Taking anti-India rant to dangerous levels!

Raju Korti
I have heard many strange arguments over the years about India and Pakistan. But every once in a while, a statement comes along that is so reckless, so devoid of strategic sense, that it deserves to be examined not as rhetoric but as a window into a troubled mindset. Former Pakistan High Commissioner to India Abdul Basit’s suggestion that Pakistan should bomb Mumbai and Delhi if the United States attacks its nuclear arsenal falls squarely in that category.

This was not a random television panellist mouthing off. Basit served as Pakistan’s top diplomat in New Delhi from 2014 to 2017. He knows India. He knows the vocabulary of diplomacy. He also knows the devastating implications of invoking nuclear retaliation against civilian centres. And yet he said it.

Abdul Basit (Wikipedia pic)

His argument was presented as a “worst case scenario”. But the reasoning that followed revealed something far more troubling than a hypothetical. It revealed a strategic logic that borders on the absurd. Basit essentially said this. If the United States targets Pakistan’s nuclear assets and if Pakistan cannot strike the US directly or hit American bases or Israel, then the fallback option is India. In other words, if you cannot hit the actual adversary, hit India. It is difficult to imagine a more bizarre articulation of deterrence theory.

Deterrence is meant to discourage an attacker by threatening retaliation against that attacker. What Basit suggests is deterrence by attacking someone else entirely. It is the geopolitical equivalent of threatening to burn your neighbour’s house because you cannot reach the person who threatened you. No credible nuclear doctrine works this way.

The remark becomes even more startling when one remembers that Pakistan’s own nuclear infrastructure has already shown vulnerabilities. During India’s Operation Sindoor, one of Pakistan’s nuclear related facilities was reportedly struck by Indian forces. That episode itself demonstrated how fragile the notion of invulnerable nuclear assets can be in a modern conflict environment.

Yet Basit’s solution to such vulnerability is not caution. It is escalation against a third party. There is another disturbing layer to his remarks. Basit also declared that in Pakistan “everyone is a jihadi”. Whether educated or poor, he said, the entire society shares this mindset.

If he meant this literally, it is a terrifying admission about the ideological environment surrounding a nuclear arsenal. If he meant it metaphorically, it still betrays the political culture that often frames Pakistan’s security discourse. Either way, the statement should alarm observers far beyond India. The timing is also revealing.

Just days before Basit’s remarks, the United States’ Office of the Director of National Intelligence released its 2026 Annual Threat Assessment. The report placed Pakistan among significant nuclear concerns for Washington, alongside major powers like Russia and China.US intelligence chief Tulsi Gabbard specifically flagged Pakistan’s evolving missile capabilities and its development of long-range delivery systems that could potentially reach intercontinental ranges. This matters.

For years, Pakistan has justified its nuclear arsenal as an India specific deterrent. The argument was simple. The weapons existed to counterbalance India’s conventional military superiority. But if Pakistan is now developing missiles capable of reaching far beyond South Asia, the narrative inevitably changes. Washington begins to view Islamabad not merely as a regional actor but as a potential strategic threat.

Basit’s comments inadvertently reinforce precisely that perception. If the world hears a former Pakistani envoy calmly discussing the bombing of foreign cities as a fallback option, it strengthens the argument that Pakistan’s nuclear thinking is dangerously elastic.

In strategic circles, language matters. Even hypothetical scenarios reveal the frameworks within which decision makers think. And Basit’s framework suggests something alarming. Pakistan appears ready to expand the battlefield whenever it feels cornered.

There is also a deep contradiction embedded in his reasoning. Basit repeatedly called the scenario “improbable” and “out of the impossibility”. Yet he kept returning to it, elaborating on how Pakistan would respond.

When diplomats feel compelled to construct elaborate hypothetical attacks, they are usually revealing anxieties rather than strategy. The anxiety here is obvious. Pakistan fears the vulnerability of its nuclear program. It fears American scrutiny. It fears isolation. And it fears that in a crisis it may not be able to retaliate directly against a superior adversary. So, the rhetorical missile is aimed at India.

India, in Pakistani strategic discourse, often becomes the convenient substitute target whenever frustration with larger powers builds up. This pattern is hardly new. Whenever tensions spike elsewhere in the world, whether in Afghanistan, the Middle East, or Washington’s policy debates, India suddenly reappears in Pakistani rhetoric as the ultimate adversary.

It is easier to threaten Delhi than to confront the structural weaknesses of Pakistan’s own strategic position. But threats of this nature carry consequences. Even when unofficial, they feed international doubts about the safety, command structure, and ideological environment surrounding Pakistan’s nuclear arsenal. They reinforce the concerns already articulated in the American intelligence assessment.

