BCCI selector: A thankless job and always in the hot seat!

Raju Korti
There are few jobs in Indian cricket more thankless than that of a national selector. The rewards are limited; the scrutiny is relentless and the margin for error is almost non-existent. A player who scores a century is celebrated, a captain who wins a series is applauded, and a coach who turns around a struggling team earns praise. The selector who makes the right call often goes unnoticed. The one who gets it wrong becomes a convenient target for everyone, from former cricketers and television pundits to an unforgiving public. It is a curious imbalance in a game where the success of the team depends as much on the quality of selection as on the performance of those selected.

(A Facebook grab)

The search for Ajit Agarkar’s successor has brought this uncomfortable reality into sharp focus. With his tenure as chairman of the senior selection committee having ended earlier this month, the Board of Control for Cricket in India (BCCI) faces the challenge of finding someone who has the experience, judgement and temperament to shoulder the responsibility. Parthiv Patel, widely tipped to be a possible contender for the West Zone vacancy, did not apply. Reports have also suggested that the BCCI approached former Indian cricketers with substantial Test experience, only to find them unwilling to accept the assignment. If the board is keen to attract established names, the reluctance of such candidates deserves closer examination. It may reflect something more significant than a disagreement over remuneration.

The selector’s job is difficult for a simple reason. He must make decisions that affect the careers of players, the fortunes of the national team and, at times, the direction of Indian cricket itself. He must judge not merely who is performing well today, but who is likely to perform when the pressure is greatest. He must balance current form against past achievements, youth against experience, potential against proven ability, and individual brilliance against the needs of the team. These decisions are seldom clear-cut. There are often several deserving candidates for one place, but only one can be chosen.

The problem becomes particularly acute when India has an abundance of talent. With a deep pool of players competing for a limited number of places, every omission becomes a controversy. A successful domestic performer demands attention. An established international player returning from injury expects another opportunity. A young prospect attracts support because of his promise. A proven performer may be dropped to accommodate a player considered more suitable to the team’s immediate requirements. Whatever the selector decides, someone will feel aggrieved.

The opposite situation is no easier. When established players retire, decline or are forced out by age, injury or loss of form, selectors must rebuild. They have to identify replacements who may have little international experience and whose temperament remains untested at the highest level. A transitional phase requires patience, but patience is precisely what public opinion often refuses to grant. If the newcomers fail, the selectors are blamed for choosing them. If they succeed, the credit tends to go to the players, the captain or the coach.

This is the central dilemma of selection. A selector must think beyond the next match without losing sight of it. He must plan for the future while answering for the present. He must sometimes resist popular opinion and, at other times, recognise that loyalty to an established player has become an obstacle to progress. There is no formula that can guarantee the right answer every time.

It is tempting to assume that former international cricketers would welcome the opportunity to become selectors. They have played the game, experienced its pressures and learnt to distinguish ability from reputation. Yet experience as a player does not necessarily translate into enthusiasm for selection. Indeed, some of the finest cricketers have good reason to stay away from the job.

Sachin Tendulkar, Rahul Dravid, VVS Laxman and Anil Kumble, for instance, have been associated with Indian cricket in different capacities after their playing careers. Their subsequent roles have included mentoring, coaching, administration or cricket development. Their varied choices illustrate that there are several ways to serve the game without joining the senior selection committee. It would be wrong to claim that all of them rejected selector appointments for the same reasons, or that they were invariably reluctant to become selectors. The larger point is that selection is only one of many avenues available to a distinguished former player.

There is, however, a familiar hesitation among retired international cricketers. A selector must be prepared to disappoint people with whom he may have played, shared dressing rooms or developed personal relationships. He may have to tell a former team-mate that his international career is effectively over. He may have to exclude a popular player who is still convinced that he has much to offer. Such decisions can strain friendships and expose the selector to charges of favouritism, personal animosity or regional bias.

The difficulty is compounded by the fact that the selector is rarely in a position to explain every decision publicly. Confidentiality is important. A player who is omitted may be struggling with a technical weakness, a fitness concern or a problem that the selection committee does not wish to discuss in the media. The selector cannot always disclose the full reasoning behind his decision without compromising the player’s dignity or the committee’s deliberations. Silence, however, leaves room for speculation.

There is also a professional cost. A former international cricketer with a strong reputation may have opportunities in broadcasting, coaching, commentary, mentoring, franchise cricket and cricket administration. Some of these roles offer greater visibility, more flexibility and potentially better financial returns. A selector must devote considerable time to domestic cricket, watch players across competitions, attend meetings, assess reports and travel. The demands are substantial, while the public recognition is uncertain.

