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.