In other words, statements like Basit’s do more damage to Pakistan’s credibility than any foreign critic could. So how should India respond? The answer is simple. With calm and clarity. India does not need to match rhetorical recklessness with rhetorical outrage. Basit’s remarks are best understood as a symptom of Pakistan’s strategic frustration rather than a credible policy signal.

India’s nuclear doctrine remains clear, restrained, and anchored in deterrence. The country has repeatedly emphasised responsible stewardship of its arsenal and has avoided the kind of loose public nuclear talk that occasionally surfaces across the border. The contrast speaks for itself.

At the same time, India cannot ignore the deeper signal embedded in such rhetoric. When former diplomats begin normalising the idea of striking unrelated targets in a crisis, it suggests an intellectual environment where escalation is not fully understood. That environment is dangerous.

Ultimately, Basit’s remark is less about India and more about Pakistan’s internal strategic malaise. It reflects a country struggling to reconcile its nuclear ambitions with its geopolitical limitations. When the gap between ambition and capability becomes too wide, frustration fills the space. And sometimes that frustration speaks aloud.

In this case, it spoke in the language of nuclear threats. For a country already under scrutiny for its nuclear posture, that is perhaps the most self-destructive message it could have sent to the world.

Hormuz Faultlines and NATO’s quiet snub to Trump!

Raju Korti
At the heart of the episode lies a contradiction. Trump first "demanded" that NATO and key partners secure the Strait of Hormuz. He then conveniently dismissed their presence after their reluctance became apparent. This oscillation is as much revealing as it is damning. It suggests that Washington still seeks the legitimacy of collective action even when it increasingly prefers unilateral execution. The demand, therefore, was not merely operational. It was political signalling aimed at burden-sharing and moral endorsement.

Strait of Hormuz (Wikipedia)

The response from Europe, however, has been remarkably cool. Core NATO members such as Germany and France have historically resisted deeper military entanglement in West Asian conflicts without clear multilateral mandates. Italy and Spain too have shown little appetite for direct involvement. Even United Kingdom, traditionally Washington’s closest military partner, has exercised caution, mindful of domestic political costs and the absence of a clearly defined endgame. Outside NATO, allies such as Japan, South Korea, and Australia have also declined participation, reflecting a broader reluctance to be drawn into a potentially escalatory conflict with Iran.

This is not an abrupt rupture. The first visible cracks in transatlantic unity arguably surfaced during the Iraq War, when the failure to find weapons of mass destruction dented American credibility. The episode seeded a durable scepticism in European capitals about intelligence claims and regime-change doctrines. What is unfolding now appears to be an extension of that distrust, sharpened by Trump’s often transactional view of alliances.

The Strait of Hormuz itself has become central because it is the artery through which nearly a fifth of the world’s oil flows. Any disruption here has immediate global consequences, from energy prices to inflationary pressures. Iran’s ability to threaten or selectively restrict passage gives it asymmetric leverage, especially after the initial US-Israeli strikes. In strategic terms, control over Hormuz is not merely about maritime security. It is about economic coercion on a global scale.

There is also a quieter question underpinning the conflict. To what extent has Washington been nudged, or even compelled, into escalation by Israel. If that perception gains ground, it complicates US diplomacy, particularly in Europe, where public opinion remains wary of being drawn into conflicts seen as externally driven. The ramifications could be long-term, affecting not just this war but future coalition-building efforts.

For NATO, the refusal is not necessarily a declaration of disunity but a recalibration of interests. European members appear unwilling to underwrite conflicts that lack clear objectives, exit strategies, or direct threats to their own security. In that sense, it is less about rejecting the United States and more about rejecting the template of intervention.

For Trump, the implications are more immediate. If the conflict stretches into a prolonged engagement, akin to another Russia-Ukraine War-type stalemate, the absence of allied backing could translate into strategic and political isolation. His assertion that the US does not need NATO sits uneasily with his earlier appeal for support. It raises a question of credibility, both internationally and domestically. A short, decisive campaign would vindicate unilateralism. A protracted one would expose its limits.

The oil dimension adds another layer. Rising prices and supply disruptions inevitably ripple across economies, including India, which depends heavily on energy imports routed through Hormuz. The safe passage of Indian vessels underscores how deeply interconnected the crisis is. For New Delhi, the priority remains stability rather than alignment, ensuring that geopolitical tensions do not translate into economic shocks.

In the final analysis, NATO’s reluctance is not a dramatic break but a subtle distancing. It reflects an alliance adjusting to a world where American leadership is no longer automatically synonymous with collective action. The Strait of Hormuz, narrow in geography, has thus widened into a test of strategic patience, alliance cohesion, and the evolving limits of power.