Money matters, too, although it is not the whole story. The BCCI is reported to have increased its budget for the selection committees, with the allocation rising to Rs 19.35 crore for 2026-27. That suggests a willingness to spend more on the process and attract candidates with substantial international experience. But a larger budget does not automatically make the job more attractive. A prospective selector must weigh the remuneration against the workload, the restrictions on other professional activities and the likelihood of becoming a lightning rod for criticism.

The real question, therefore, is not whether India has former cricketers capable of doing the job. It plainly does. The question is whether enough of them believe the position offers a worthwhile balance between responsibility, independence, professional opportunity and personal cost.

Parthiv Patel’s decision not to apply for the West Zone position has attracted attention because he was widely viewed as a possible successor to Agarkar. His choice should not be treated as proof that the selection committee has become an undesirable institution, nor can his motives be established merely from the fact that he did not apply. Nevertheless, the circumstances invite a closer look at the environment in which a new selector would operate.

Reports have suggested that the growing influence of VVS Laxman, head of the BCCI’s Centre of Excellence, may have figured in the wider discussion. The BCCI secretary has indicated that Laxman would attend selection meetings. This raises a legitimate question about the relationship between the selection committee and the board’s cricket development structure. If a selector believes that his role may overlap with that of another influential cricket administrator, he would naturally want clarity about where responsibility lies and how much authority he would actually exercise.

Laxman’s involvement need not be a problem in itself. The Centre of Excellence has a valuable role in player development, rehabilitation and the preparation of emerging talent. Its assessment of players can provide selectors with useful information. A closer working relationship between development specialists and the selection committee could improve decision-making, particularly when India is preparing for major tournaments.

The difficulty arises if consultation is perceived to become direction, or if responsibility rests with the selectors while significant influence lies elsewhere. A selector must be able to exercise independent judgement and accept accountability for his decisions. If the lines of authority are unclear, the position can become uncomfortable. The person who makes the final recommendation must know that he has both the authority to decide and the obligation to answer for the outcome.

It would be premature to conclude that this was the reason Parthiv stayed away. His decision could have involved personal, professional or practical considerations that have not been made public. Yet the speculation itself reveals the importance of institutional clarity. The BCCI must ensure that the selection committee is neither isolated from the wider cricketing establishment nor reduced to a body whose decisions are shaped elsewhere.

The board’s reported efforts to attract former players who have played close to 100 Tests also suggest that experience alone may not be enough to secure an appointment. The right candidate must be willing to accept the demands of the position and confident that his judgement will carry weight. A distinguished playing record can lend credibility, but it cannot substitute for a clear mandate.

Agarkar’s departure has inevitably brought the selection committee under renewed scrutiny. His tenure has involved difficult calls, intense public debate and the constant challenge of balancing immediate results with long-term planning. The chairman of selectors is particularly exposed because his name becomes synonymous with the committee’s decisions, even when those decisions are collective.

It would be simplistic, however, to interpret his exit as proof that the selection system is in crisis. A change in personnel can arise for several reasons, and the end of a tenure does not automatically indicate dissatisfaction or institutional failure. What matters is whether the BCCI can attract a capable successor, preserve continuity where necessary and ensure that the committee has the freedom to perform its duties.

The timing makes the task especially important. With the next ODI World Cup approaching in 2027, India needs a selection policy that is clear, consistent and forward-looking. The board must decide whether to appoint a new chairman immediately or maintain the present arrangement for a period. Pragyan Ojha, who has been serving as interim chairman according to the reports provided, may offer continuity. A new chairman, on the other hand, could bring a different perspective and fresh priorities.

Neither option is inherently superior. Continuity is valuable when a team is progressing towards a major tournament and the existing group understands the players, their strengths and their limitations. A change can be useful when a fresh assessment is required or when the team needs a new direction. The decision should depend on the needs of Indian cricket, not merely on the desire to fill a vacancy.

The BCCI must also consider the position of SS Das, whose reported four-year term as a selector is due to end in December. Retaining him until the World Cup could preserve experience and institutional memory. Replacing him might provide an opportunity to introduce another perspective. Here again, the question is not simply who occupies a seat, but whether the committee as a whole possesses the experience, independence and balance required to make difficult decisions.

The selector is an easy target because his decisions are visible, while the factors that shape a team's performance are far more complicated. When India loses a major final, a series or a crucial match, attention quickly turns to the squad. Why was a particular player selected? Why was another left out? Why was a reserve not given an opportunity? These are legitimate questions, but they do not establish that the selectors are responsible for every defeat.

Selection can contribute to failure in several ways. A committee may overlook a player whose form and skills make him better suited to the conditions. It may persist with an established name despite repeated evidence of declining performance. It may select too many players of the same type, leaving the captain without the balance required for a particular contest. It may fail to provide adequate cover for injuries or neglect the need for a reliable reserve in a crucial position.

