a clear reference to Washington. He called for fairness, justice and an end to Cold War mentalities. By unveiling ambitions for a new security architecture, Xi positioned the SCO not merely as a regional bloc but as a counterweight to Western frameworks like NATO. Putin, whose ties with both Beijing and New Delhi remain critical, lent gravitas to the proceedings. And Modi, by his measured articulation of trust, dignity and sensitivity in relations with both Russia and China, ensured India did not appear a reluctant participant but an equal partner in this evolving geometry.

India’s presence at the SCO was not without context. Its ties with the United States have entered turbulent waters after Washington imposed steep tariffs on Indian exports and targeted its oil trade with Russia. Trump’s repeated attempts at taking credit for brokering India Pakistan peace only aggravated New Delhi’s perception of American condescension. When Washington demanded alignment with its energy policies, India chose instead to stand its ground. It is in this backdrop that the optics of Modi walking shoulder to shoulder with Putin and Xi acquired deeper significance.

For India, the SCO summit was also an opportunity to recalibrate ties with China after the bitterness of Galwan. Modi’s first visit to China in seven years saw a significant bilateral with Xi, where both leaders spoke of moving ahead on the basis of mutual trust and respect. This was not an easy conversation, but it showed intent to move beyond confrontation. The irony is not lost that while Washington’s pressures have pushed India closer to Moscow and Beijing, India has simultaneously retained its sovereign agency by not conceding to either side.

The SCO itself is not a perfect bloc. It carries the burden of internal contradictions, not least the presence of Pakistan, which in 2020 had provoked India by displaying an offensive map during a virtual meeting. That led to Ajit Doval’s walkout, a reminder that India is prepared to draw red lines even within multilateral frameworks. Pakistan again found itself marginalised in Tianjin, with its Prime Minister left on the fringes while the real centre of gravity rested with Modi, Xi and Putin.

Beyond theatrics, the summit revealed three layers of importance. One, the consolidation of an Eastern narrative challenging the West’s monopoly over security and trade frameworks. Two, the emergence of SCO as a parallel platform to BRICS in articulating the concerns of a multipolar world. And three, the subtle but unmistakable hint that India is no longer willing to play second fiddle to any bloc, East or West.

As I see it, India did its part well at Tianjin. It held its own in the presence of two giants, strengthened old bonds with Russia, reopened doors with China, and projected itself as a sovereign actor unwilling to be bullied into choices. The SCO Summit may not have redrawn the world map overnight, but it set into motion a conversation about power, parity and partnership. And that conversation is only just beginning.

Seventy, and fortunately, still counting!

Raju Korti
As the clock strikes midnight on August 30, I cross into my seventies. In India, this age is viewed with a certain awe, almost as though life has turned a ceremonial corner. I often wonder why. People do go on to live into their eighties and even their nineties, although such longevity is rare. What makes the seventies so special, I cannot say. Yet I find myself standing at its threshold, proud to be its chosen recipient.

Coffee as the judge at Times function 

There is an inevitability to the march of time, but it also invites introspection. My good old well-wisher, the dashing and eternally youthful Dev Anand, once told me with a twinkle in his eye: growing old is compulsory, but ageing is optional. His words return to me now with a quiet resonance. What keeps me afloat is not the ticking of years but the loyalty of my memory. It has never betrayed me. Childhood episodes, distant yet vivid, come alive with the freshness of yesterday. That vividity has been my compass. Nostalgia, often dismissed by others as the indulgence of the past, has been my lifeline.

In my late sixties I discovered a truth that seems sharper with age: life goes on, utterly indifferent to anyone or anything. It does not pause for triumphs or tragedies. What unsettles us are not events themselves but the emotions they unleash. I prefer to see them as catalysts. The seventies whisper another truth. You are on your own. Your only true companions are conviction and memory. At times I feel my mother delivered me into this world only yesterday. That is how young, or perhaps how ancient, I truly am.

Looking back, the journey has been a mosaic of light and shade, like anyone else’s. Moments of exultation, moments of despair. There were strangers who opened their arms to me and kin who shut their doors. Not all blood is thick; not all strangers are suspect. But time, that great equaliser, teaches you to outgrow betrayal and blesses you with the wisdom that you come alone and you go alone.

