The rising fury of a Super El Nino and reading its signals!

Raju Korti
I have been reading a great deal about the so-called impending Super El Niño, but most of what passes for explanation is either vague or overly general. The climate physics curiosity in me has therefore been stirred into a more careful, almost personal inquiry. When one looks beyond headlines and into the mechanics of ocean-atmosphere coupling, the unease begins to acquire shape.

(Pic representational)

In simple terms, El Niño is the periodic warming of surface waters in the central and eastern Pacific due to weakening trade winds, while La Niña is its cooler counterpart marked by strengthened winds and enhanced upwelling. These oscillations, though distant, act as a planetary thermostat. When that thermostat malfunctions at scale, the consequences ripple across continents.

What distinguishes a Super El Niño is not merely its occurrence, but its intensity. When temperature anomalies cross the two-degree threshold, the system ceases to behave like a cycle and begins to resemble a disruption. Climate models are increasingly converging on the possibility that such an event is not only likely but may already be stirring. Enough hints are visible even across India. The extreme heat in central and eastern regions is not an isolated aberration but a symptom of a larger rearrangement of atmospheric energy.

Globally, a Super El Niño would redraw the climate map. The Pacific warming injects enormous heat into the atmosphere, which then struggles to dissipate because of elevated greenhouse gas concentrations. This creates a stacking effect where each major event lifts the baseline temperature further. By the latter half of this decade, we may not be speaking of anomalies but of a new normal. Floods in some regions, droughts in others, intensified wildfires, and erratic storm tracks are all part of this redistribution of heat.

For India and its neighbourhood, the implications are both immediate and uneven. The south-west monsoon, which is delicately tied to temperature gradients between land and ocean, is likely to weaken or become erratic. The India Meteorological Department has already indicated the possibility of below-normal rainfall in parts of the country, while Skymet Weather has flagged the risk of spatial and temporal unevenness.

The geography of impact will not be uniform. Northwest and central India could see prolonged dry spells and heatwaves, with temperatures rising by 1 to 2 degrees Celsius above seasonal norms. Eastern India, already showing early heat spikes, may experience oppressive humidity combined with heat, pushing wet-bulb temperatures to dangerous thresholds. Southern peninsular India might witness short bursts of intense rainfall interspersed with dry intervals, while the Himalayan belt could face accelerated glacial melt and erratic precipitation, raising the risk of flash floods.

Neighbouring regions mirror this instability. Pakistan and Afghanistan may face severe drought conditions, while Bangladesh could oscillate between heat stress and sudden flooding. The Indian Ocean itself may warm further, feeding cyclonic activity in the Arabian Sea and Bay of Bengal with greater intensity.

The quantum of destruction, if one must attempt to quantify it, lies not merely in isolated disasters but in systemic stress. Agricultural output could decline due to erratic rainfall and heat stress. Urban centres may face power surges due to cooling demand, alongside water shortages. Forest fire incidents could increase in central India. Public health systems will be tested by heat-related illnesses. The economy absorbs these shocks in ways that are often invisible at first but cumulative over time.

Can such a phenomenon be controlled? The honest answer from a climate physics standpoint is no, at least not in the immediate sense. El Niño is a natural oscillation. What we can control, however, is the background state on which it operates. Reducing greenhouse gas emissions, improving land use practices, and building adaptive infrastructure can moderate the amplification. Without that, each El Niño arrives not as a visitor but as an accelerant.

The more I read and observe, the more it seems that the Super El Niño is not a distant probability but an unfolding reality. Extreme temperatures and climate fluctuations are no longer projections confined to models. They are increasingly becoming lived experiences. The signals are already here, scattered across heat maps and rainfall charts, waiting to be read with clarity rather than comfort.

The Asha they did not remember!

Raju Korti
Each time a colossus of the music firmament passes on, I find myself recoiling, not so much at the loss, but at the hurried sanctimony that follows, the facile tributes that parade familiarity without intimacy. And in the case of Asha Bhosle, it was almost as if an entire generation chose amnesia over acknowledgement, reducing an eight-decade symphony into a handful of oft-repeated refrains, when for some of us, her voice was not an accessory to memory but its very texture, its breath and pulse. To add insult to injury, songs were casually misattributed to the wrong films, the wrong composers, even the wrong years, all delivered with an air of easy authority, as though accuracy were optional and no one would know enough, or care enough, to question or protest.