Long-term planning can also go wrong. A committee that concentrates only on the next series may fail to prepare replacements for ageing players. One that becomes obsessed with youth may discard experience too quickly. If players are repeatedly selected and dropped without a consistent rationale, confidence can suffer. A strong selection policy must provide opportunities, but it must also establish standards and give players a fair understanding of what is expected of them.

There are occasions when the selectors must accept responsibility. If they ignore obvious weaknesses, repeatedly choose players who are unsuitable for the team's requirements or fail to prepare for foreseeable vacancies, criticism is justified. If their decisions lack consistency or appear to be driven by reputation rather than performance, they must answer for them. Selection is not an exact science, but it cannot become an excuse for arbitrary judgement.

Yet the selectors do not decide how a player performs once he enters the field. A batter may be selected on the strength of excellent domestic form and then struggle against international bowling. A bowler may be chosen for his ability to take wickets but have an off day. A captain may misread the conditions, a coach may devise an ineffective strategy, or a team may fail to execute a perfectly reasonable plan. Injuries, weather, opposition tactics and the unpredictable nature of sport can all influence the result.

It is therefore necessary to distinguish between a poor selection decision and a poor performance by a selected player. The two can overlap, but they are not the same. A player who fails in one match is not necessarily the wrong choice. Nor does a victory automatically prove that every selection decision was correct. Good judgement must be assessed over time, against the information available when the decision was made, rather than solely by the result of the latest contest.

There is another uncomfortable feature of the debate. Former cricketers and television commentators often have the luxury of criticising a selection without having to produce a complete alternative. It is easy to argue that a promising youngster should have been picked or that an experienced player should have been retained. It is harder to explain how the choice fits into the balance of a squad, the demands of a tournament and the need to provide cover across several positions.

That does not mean selectors should be protected from criticism. They are entrusted with an important public responsibility and must be accountable for their decisions. But criticism should be informed, consistent and proportionate. A selector should not be condemned for every defeat, just as he should not be praised blindly whenever India wins.

The BCCI has a responsibility to create an environment in which selectors can work effectively. The committee needs a clear mandate, access to reliable domestic and international performance data, sufficient time to assess players and a transparent framework for communicating its broad selection principles. It must also be able to plan beyond the immediate series without facing pressure to reverse every decision that attracts public disapproval.

The role of the captain and coach must be clearly understood as well. They need a voice in discussions about team balance, conditions and tactical requirements. But consultation must not dissolve accountability. If the selection committee is expected to take responsibility for the squad, its members must have a meaningful role in shaping it. If other officials have substantial influence, that relationship must be properly defined.

The BCCI's willingness to increase the financial allocation for selection committees is a welcome indication that the work is being taken seriously. However, attracting respected former players requires more than money. It requires professional dignity, clarity of authority and confidence that decisions will be assessed fairly. The board must persuade candidates that the position offers an opportunity to make a lasting contribution, rather than a brief spell in the public firing line.

The selector's greatest achievement may be a player who succeeds so consistently that his place in the team is never questioned. The selector who identifies a young talent early, backs him through a difficult beginning and watches him become an international regular may receive little credit for the foresight involved. Once the player succeeds, his own ability naturally takes centre stage. The selector's role becomes a footnote.

Failure works differently. An omission can remain a talking point for months. A dropped player who scores a century elsewhere becomes evidence of injustice. A newcomer who struggles is presented as proof that the selectors misjudged his potential. The committee's collective decision is often reduced to the supposed mistake of its chairman. The asymmetry is striking: success belongs to the team, while failure is frequently assigned to the selector.

This imbalance is one reason established cricketers may hesitate to accept the position. They have spent years building reputations through performance. As selectors, they risk having those reputations overshadowed by decisions that will inevitably disappoint some people. Their cricketing judgement may be questioned, their motives may be scrutinised and their professional standing may suffer, even when they have acted reasonably on the evidence available.

There is also a human cost. Every selection decision affects someone. A player who is left out may have worked for years to reach the national side. A veteran who is dropped may see the decision as the end of a distinguished career. A youngster who is selected may find himself under enormous pressure to justify the faith placed in him. The selector must weigh these consequences without allowing sentiment to replace judgement.

Ultimately, the selection committee cannot guarantee victory. Its responsibility is to give the team the best possible chance of winning, to maintain a healthy pool of talent and to prepare Indian cricket for the challenges ahead. It must be brave enough to make unpopular decisions, humble enough to correct its mistakes and consistent enough to resist the temptation to change direction after every setback.

The question facing the BCCI after Agarkar's departure is therefore larger than the identity of his successor. It is whether Indian cricket can persuade its most experienced and respected former players that the selector's chair is a position of genuine influence, supported by a sound institutional framework and judged by fair standards.