In these seven decades, I have been privileged to encounter people of every hue. Celebrities whose names fill headlines, politicians who strutted on national and international stages, ordinary men and women, and even those who might appear utterly inconsequential. Yet my heart has leaned always towards those who live by the simple creed that has guided me: love and be loved. Life, distilled to its essence, is nothing more than that.

The rigours of 70s!

Crossing into the seventies feels less like surrender and more like a renewal. It is an opportunity to simplify life, to release grudges and regrets, to nurture health, and to treasure friendships that have endured. Ten years ago, when I survived a near-fatal coronary bypass, every dawn became a new lease of life. Today I stand at seventy, grateful, curious, and ready to embrace each day with intention.

Ageing, of course, is not without its toll. The body carries the quiet signs of pure aging, those universal shifts of time. But with every wrinkle and scar comes another layer of perspective. What once felt like middle age now yields to the honest recognition of old age. And yet, I refuse to surrender to it.

I have lost my parents, two brothers, and a sister. Their absence is a shadow, but around me remain friends who love me fiercely, colleagues who stood by me, and students who once hero-worshipped me. Some admired me, others reviled me, but together they shaped my life. I hold no regrets. If I ever sit down to write my memoirs, I dare say it will be a bestseller, not merely for its truths but for the cadence and flourish of my words.

At seventy, the road behind me stretches with stories untold and the road ahead, though shorter, glimmers with promise. I do not see this as an ending but as another beginning. The leaf may be dry, but it still rustles with life.

NB: 70th birthday hai to do photos ka indulgence to banta hai. I am no narcissist, you know.

Asteroids, space junk and the gravity of consequence

Raju Korti
I often wonder if the ancient proverb “what goes up must come down” was meant not only for human ambition but also for our reckless adventure into space. After reading a recent article on the mounting threat of space debris, that thought became sharper. Since Sputnik’s lonely beeping in 1957, nearly 20,000 satellites have been thrust skyward. Seventy percent of them still hang in orbit, while others have either broken apart or plummeted back to Earth. We call it space junk, but that term hardly captures the menace.

Just ask the residents of Mukuku village in Kenya, who woke up one December morning to find a smouldering ten-foot-wide titanium ring in their fields. It had fallen from the heavens, defying our illusion of control. Had it landed on homes, the story might have been told in tragedy.

Every other day, NASA warns of asteroids brushing too close for comfort. In the last five years alone, hundreds of such alerts have been issued, making one wonder whether the agency should set up a full-fledged Department of Asteroids. The frequency is almost comical, if not for the lurking threat. Asteroids may be ancient wanderers, but our contribution is newer and no less ominous: more than 600,000 pieces of man-made debris spinning above us at 18,000 miles an hour. From paint flakes to abandoned satellites, each one is a bullet without a trigger, waiting for collision.

Do we have a dumping ground for such detritus of human progress? None yet. And the irony is bitter. We cannot rid ourselves of mountains of garbage on Earth, and now we have extended our footprint of waste to the skies.

The international community treats this issue with the kind of distracted awareness one reserves for a distant storm. Yet every year, the risk grows. From what I understand, the number of tracked debris has risen sharply, and already 36,000 large chunks threaten to make Low Earth Orbit a perilous no-go zone. If that day comes, exploration may stall, communication networks may suffer, and the promise of space could turn into an obstacle course of our own making.

Perhaps the lesson is a philosophical one. Civilizations may dream of reaching the stars, but unless they learn to clear their mess, the heavens will remind them of their limits. Just as empires crumble and towers fall, so too must space-borne relics return to Earth. Sometimes gently, sometimes with fire. The skies, after all, were never meant to be a landfill.

From Ghalib to Trump: The rise and rise of ‘Chutiya’

Raju Korti
There was a time when this word was spoken in hushed tones. It was a private indulgence of men, tucked away from polite company. Its sting was sharp but private. Mothers would pretend not to hear it. Fathers would cough loudly if it escaped their sons’ lips. And yet, like all forbidden fruit, it thrived. Now, thanks to Christine Fair, it has become an international export. 

Fair, a professor at Georgetown University, yesterday stirred controversy by referring to US President Donald Trump as "Chutiya", a Hindi profanity, during a live interview with Pakistani origin analyst Moeed Pirzada. She used the word not once but a couple of times, while discussing the US foreign policy. From the galli to Georgetown University. From paan shops to prime-time interviews. Quite the global leap. It is perhaps the only Indian export that needed no trade treaty, no WTO clearance, and no marketing campaign.

