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.