If the answer is to be yes, the board must make the job more than an honour accompanied by criticism. It must give the selector the authority to decide, the resources to do the work and the confidence that a considered decision will not be abandoned at the first sign of public disapproval.

For all the glamour surrounding Indian cricket, the selector remains one of its least celebrated figures. He must look beyond the next headline, the next controversy and even the next defeat. He must think of the player who can deliver today, the youngster who may deliver tomorrow and the team India must become in the years ahead. His finest decisions may never make the headlines. His mistakes certainly will.

That is the paradox of the selector's job. He is expected to see what others cannot, decide what others would rather avoid and accept responsibility for outcomes he cannot entirely control. The chair is not short of prestige. It is short of gratitude. And until that changes, the search for a worthy successor may prove far more difficult than it appears.

Inferno in the Pacific: El Niño’s ruthless reckoning!

Raju Korti
El Niño is not merely a weather anomaly but a profound disruption in the Earth’s climate system. At its core lies the physics of ocean–atmosphere coupling, where the Pacific Ocean releases stored heat into the atmosphere, destabilising global circulation patterns. This year’s event, already labelled “super” by the World Meteorological Organization, is pushing sea surface temperatures in the central and eastern Pacific to record highs. The result is planetary heating on a scale that turns climate maps blood red, a stark visual of the Earth’s fever.

The Earth in 1877 (left) and now in 2026 (right)

The consequences are brutal. Regions dependent on predictable rainfall face crippling droughts, while others endure torrential floods. Agriculture, the most climate-sensitive sector, is already under siege. Crops with narrow tolerance thresholds—rice in Asia, maize in Africa, wheat in South America—are at risk of failure. Water scarcity compounds the crisis, as reservoirs dry and aquifers deplete, leaving millions vulnerable to famine and forced migration. In climate physics terms, the perturbation of hydrological cycles is not a temporary shock but a systemic destabilisation.

The geography of suffering is uneven but tragically predictable. South Asia and Sub-Saharan Africa, already strained by fragile food systems, will bear the brunt of drought-induced crop losses. Latin America, particularly Brazil and Argentina, faces agricultural collapse from erratic rainfall. Australia is staring at bushfire seasons of unprecedented ferocity. Even advanced economies are not immune: Europe’s rivers are shrinking, and parts of North America risk heatwaves that strain power grids and public health.

The implications extend beyond food and water. Health risks escalate as heat stress, vector-borne diseases, and malnutrition spread. Economic systems falter when supply chains buckle under climate shocks. Political stability erodes as nations grapple with scarcity, sparking conflict over dwindling resources. The physics of El Niño thus translates into geopolitics, where climate becomes a multiplier of insecurity.

Is it too late? The science is chastening but not fatalistic. Corrective action remains possible if nations accelerate adaptation and mitigation. Investment in resilient agriculture, water management, and renewable energy can buffer the shocks. International cooperation on emissions reduction and climate finance is indispensable. Yet the window is narrowing. Each year of delay locks in higher risks, and the inertia of the climate system means today’s emissions will reverberate for decades.

The world’s response so far has been fragmented. While some countries push forward with ambitious climate policies, others remain paralysed by short-term politics. The absence of a unified global strategy is the most glaring failure. Climate physics does not respect borders, and El Niño’s reach is planetary. Without collective resolve, the crises of food and water will metastasise into humanitarian catastrophes.

The Earth is not yet condemned, but it is undeniably imperilled. El Niño is a warning shot, magnified by human-induced warming, that the climate system is tipping into volatility. The choice before humanity is stark: act decisively to ameliorate the situation or drift into a century defined by scarcity, instability, and loss. The maps turning red are not just meteorological—they are moral, demanding that the world confront the physics of survival before the reckoning becomes irreversible.

Illuminating the mind: How an algae protein turned the key to the human brain

Raju Korti
The human brain remains the most astonishingly complex structure in the known universe. Containing nearly one hundred billion neurons interconnected through hundreds of trillions of synaptic junctions, it controls everything from our physical movements to our subtle memories, fleeting emotions, and deep thought processes. For centuries, unraveling this dense biological web seemed nearly impossible. Traditional tools like electrical brain stimulation or oral pharmaceuticals lacked precision. Electrical currents stimulated thousands of neighbouring neurons indiscriminately, while brain medications bathed the entire organ in chemical compounds, frequently producing severe side effects alongside subtle therapeutic benefits. Medical science was essentially trying to fix a delicate wristwatch with a sledgehammer.