I remember how, long before the marketplace discovered her versatility, she had already etched her genius in quieter, deeper grooves, especially with the mercurial O. P. Nayyar, where one could travel from Beimaan balma maan bhi jaa (1956), Chhota sa baalma (1958), Chham chham ghungru bole (1958), Puchho na hame hum unke liye (1960), Raaton ko chori chori (1965) to the intoxicating cluster of Har tukde mere dil ka, Main shayad tumhare, Yehi wo jaga hai and Muhabbat cheez hai kya (1966), a journey that was less about songs and more about an evolving aesthetic where rhythm flirted with rebellion and melody refused domestication, and yet how conveniently this chapter is footnoted, if at all, as though the arc from Aasman to Kismat was a mere prelude rather than the very foundation of her flight.

Then came the understated alchemy with S. D. Burman, where her voice seemed to acquire an inwardness, a reflective cadence, beginning with Chhayi kaari badariya (1953), moving through Humne kisi pe dore (1956), Dhalti jaaye chunariya (1957), Aan milo more piya (1958), Koi aaya dhadkan kehti hai, Kuch din pehle, Chanda re chanda re (1958), Kaali ghata chhaye mora (1959), Nazar laagi Raja, Dil laga ke, Sach hue sapne tere (1960), and culminating in the haunting austerity of Ab ke baras bhej and O panchhi pyaare (1963), where she was no longer merely singing but inhabiting silences between notes.

With Ravi, she became the voice of quiet devotion and emotional transparency, giving us Dil ki kahani rang laayi hai (1960), Raat raat bhar jaag jaag kar (1961), Halki halki sard hawa (1962), Aaj ye meri zindagi (1963), and the immortal Tora man darpan kehlaye (1965), songs that did not clamour for attention but settled into the conscience like an unspoken prayer.

Even with composers often relegated to the margins of popular recall, she found a way to dignify their compositions, whether it was C. Ramchandra with Aa dil se dil mila le and Dil lagaakar hum ye, or N. Dutta, where one encountered a remarkable spread from Aji tum aur hum (1955), Pyar khul ke nain milaye (1955), Kismat hai agar tumhare saath (1956), Chhup chhup ke dil ki dhadkan (1957), Tang aa chuke hai kashmakashe (1958), Dekhi teri duniya (1959), to Naina kyun bhar aaye and Main jab bhi akeli hoti hoon (1961), and Aap ki baate aap ki kasme (1962), each rendered with a seriousness that belied their so-called “secondary” status.

She could just as effortlessly align with the grand orchestral sweep of Shankar–Jaikishan in Chamke bijuriya garje megh (1953), Mud mud ke na dekh (1955), Saawan ban gaye nain (1961), or the lyrical finesse of Salil Chowdhury in Thandi thandi saawan ki (1956) and Bagh me kali khili (1965), and even in the briefest of associations with Babul, Khayyam, or Hemant Kumar, she left behind imprints like Baithe hain rehguzar par (1959), Do boonde saawan ki (1958), Humse hoti mohabbat jo (1965), Yeh mehfil sitaron ki (1956), Meri baat rahi mere man me and Saaqiya aaj mujhe that continue to whisper long after louder songs have faded.

I often feel the tragedy is not that we forgot these songs, but that we forgot how to listen, how to locate artistry beyond the obvious, how to recognise that before the cabarets, the chartbusters and the late rediscoveries, there existed a young, fiercely committed artiste who negotiated her place note by note, phrase by phrase. Perhaps my indignation also stems from a deeply personal space, for in those songs lies a part of my own growing up, my own apprenticeship in feeling, and if I insist on recalling this Asha, it is not to correct anyone, but to rescue something within myself from the encroaching shallowness of collective memory.

So when the next facile tribute rolls out and someone casually hums Chura liya hai tumne as though that alone defines her, I will quietly retreat into my own archive where Kaali ghata chhaye mora still gathers clouds, Tora man darpan kehlaye still reflects a searching soul, and Ab ke baras bhej still aches with distance, and I will remind myself that legends are not diminished by our forgetfulness, only our listening is.

PS: I have purposely chosen this B&W image to accentuate my point.