C. Christine Fair (filegrab)

It takes nerve to call the President of the United States a “chutiya”. Even if that President happens to be Donald Trump. Fair must be applauded for her audacity. Trump deserves credit too. Few men rise to such heights of absurdity that they inspire this particular honour in public. In a way, both are pioneers.

In India, the word has had a longer apprenticeship. It was practically newsroom currency. In our newsrooms, it was practically a second byline. I particularly remember in the mid-eighties, the (late) Mohammad Saghir, (Peace be upon him!) a sub editor with a wicked tongue. With unmatched wit, he made it an anthem. Our General Manager, who had zero idea of news, display and design grids, made it a point to carry a book “World’s 50 Best Newspapers”. He would walk into the newsroom every evening and ask the night sub in-charge to replicate the complicated layout of one of the newspapers in it. One such evening he demanded a layout copied from the Spanish newspaper El Pais. Saghir hardly waited for his back to turn around, chuckled like a hyena, and declared, “Duniya mein chutiyon ki kami nahi hai Ghalib…..”, leaving us to complete the original but profound quote. We nearly fell off our chairs. It was irreverence, scholarship, and satire rolled into one. And it stuck.

The word’s democratic (and universal!) spirit spared no one. Chief Ministers, cabinet ministers, editors, bureaucrats, peons -- all were within its range. History, of course, has its favourite jokes. As Editor of the Free Press Journal in 2004, I once cut out the very opening line from a story filed for its sister Marathi publication Nav Shakti. Vilasrao Deshmukh, then Chief Minister, had retorted to a petitioning leader with “Aamhala kaay chutiya samajta ka?” It was accurate reporting, but not quite printworthy. It was a rib-tickling copy with all frills of an exciting political theatre but I snipped the line from the copy, only to spark a debate that lasted days. Should facts be printed as spoken? Or does editorial judgement play censor? In that one word lay the whole dilemma of journalism. Fidelity versus discretion. Was discretion wise or did it betray the spirit of truth? In hindsight, it was both.

But the word refused to stay caged. It slipped out of newsrooms and political corridors, and settled comfortably into middle-class drawing rooms. I realised it had gone mainstream the day a polite neighbourhood aunty, all of fifty plus, reprimanded a carpenter with, “Humko kya chutiya samjha hai?” There it was, spoken with the confidence of someone asking for another round of chai. The word had crossed the final frontier. I realised its time had truly come. Now with Christine Fair, it has marched into the halls of global diplomacy.

My US-based journalist friend Mayank Chhaya reminds that even its intonation is an art form. He says the insult has multiple shades depending on tone. A clipped “chutiya” might mean harmless stupidity. A stretched “chuuutiiiyaa” suggests dangerous incompetence. A muttered version, accompanied by a sigh, conveys resignation at the state of the world. We once joked that someone should write a grammar of the word, complete with tenses and degrees of comparison. Chutiya, more chutiya, most chutiya. Now Christine Fair has catapulted it to international stardom. Trump, unwittingly, has given it the White House seal. One cannot deny the irony. America, after all, prides itself on soft power. Hollywood, hamburgers, hip-hop. India has responded with one four-syllable export. Compact. Potent. Unmistakable.

The only risk is that overuse may blunt its sting. What was once a loaded insult may end up as casual banter. Imagine Oxford and Cambridge dictionaries placing it neatly between “chutney” and “churn.” Will the word lose its power when dressed in academic robes? Will it still retain its bite? Or will it become a tired cliché, like “awesome” or “literally”? Perhaps the day is not far when world leaders will shrug it off like a badge of honour. Until then, we can sit back, sip our cutting chai, and marvel at how one earthy Indian word has managed what no diplomat ever could. It has united the world in knowing exactly what it means. Perhaps. But until then, we can sit back and watch as it continues its unstoppable march from mohalla to Manhattan.