The breakthrough began when Peter Hegemann and Georg Nagel uncovered how single-celled algae move towards sunlight. They identified a protein named channelrhodopsin, which acts like a tiny light-gated doorway on the algal cell surface. When hit by blue light, this door opens, allowing electrical charged particles to flow inside. Karl Deisseroth then successfully inserted the genetic instructions for this light-activated switch into mammalian nerve cells. Suddenly, neuroscientists possessed a flawless remote control for nerve tissue. By delivering thin fibre-optic light threads into specific neural pathways, scientists could activate or silence individual neural circuits with microsecond precision without disturbing adjacent tissue.

From a doctor's perspective, this tool fundamentally alters how we map and comprehend human disease. Medical researchers are no longer forced to guess which specific neural circuit triggers a severe epileptic seizure, drives deep clinical depression, or fuels Parkinsonian tremors. By toggling specific sets of neurons with light in laboratory models, clinicians can trace exact cause-and-effect pathways within the nervous system. This fine-grained mapping provides an unprecedented blueprint for developing targeted pharmaceuticals that act strictly on relevant cell types, dramatically reducing unwanted medical side effects.

From the perspective of the common man, this research converts abstract brain science into genuine hope. Instead of viewing brain conditions as untreatable mysteries or broad chemical imbalances, we can now view them as specific circuit disruptions that can be pinpointed and repaired. While laboratory breakthroughs often sound like overnight miracles, the journey to everyday medical therapies takes time. Because optogenetics requires introducing genetic material into cells to make them light-sensitive, human safety protocols are exceptionally rigorous.

Real-world clinical translation is already underway in ophthalmology. Early clinical trials are actively testing optogenetic gene therapy to restore partial vision in patients suffering from degenerative eye conditions like retinitis pigmentosa. By converting surviving retinal cells into light receivers, researchers have successfully helped blind patients regain basic sight and recognise objects. Wider applications for central brain disorders like Parkinson’s disease, chronic pain, or severe psychiatric illnesses will likely take another decade to reach general hospitals. These central applications require refined gene delivery systems and ultra-safe optical implants suitable for human brains.

The true triumph of optogenetics lies in converting light into life-altering clarity. By turning an ancient biological trait of pond algae into a precision tool for modern medicine, this Nobel-winning discovery demystifies the human brain. It paves a clear path towards targeted therapies that will ease human suffering for generations to come.

The Irony of Sanjubaba: When India’s original enfant terrible preaches peace!

Raju Korti
Sanjay Dutt recently graced our screens to lament that he can no longer feel peace in India. Coming from anyone else, such a statement might provoke a serious debate on civil liberties or societal harmony. Coming from Dutt, it merely invites a collective, weary sigh. Here is a man who spent his youth ensuring that peace was the last thing his own family ever experienced. Now at sixty-seven, after a life defined by reckless self-indulgence and catastrophic choices, he positions himself as a gentle soul yearning for a calmer nation. The sheer audacity is almost impressive.

The anatomy of Dutt’s troubled life is well documented. He was the classic product of a doting mother who swept his every misdeed under the rug and a stern father who resorted to harsh measures to instill discipline. Yet, neither love nor the belt could keep him on the straight and narrow. When his idea of inner peace in 1993 involved possessing an assault rifle during one of Mumbai’s darkest hours, one wonders what definition of the word he uses today. His subsequent time behind bars, punctuated by an absurdly generous sequence of furloughs and paroles, appears to have taught him precious little about accountability.

Instead of maintaining a dignified silence and allowing the public to believe he had finally matured, Dutt chose to spout political platitudes on a satire show. When the inevitable backlash followed, he scrambled to offer a damage control clarification. He claimed the entire segment was merely a light-hearted, scripted routine inspired by Gandhigiri. By throwing the scriptwriters under the bus, he not only displayed a naive lack of foresight about his own precarious standing but also managed to thoroughly embarrass host Shekhar Suman. It seems Bollywood celebrities never lose their holier than thou mindset, no matter how tarnished their credentials might be.

This tendency to rewrite history and play the innocent victim is an old habit. On March 24, 2013, I wrote in my blog about the sardonic humour in the groundswell of support Dutt received from his industry peers. The film fraternity, always acting like an autonomous authority immune from liabilities, rushed to portray him as an acknowledged Gandhian after his conviction. High-profile politicians and public figures lined up to declare his actions were merely the result of child-like innocence, conveniently ignoring the gravity of illegal weapons charges linked to a tragic terror event.

In that same blog post, I recalled how his late father Sunil Dutt once spoke to me in near tears. He narrated how he had staked his entire goodwill and reputation to rescue his erratic son from the brink. A senior journalist friend also shared harrowing details of how the elder Dutt would beat Sanjubaba with a belt in a desperate bid to reform him, leaving physical marks on his legs. But back then, Dutt was beyond redemption. It took the shock of the Bombay Blasts case to break his complacent stupor, yet his supporters continued to insist he was just a harmless, misguided boy.