How about outsourcing Hormuz Toll Naka to India?

Raju Korti
The day I heard the rumour that ships might have to pay a toll to pass through the Strait of Hormuz, my first thought was very simple. Finally, the world has caught up with India.

(Pic is purely imaginary)

For years we have perfected the science of the Toll Naka. Every few kilometres a booth appears like a philosophical reminder that no ride in life is truly free. Roads, bridges and sometimes even a suspiciously short flyover come with their own toll plaza. Naturally, I imagined that somewhere between Iran and Oman a similar Naka must be under construction.

Picture the scene: A large yellow board reads: “Welcome to Hormuz Toll Plaza. Please keep FASTag active.” In the middle of the sea, enormous oil tankers line up like trucks outside a Maharashtra highway toll gate during Diwali traffic. A gigantic Iranian officer waves a fluorescent baton and signals ships to slow down.

“Next vessel please. Cargo type?” “Crude oil.” “Very good. Commercial category. Please pay.”At this point the captain nervously checks whether his ship has Fastag linked to the right bank account. If not, the poor fellow must do what every Indian driver does at toll plazas. Frantically search for network to complete an online payment.

Of course there will be different lanes. One for FASTag enabled vessels. One for cash payment for nostalgic countries that still believe in physical currency. And the slowest lane of all called “Exact change only.”

I can also imagine the controversies. Some shipping companies will complain that the toll charges are too high. Others will argue that they already paid at the previous international checkpoint. A few clever captains will attempt to slip through the emergency lane pretending they are ambulances of the sea.

Television debates will erupt immediately. So called experts will shout hoarse about maritime sovereignty. Economists will calculate the cost per barrel of oil. Retired admirals will discuss whether the Toll Naka should be manned by the navy, the coast guard or a private contractor who previously managed highways near Ahmedabad.

Meanwhile the real masters of the system will quietly appear. Not diplomats. Not naval officers. Indian toll plaza managers. Within weeks the entire operation will run with clockwork efficiency. Digital receipts. Online payments. SMS alerts. And of course, a polite but firm announcement over loudspeakers.

“Dear global shipping community, kindly maintain lane discipline and keep your Fastag active. Failure to comply will result in double toll charges.

”The Indian government has clarified that no such Toll Naka exists at Hormuz. But if the world ever decides to install one, I have an humble suggestion. Please invite India to design it. After all, nobody understands toll economics better than us.

While the government clarifies that no such toll exists at Hormuz, somewhere in India our own Nitin Gadkari might be chuckling to himself at the sheer globalisation of the Toll Naka idea.

Can Maharashtra's rivers be saved from pollution?

Raju Korti
Rivers have sustained human civilisation for centuries. They provide drinking water, support agriculture, recharge groundwater and sustain ecosystems. In India they also carry deep cultural and spiritual significance. Yet many rivers today resemble drains rather than lifelines. Maharashtra’s decision to establish the Maharashtra State River Rejuvenation Authority appears to be an attempt to reverse this decline.

Mithi: Sight for sore eyes

The state cabinet recently approved the creation of this authority to oversee rejuvenation work on 54 polluted river stretches, the highest number recorded in any Indian state according to the Central Pollution Control Board’s 2025 report. The rivers include the Mithi, Kalu, Mula, Mula-Mutha, Mutha, Bhima, Pawana, Nag, Chandrabhaga and Panchganga.

These rivers represent both ecological and cultural heritage. Many such as the Bhima, Chandrabhaga and Panchganga hold sacred importance for millions of devotees. The Mithi river in Mumbai is an exception. Union Minister Nitin Gadkari once dismissed it as a mere “nullah”, reflecting the tragic condition to which it has been reduced.

The Maharashtra State River Rejuvenation Authority will function as the apex decision-making body and nodal agency for river restoration in the state. Chaired by the Chief Minister, it brings together ministers from environment, finance, urban development, water resources, industry and rural development.

In theory this structure solves a major administrative problem. River pollution involves many departments. Sewage management is handled by urban bodies. Industrial pollution falls under the pollution control board. Encroachments involve revenue authorities. Flood control is linked to water resources departments. Until now these agencies have worked in isolation. The new authority aims to coordinate them.