Pakistan’s war games in a Beggar’s Bowl

Raju Korti
It never ceases to amaze me how Pakistan, a nation that perpetually lives on the ventilator of foreign bailouts, still finds the appetite for mischief beyond its borders. The latest spectacle comes from its billion-dollar arms deal with Sudan’s military junta -- yes, the same Sudan where famine stalks millions, where hospitals are bombed, where over a hundred thousand innocents have perished in a civil war since 2023. Now, here is a country that can barely keep its own lights on, with inflation gnawing at its people and its foreign reserves perpetually on life support, suddenly deciding to play quartermaster in Africa’s deadliest conflict. Fighter jets, drones, armoured vehicles --Pakistan is hawking them all to a junta that is already drowning in sanctions and blood. Payment, of course, will likely be arranged through a “friendly” third country -- one of those oil-rich patrons in the Gulf that enjoys a proxy tug-of-war in Sudan.

This is not just hypocrisy. It is dangerous duplicity. Pakistan loves to posture as the voice of the ummah, championing Muslim solidarity on global platforms. But here, it has no qualms about supplying the very weapons that will mow down Muslim civilians in Khartoum, Omdurman, and Darfur. The Sudanese Air Force, whose chief just signed the deal in Islamabad, has a proven record of indiscriminate bombings -- schools, hospitals, markets, all fair targets. Washington and Geneva have sanctioned him, but in Islamabad, he is an honoured guest.

Sudan: A Wikipedia grab

The diabolical design behind this transaction is not difficult to decode. Pakistan is broke, and wars abroad provide a convenient outlet for its arms industry while feeding the military’s coffers. Sudan, meanwhile, offers an entry point into the larger Saudi-UAE rivalry for influence in Africa. In other words, Pakistan is happy to rent out its factory of war, while outsourcing the bill.

But where does this leave the Sudanese people? At the bottom of the abyss. Already, 24 million are staring at acute food insecurity. Twelve million have fled their homes, and Darfur echoes again with whispers of genocide. Every new consignment of weapons will only deepen their misery, prolong their displacement, and erase what little hope remains of peace.

Is there a chance for Sudan to climb out of this crisis? Only if the international community wakes up from its slumber. Sanctions on paper mean nothing when loopholes allow Pakistan -- or others -- to pump arms into the conflict. What is needed is a coordinated clampdown on all third-party suppliers and enablers, coupled with real humanitarian investment. Above all, external powers must stop treating Sudan as a chessboard for their rivalries.

In the end, Pakistan’s adventurism in Sudan is not about solidarity, strategy, or survival. It is about a bankrupt state clutching at blood-stained straws to stay relevant. For the Sudanese, it is just another betrayal in a long line of them -- another reminder that in their land, famine feeds on hunger, war feeds on weapons, and hope starves quietly in the shadows.

When ego becomes a medal: Munir & Trump two of a kind!

Raju Korti
Self-love is the new world order. In Pakistan, Field Marshal Asim Munir pinned a gallantry medal on his own chest with all the solemnity of a man discovering gravity. In America, Donald Trump is angling for a Nobel Peace Prize, preferably signed, framed, and gift-wrapped by Hillary Clinton. Different continents, same spectacle. Two men competing in the Olympics of Self-Congratulation.

I sometimes wonder if we have entered a parallel universe where humility has been declared extinct and self-promotion has been enshrined as a fundamental right. Exhibit A: Field Marshal Asim Munir, Pakistan’s top brass, who -- bored of waiting for recognition from others -- decided to skip the queue and simply award himself the Hilal-e-Jurat. Why bother with panels, citations, or history books when you can save everyone the trouble and just pin it on yourself?

To be fair, it is not entirely unprecedented. Kids give themselves gold stars on homework, Instagram influencers add “visionary” to their bios, and YouTubers declare themselves “world’s best.” But a decorated general, no less, awarding himself for gallantry in a nation where gallantry usually involves surviving inflation? That takes audacity, or perhaps just an exceptionally large mirror. Maybe even real gallantry!

And what better mirror image than Donald Trump? The former (and possibly future) US President is currently auditioning for the Nobel Peace Prize, preferably handed to him by Hillary Clinton, his political nemesis. If Munir represents the “ultimate flex” of the uniformed variety, Trump is perfecting the civilian counterpart: strutting into negotiations as though they were beauty pageants and recasting himself as “Architect of World Peace.” It is the kind of peace where he alone gets the photo-ops, preferably under golden lighting, with everyone else playing backup.