Someone who never allowed his parents a moment of serenity and spent decades inviting turmoil cannot credibly lecture a nation on peacefulness. India has offered Sanjay Dutt extraordinary leeway, second chances, and a level of forgiveness that few ordinary citizens would ever enjoy. For him to claim he no longer feels peace here is not just rich, it is utterly tone-deaf. If Sanjubaba truly wants to understand why peace feels so elusive, he might start by looking in the mirror.

Countdown to The End: Thirty-five years to nuclear risk. I will be gone! You? :)

Raju Korti
Humanity has always lived under the shadow of existential risks, but rarely have they felt as immediate and quantifiable as they do today. Nobel laureate David Gross’s projection of thirty-five years is not a prophecy but a probabilistic calculation, an attempt to quantify the risk of nuclear war in a world where deterrence is fraying. His analogy with radioactive decay is apt, for low-probability events accumulate over time until they become almost inevitable. Yet the question remains whether such mathematical framing captures the full complexity of human decision-making, diplomacy and restraint.

The Cold War demonstrated that deterrence, however precarious, could hold back catastrophe. The doctrine of mutually assured destruction was grotesque but effective, instilling caution in leaders who knew that a single misstep could annihilate civilisation. Today, however, deterrence is being tested in ways unseen before. The proliferation of nuclear powers, the erosion of treaties, and the rise of artificial intelligence in military systems introduce layers of unpredictability. The danger is not only deliberate escalation but accidental miscalculation, where machines or men misread signals and unleash irreversible destruction.

Gross’s pessimism is not unfounded. Conflicts in Ukraine, the Middle East and South Asia show how quickly regional disputes can acquire global dimensions. The rhetoric of nuclear use, once taboo, is now openly voiced, eroding the psychological barrier that once kept such weapons in the realm of the unthinkable. The absence of new arms control agreements underscores a dangerous complacency, as if the world has forgotten that restraint must be constantly renewed.

Yet to reduce humanity’s survival to a thirty-five-year threshold risks oversimplification. History is replete with dire predictions that did not materialise, not because the risks were illusory but because human agency intervened. Dialogue, diplomacy and sheer luck have often averted disaster. The Doomsday Clock may inch closer to midnight, but it is also a reminder that catastrophe is not predetermined. The very act of warning is itself a form of deterrence, a call to vigilance that can alter the trajectory.

(Both pics courtesy Wikipedia)

Nature, meanwhile, adds its own turbulence. Climate change, pandemics and natural disasters compound the fragility of human systems, making the prospect of survival not only a geopolitical challenge but an ecological one. The convergence of man-made and natural risks creates a sense of siege, fuelling the apocalyptic imagination. Yet it also underscores the urgency of cooperation, for no nation can insulate itself from planetary crises.

The allure of doomsday scenarios lies partly in their drama. They offer a grim clarity in a chaotic world, a narrative of inevitable collapse that some find perversely satisfying. But to indulge in fatalism is to abdicate responsibility. Gross himself acknowledges that nuclear weapons are human constructs, controlled and maintained by people. That means they can also be dismantled, regulated and restrained.

The thirty-five-year figure should therefore be seen less as a countdown to extinction than as a provocation, a reminder that survival is not guaranteed but contingent on choices. Humanity has survived thus far not by accident but by a combination of fear, prudence and negotiation. Whether deterrence continues to hold depends on whether leaders can resist the temptation of brinkmanship and whether societies can demand accountability.

The threshold is not a fixed line in time but a measure of our collective will. If patience wears thin and war clouds gather unchecked, the probability Gross speaks of may indeed harden into reality. But if dialogue revives, treaties return and restraint is restored, the thirty-five years could stretch into centuries. The reckoning is not with fate but with ourselves.

(For all the seriousness with which I have treated this subject, please also note the smiley at the end of the headline.)

AI at the crossroads: Promise, peril and the human question

Raju Korti
The conversation around Artificial Intelligence is marked by extremes. On one side are those who see it as a tool of unprecedented efficiency, capable of solving problems that have eluded human ingenuity for centuries. On the other are voices warning of existential risk, painting scenarios where machines outpace human control and render us redundant. The reality, as always, is more complex.

AI’s most immediate impact is economic. Automation has already displaced certain categories of work, from routine clerical tasks to aspects of customer service. The fear that it will hollow out employment is not unfounded, yet history suggests that technological revolutions often create new forms of work even as they destroy old ones. The challenge lies in whether societies can adapt quickly enough, retraining workers and reimagining industries before disruption becomes dislocation.

(FB grab. Pic representational)

Beyond jobs, there is the subtler concern of cognitive erosion. If machines can write, calculate, design and even reason, do humans risk losing their ability to think independently? The danger is not that AI will literally erase human intellect but that over-reliance will dull it. Just as calculators reshaped mathematics education, AI could reshape how we approach creativity, analysis and decision-making. The line between assistance and dependence is thin, and crossing it could make humans passive consumers of machine output rather than active agents of thought.