The quiet permission to die. With dignity!

Raju Korti
In a country where life is often held sacred beyond reason, death has long remained an awkward, almost forbidden conversation. The recent Supreme Court ruling permitting passive euthanasia in the case of Harish Rana has shifted that silence. It has given legal articulation to something deeply human, the desire not merely to live, but to die with dignity.

Rana, a young man trapped in a vegetative state for over a decade after a catastrophic accident, became the face of this dilemma. His parents, worn by years of care and the slow erosion of hope, sought permission not to end his life, but to stop prolonging his dying. The Court agreed, allowing the withdrawal of life support under strict safeguards and placing him in palliative care at AIIMS, where the process has now formally begun.

(Visual representational)

This is not euthanasia in the dramatic sense often imagined. India continues to prohibit active euthanasia, the deliberate act of ending life through medical intervention. What the Court has allowed is passive euthanasia, the withdrawal or withholding of life-sustaining treatment, permitting death to take its natural course. The distinction is both legal and moral. One ends life. The other ceases to artificially extend it.

India has walked this path before, though hesitantly. The case of Aruna Shanbaug, a nurse who remained in a vegetative state for over four decades after a brutal assault, first forced the judiciary to grapple with the issue. In 2011, the Supreme Court, while rejecting the plea for ending her life, laid down guidelines permitting passive euthanasia under strict judicial oversight. That judgment became the moral and legal foundation for today’s decision.

The Rana case is, in many ways, the first true operationalisation of that principle. What was once theoretical has now entered the realm of lived reality.

Globally, the landscape is uneven. Countries like the Netherlands, Belgium and Canada allow active euthanasia or assisted dying under regulated frameworks. In contrast, India remains cautious, permitting only passive euthanasia and that too under layered safeguards involving medical boards, consent protocols and, often, judicial scrutiny.

The difference is not merely legal. It is civilisational. In the West, individual autonomy often reigns supreme. In India, decisions around life and death are embedded in family structures, religious beliefs and social expectations. The patient is rarely an isolated individual. He is a son, a parent, a responsibility.

The argument for euthanasia rests on autonomy and compassion. If life has irreversibly lost its quality, if suffering is unending and recovery impossible, should the law compel existence? The Court, in Rana’s case, appeared to answer in the negative, recognising dignity as intrinsic to the right to life under Article 21.Yet the counter-argument is equally forceful. Who decides when a life is no longer worth living? Can economic burden, emotional fatigue or social pressure subtly influence such decisions? In a country with vast inequalities in healthcare, the fear of misuse is not unfounded.

What complicates the debate in India is the absence of robust palliative care infrastructure. In many parts of the country, prolonging life is not a technological excess but a desperate struggle for access to basic treatment. The ethical discourse of euthanasia risks becoming distorted in such a setting.

Moreover, the process itself remains cumbersome. Unlike some Western nations where advance directives and living wills are more seamlessly implemented, India requires multiple layers of medical opinion, documentation and often legal validation. The intent is caution. The effect can be delay.

And yet, something fundamental has changed. The Court’s words to Rana’s parents are telling. Allowing a loved one to go, it observed, is not abandonment but an act of profound love.

That sentiment marks a subtle but significant shift. Death, in this framing, is not the enemy. Undignified dying is.

The law has taken a step forward. Society will take longer. Between reverence for life and acceptance of death lies a narrow, uneasy bridge. India has just begun to cross it.

Pakistan became a vassal state long back, Mr Khawaja Asif!

Raju Korti
When Pakistan’s Defence Minister Khawaja Asif raised the spectre of his country being reduced to a “vassal state” in the unfolding Iran-Israel-United States conflict, he appeared to be projecting a future threat. In reality, he was describing a long-settled condition.

For the uninitiated, a vassal state is a subordinate nation that holds some internal autonomy but is dominated by a more powerful state in its foreign policy and military affairs. Dependent on the superior power, such states are typically obligated to provide military support, align strategically, or adhere to dictated policies in exchange for economic and political patronage. By this definition, Pakistan’s trajectory since the late 1970s reads less like sovereign assertion and more like calibrated dependency.

Khawaja Asif (Wikipedia grab)

During the Soviet–Afghan War, Pakistan positioned itself as the frontline state of the American Cold War enterprise. The military regime of Muhammad Zia-ul-Haq became the conduit for American and Saudi money, arms, and intelligence to the Afghan mujahideen. The arrangement suited Rawalpindi’s strategic depth doctrine. It also entrenched structural dependence. Billions of dollars flowed in. Policy space narrowed.