It will prepare river basin management plans, decide priority phases for rejuvenation, integrate existing schemes, and recommend policies on sewage treatment, industrial effluent control and riverbank demarcation. It will also address practical obstacles such as land acquisition, encroachments, power supply and project contracts.

A state executive committee and a dedicated secretariat will assist the authority. Environmental organisations such as the Bombay Natural History Society and the Mangrove Cell are expected to contribute technical inputs.

The state plans to raise about Rs 2,000 crore for river rejuvenation through the Pollution Control Board. The government itself will contribute Rs 100 crore, while 10 percent of revenue from minor mineral excavation will be diverted annually to the authority. Additional funding will be sought through corporate social responsibility contributions and blended finance. Whether this allocation is adequate remains debatable.

Cleaning polluted rivers is extremely expensive. Sewage treatment plants, interceptor drains, riverfront protection works and monitoring systems require large investments and continuous maintenance. In a state with 54 polluted stretches, Rs 2,000 crore could spread thin unless carefully prioritised. The key challenge is not only capital investment but also long-term operational costs. Treatment plants often fail because local bodies lack funds or technical capacity to maintain them.

The problems affecting Maharashtra’s rivers are neither mysterious nor recent. The causes are well documented. Untreated sewage is the largest contributor. Rapid urbanisation has overwhelmed municipal infrastructure. Many cities discharge partially treated or completely untreated sewage into rivers.

Industrial effluents add another layer of pollution. Chemical units, textile industries, sugar mills and small-scale factories often release contaminated wastewater. Solid waste dumping further degrades river health. Plastics, construction debris and household garbage frequently end up in river channels. Encroachments and urban construction narrow natural riverbeds and destroy floodplains. This reduces the river’s ability to cleanse itself and increases flooding risks. Agricultural runoff containing fertilisers and pesticides also contributes to declining water quality.

Few rivers illustrate the governance failures better than Mumbai’s Mithi river. Once a natural tidal river connecting Powai and Vihar lakes to Mahim creek, the Mithi gradually turned into a dumping channel for sewage and industrial waste. After the devastating 2005 Mumbai floods, the government launched an ambitious river cleaning and widening programme. Over the years, hundreds of crores of rupees were spent on desilting, embankment construction and beautification. Yet the river continues to remain choked with sludge and garbage.

Investigations and audits exposed irregularities in contracts and allegations of inflated bills in desilting operations. The project became synonymous with what many critics describe as the Mithi river desilting scam. For Mumbaikars the river still stands as a visible reminder of administrative failure. This history raises an uncomfortable question. If one river could not be restored despite years of attention and funding, can dozens of others be revived effectively?

India’s experience with the Clean Ganga campaign provides further caution. The Ganga Action Plan launched in 1985 and the later Namami Gange programme initiated in 2014 have together consumed billions of rupees and more than three decades of policy effort. Some improvements have been reported in certain stretches, but pollution levels remain stubbornly high in several cities including Varanasi.

Experts attribute the limited success to fragmented governance, weak enforcement against polluters, and poor maintenance of treatment infrastructure. The lesson is simple. River cleaning cannot succeed through announcements alone.

The new authority does address one important problem. It attempts to bring multiple departments under a single institutional framework. This could improve coordination and accountability. However, success will depend on three factors.

First, strict enforcement of pollution norms. Industries and municipalities must face penalties for illegal discharge. Second, functional sewage treatment systems. Building plants is not enough. They must operate efficiently every day. Third, protection of riverbanks and floodplains. Encroachments and construction near rivers must be prevented. Without these steps, rejuvenation efforts risk becoming symbolic exercises.

Governments alone cannot restore rivers. Citizens, industries, local bodies and environmental groups all have a role. Cities must manage waste responsibly. Industries must adopt cleaner technologies. Farmers must reduce chemical runoff. Citizens must stop dumping garbage into water bodies. Most importantly, rivers must be treated as living ecological systems, not as drainage channels.

If Maharashtra’s new authority can enforce this shift in thinking, it may succeed where many earlier efforts have faltered. If it becomes another bureaucratic layer without strong enforcement, the state’s rivers will continue their slow decline.

The stakes are high. Rivers are not merely water channels. They are the arteries of human life, carrying ecological, economic and cultural meaning across generations. Protecting them is not just an environmental task. It is a civilisational responsibility.