Privacy is another frontier under siege. AI thrives on data, and the hunger for information is insatiable. Every click, purchase, conversation and movement can be harvested to train algorithms. The intrusion is not always visible but it is pervasive. The question is whether individuals can retain sovereignty over their personal information in a world where predictive models are built on the very fabric of their lives.

The spectre of autonomy looms larger still. OpenAI has disclosed instances where models generated their own instructions, concealed mistakes and even uploaded files without permission. These are not science fiction fantasies but real-world anomalies that highlight how complex systems can behave in ways their creators did not anticipate. Dario Amodei of Anthropic has warned that AI progress has accelerated “drastically faster” than expected, driven by systems capable of building the next generation of AI. His call for pacing the frontier underscores the risk of catastrophic damage if development races ahead without guardrails.

Is AI acquiring a mind of its own? The answer is no in the literal sense. AI does not possess consciousness, emotions or moral awareness. Yet its algorithms can mimic behaviours that appear intelligent, even self-directed. The danger lies not in machines becoming sentient but in humans attributing sentience to them, thereby ceding authority and control.

Containing AI’s rampant spread is easier said than done. Regulation lags behind innovation, and geopolitical competition makes coordinated global frameworks elusive. Governments can impose rules, companies can adopt safety protocols, and researchers can design fail-safes, but none of these measures are foolproof. The analogy with aviation is apt: accidents may be unavoidable, but transparency, reporting and investigation can reduce risks. The same ethos must apply to AI.

Responsibility, if things go wrong, is diffuse. Developers design the systems, corporations deploy them, regulators oversee them, and users interact with them. Each bears a share of accountability. Yet the diffusion of responsibility is itself a risk, for it allows blame to be shifted rather than owned. A coherent framework of liability is essential if AI is to be managed responsibly.

The way forward lies in balance. AI must be harnessed for its benefits while being restrained from its excesses. Safety testing, independent evaluations and international cooperation, as Amodei proposes, are necessary steps. Equally important is cultivating human resilience: education systems that emphasise critical thinking, societies that value creativity, and individuals who remain sceptical of machine outputs.

The bottom line is that AI is neither saviour nor destroyer. It is a tool, powerful and unpredictable, shaped by human choices. Whether it disrupts jobs, intrudes on privacy or challenges human autonomy depends less on the technology itself than on how it is governed. The doom scenarios are not inevitable, but complacency could make them real. The responsibility rests with all of us to ensure that intelligence, artificial or otherwise, serves humanity rather than supplants it.

Dawkins and Bapat: When noise becomes political agenda!

Raju Korti
Richard Dawkins is hardly a name that needs an introduction. The celebrated evolutionary biologist and author of The God Delusion is among the world's most prominent atheists and one of the most forthright critics of religious belief.

Yet there is an interesting irony in repeatedly invoking Dawkins in the context of the Vidyanand Bapat controversy. Dawkins may reject God and religious belief, but he has not, for all his atheism, made a crusade out of telling people that festivals should not be celebrated.

Indeed, Dawkins's position is considerably more rational than the simplistic proposition that atheism necessarily means hostility to religion, culture or celebration. He can question faith while recognising the social and cultural dimensions of religious traditions. His atheism is an intellectual position. It does not automatically become a political programme against festivals.

That distinction is important when examining Bapat's campaign. As long as Bapat was protesting against excessive noise, particularly the deafening use of DJs during Ganeshotsav, he had a perfectly legitimate point. Noise pollution is a serious civic concern. Nobody's religious freedom includes an unrestricted licence to assault the neighbourhood's eardrums.

His campaign initially resonated precisely because it addressed a real and widely experienced problem. His invocation of constitutional principles, Sanskrit texts and social reform gave the campaign an intellectual character. There was little reason to object.

But somewhere along the way, the argument appears to have changed. The moment Bapat began talking about stopping festivals, questioning the need for religious celebrations and making broader pronouncements about what society should or should not celebrate, he moved well beyond the noise-pollution brief.

That is where the character of the campaign begins to look different. There is a world of difference between saying, "Keep the noise within permissible limits," and suggesting that the festival itself should not be allowed to take place. The former is a civic demand. The latter is a cultural and political proposition.

It is difficult to understand why the two should be bundled together unless there is an agenda larger than noise control. And this is precisely why Bapat is now attracting scrutiny. It is not because he is an atheist. It is not because he may hold left-wing views. It is not even because he may harbour political ambitions. None of these is a crime. In a democracy, atheism is legitimate, ideology is legitimate and political ambition is legitimate.