The pattern persisted through the Gulf War. While publicly cautious, Pakistan quietly aligned with Washington’s regional architecture. Its military elite understood the hierarchy. The price of Western military hardware, debt rescheduling, and diplomatic shielding at forums such as the IMF and World Bank was compliance, not confrontation. 

After 9/11, the script became explicit. Under Pervez Musharraf, Pakistan reversed overnight from Taliban patron to indispensable American ally in the so-called War on Terror. Airbases were opened. Intelligence pipelines were activated. Logistics corridors were secured. In return came Coalition Support Funds and the resumption of military aid. Public sentiment seethed. The establishment calculated.

Asif’s claim that Pakistan might be encircled by hostile powers if Israel’s regional footprint expands overlooks a simple truth. Islamabad has repeatedly chosen alignment with Washington even when that choice collided with domestic narratives about Zionism or American imperialism. If Israeli and American objectives converge against Iran, Pakistan’s room for manoeuvre will be defined not by ideology but by economic fragility and military calculus.

Pakistan’s elite may rail against Zionism. The Pakistani street may detest American foreign policy. Yet at each strategic fork, from the anti-Soviet jihad to post-9/11 counter-terrorism cooperation, the state has fallen in line with Washington’s priorities. That pattern is not ideological affinity. It is structural dependence.

It is also inaccurate to suggest that the United States is simply captive to a monolithic Zionist force. There is indeed an influential and highly organised pro-Israel lobby in the United States. Groups such as American Israel Public Affairs Committee operate through lobbying, campaign contributions, and public advocacy, much like the National Rifle Association or AARP. The American Jewish community constitutes roughly 2 percent of the population but is politically engaged and well represented in policymaking circles. However, to argue that global powers are held hostage by Zionism collapses complex institutional dynamics into conspiracy shorthand. American Middle East policy reflects strategic calculations, domestic politics, energy security concerns, and alliance commitments. Israel is a critical ally, but not a puppeteer.

Even if one accepts that Israeli pressure has nudged Washington into confrontation with Iran, the more pertinent question is Pakistan’s agency. Would Islamabad defy American sanctions regimes? Would it risk IMF programmes or FATF scrutiny to back Tehran materially? History suggests otherwise.

What hurts Pakistan’s ego most is not external pressure. It is the awareness that strategic autonomy has long been traded for economic survival. The contradictions are stark.

Pakistan once nurtured the Afghan Taliban as a lever against Indian influence in Kabul. Today it battles the Tehreek-e-Taliban Pakistan, which draws ideological sustenance from the same ecosystem. Islamabad demands action from the Taliban government in Afghanistan while denying that its own past policies incubated cross-border militancy.

In Balochistan, the state confronts a long-running insurgency fuelled by grievances over resource extraction, political marginalisation, and security excesses. The province is central to the China-Pakistan Economic Corridor, itself a product of dependency on Beijing as an alternative patron. Thus, Pakistan juggles two suzerains. It balances American security expectations with Chinese economic leverage, while domestic fault lines widen.

These are not symptoms of encirclement by Israel, India, Afghanistan, and Iran acting in concert. They are manifestations of internal policy incoherence.

Asif’s warning that an Israeli victory could align India, Afghanistan, and Iran against Pakistan stretches plausibility. India and Iran share limited strategic convergence beyond transactional concerns. Tehran’s relations with Kabul remain fraught over refugees and water disputes. Afghanistan under the Taliban has little ideological affinity with New Delhi. The idea of a seamless anti-Pakistan bloc ignores deep fissures among these states.

More importantly, Pakistan’s vulnerability does not stem from an Israeli tank column reaching its border. It stems from economic precarity, overreliance on external bailouts, and a security doctrine that oscillates between patronage and paranoia.

If Pakistan’s leadership were candid, it would admit that alignment with Washington during the Soviet occupation of Afghanistan, the Gulf War, and the post-9/11 era was not coerced but chosen. It was deemed rational within the logic of regime survival and institutional interest. The cost was diminished autonomy in foreign and security policy.

To describe the current Iran crisis as an externally imposed plot risks evading that history. Pakistan does not face the prospect of becoming a vassal state because of Israel’s ambitions. It confronts the consequences of decades spent outsourcing strategic security to larger powers while cultivating domestic narratives of defiance.

Khawaja Asif’s warning may resonate with nationalist sentiment. It does not alter the structural reality. Sovereignty is not lost in a single war. It is eroded through repeated bargains where expediency outruns independence.

Pakistan crossed that threshold long ago.