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

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

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

Divided by barbs

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The paradox of Death: Routine, yet always exceptional!

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

Board at a crematorium

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pic merely representational

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Crisis in PoK: Opportunity wrapped in risk for India

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tony Greig (Wikipedia grab)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He truly epitomised that.

When retirement becomes a rehearsal for freedom with no quests!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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