What unites them is a flair for spectacle. Munir compares Pakistan to a dump truck that could smash India’s Mercedes, forgetting that dump trucks without fuel don’t move anywhere except the scrapyard. Trump, meanwhile, imagines himself as the only man alive who can look Putin in the eye and choreograph a ceasefire, never mind that global diplomacy is slightly more complicated than hawking real estate in Manhattan.

Both men, in their own ways, have turned governance and strategy into stand-up comedy. One pins medals on himself for wars that never delivered victories; the other waits for a Nobel before even attempting to stop one. For the rest of us, the irony is exhausting yet entertaining: Munir’s dump truck is stuck in IMF’s parking lot, and Trump’s Peace Prize dream rests on Hillary Clinton -- who would rather nominate a stray cat than the man who once branded her “crooked.

”In the end, I suppose both deserve something. Munir deserves a medal -- for self-confidence strong enough to carry a collapsing nation on his ego. Trump deserves a medal too -- for turning even the bleakest geopolitical crisis into a stage for his one-man reality show. Perhaps the UN should introduce a new category: Gallantry in Self-Promotion. That way, both gentlemen can stand tall, medals glittering, dump trucks and Nobel fantasies intact, while the rest of us enjoy the circus from the cheap seats.

The elastic thread of Time: Where Physics, Psychology, and Philosophy meet

Raju Korti
I still remember reading a small book in which Einstein tried to explain the concept of time to ordinary people. His example was charmingly human: sit with your beloved in a serene garden, trading sweet nothings, and hours will seem like minutes. Endure a boring lecture, and minutes will seem like hours. “That’s what I mean when I say time is not absolute,” he wrote. “It is relative.” That little anecdote stayed with me because it bridged cold scientific theory and warm human experience in one elegant stroke.

In the last five years, I have noticed something curious. My life, once packed with the demands of full-time work, has eased into a quieter rhythm. By logic, with fewer urgent tasks, each day should feel long, even languid. Yet, paradoxically, time feels as though it is slipping by faster than ever. The seconds and minutes still behave, but the months and years seem to have taken on wings. It made me wonder -- was this merely nostalgia’s trick, or was there a deeper interplay at work?

(Wikipedia representational grab)

I suspect this is where physics, psychology, and philosophy converge into a single, intriguing algorithm. From a physicist’s standpoint, Einstein proved that time is not a fixed universal constant. Special relativity tells us that the flow of time depends on speed and perspective; general relativity adds that gravity bends it further. Yet, in everyday life, we are not orbiting black holes or zipping at near-light speed. And still, time distorts -- sometimes expanding, sometimes contracting -- in ways science alone doesn’t explain.

Psychology fills in the gaps. Our brains don’t measure time in clock units but in memory units. Childhood summers felt endless because everything was new. Our neural recorders worked overtime, packing in vivid details. As adults, routine strips away novelty, and the brain logs fewer highlights, leaving the years feeling compressed. Emotional engagement also shapes our time sense: awe, love, fear, and deep focus imprint themselves in slow-motion, while distraction and detachment let days evaporate unnoticed.

Then comes philosophy -- the way we choose to interpret these distortions. Thinkers from William James to John Keats have reminded us that life is not measured merely by its duration, but by its intensity and awareness. Keats spoke of “moments big as years,” and James observed that the more details we notice, the longer life seems. In other words, time’s length is not given – it is made.

Without ever formally meditating, I have instinctively adopted some tactics to slow my internal clock: seeking novelty, lingering in conversations, revisiting joyful memories, and disengaging from the numbing scroll of digital feeds. Neuroscientists would say I am increasing “memory density” and attention -- what I would call, simply, “living in bigger moments.

”Physics assures us that time will continue its relentless march. But psychology whispers that we can bend its perception, and philosophy challenges us to fill its spaces meaningfully. Somewhere between Einstein’s garden romance and the neuroscientist’s memory map lies an unspoken truth: while we can’t stop time, we can choose how much of it we truly inhabit.

And so, time becomes less of a ticking metronome and more of an elastic thread --sometimes taut, sometimes slack -- woven through our days by the loom of attention, memory, and meaning. We can’t hold it still, but we can embroider it with moments so rich that they outweigh entire seasons. In the end, it isn’t the hours that make a life, but the life we pour into each hour.

I hope the passing years have metamorphosed me into a psychologist of sorts!

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).