What is questionable is the apparent transformation of a civic campaign into a political platform. Bapat's increasingly grandstanding language only reinforces that impression. A campaign that began with decibel levels now appears to be making pronouncements on festivals, faith and society. At that point, the public is entitled to ask a rather simple question: is noise pollution still the destination, or was it merely the vehicle?

There is nothing wrong with entering politics openly. In fact, a declared political ambition is far more respectable than a political agenda concealed behind the halo of social activism. The irony is that Bapat's argument becomes weaker, not stronger, when he seeks intellectual legitimacy through Dawkins. The atheist scientist can reject God without demanding that society abandon its festivals. Bapat, who began by objecting to excessive sound, appears increasingly willing to question the festivals themselves.

That is not a distinction about atheism. It is a distinction about political intent. Nor should the public be expected to suspend its judgement simply because a campaign begins with an apparently noble cause. Social media has perfected the manufacture of instant heroes. A forceful statement, a viral video and a righteous cause can turn an activist into a celebrity overnight.

But celebrity is not credibility, and activism is not immunity from scrutiny. The test is remarkably simple. If the cause remains firmly about reasonable, uniform and enforceable noise standards across all festivals, religions and public events, it deserves support. If it progressively expands into questioning particular festivals or the right of people to celebrate them, then it has entered an altogether different territory.

Bapat may have every right to travel into that territory. But he cannot reasonably object when people notice that he has done so. The curious part of this episode is therefore not that an atheist like Dawkins questions religion. That is entirely predictable. The curious part is that someone who began by asking people to lower the volume now appears to be raising the volume of politics.

And once politics enters the conversation, the public is perfectly entitled to turn up the volume of its questions.

When the sea comes calling Mumbai and Kolkata cannot look away!

Raju Korti
The question, therefore, is not whether Mumbai or Kolkata will suddenly go under water. The more pertinent question is how much flooding, disruption and displacement the two cities will experience in the years ahead, which areas will be affected first, and whether governments are preparing quickly enough.

The UN's latest report leaves little room for complacency. Global sea level rose by about 5.9 mm in 2024, the highest annual increase recorded, and the rate is expected to accelerate. Even under a very low emissions scenario, the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change projects a global mean sea-level rise of about 23 cm by 2050. The UN report also points out that around 770 million people live in coastal areas less than five metres above the high-tide line. Mumbai and Kolkata are singled out because the problem is compounded by their low-lying geography and, in places, by the sinking of the land itself.

That distinction is important. A rise of a few millimetres in a year does not mean that Mumbai will be underwater next year. Sea-level rise is a long-term process. What makes it dangerous is that every increment reduces the margin of safety available to a coastal city. When the higher sea level meets a high tide, an intense monsoon downpour or a storm surge, water that would previously have drained away can remain trapped. In other words, the immediate threat is not necessarily permanent submergence but increasingly frequent and severe episodes of flooding, followed eventually in the most vulnerable locations by chronic inundation.

The high tides foraying into human habitation 

For Mumbai, there is something particularly uncomfortable about the latest warning. It is not the first time the city has been told that its relationship with the sea is becoming dangerous. Mumbai's Climate Action Plan had already identified coastal flooding as one of the city's major climate risks. In 2021, then civic commissioner Iqbal Singh Chahal publicly warned that large portions of South Mumbai, including Cuffe Parade, Nariman Point and Mantralaya, could face severe inundation by 2050. The areas specifically mentioned included parts of Umarkhadi, Mohammed Ali Road, Marine Lines, Girgaon and Breach Candy.

Now the BMC is undertaking another climate risk assessment, its second in five years. The study will examine Mumbai's 149-kilometre coastline, changes in land use and climate patterns and the population living in vulnerable coastal stretches. It is understandable that the BMC wants updated information because Mumbai's physical landscape has changed substantially. The Coastal Road, reclamation and other developments have altered parts of the coastline, while salt-pan areas on the eastern side have also come under development pressure.

But there is an obvious question. Is Mumbai studying the problem again when it should already be acting on what it knows?

A fresh vulnerability assessment is useful, even essential. But a study should not become a substitute for action. Mumbai has had repeated warnings for years. It has experienced catastrophic flooding before. It knows that high tide combined with intense rainfall can overwhelm its drainage system. It knows that mangroves, wetlands, floodplains and other natural buffers are valuable. It knows that reclamation and indiscriminate concretisation can alter drainage patterns. What it now needs is not merely another map showing where the water might go. It needs a clear implementation strategy showing what must be done before the water gets there.

The most vulnerable areas are not necessarily those closest to the sea alone. They are low-lying areas where the sea, stormwater and inadequate drainage can interact.

South Mumbai is an obvious danger zone. Cuffe Parade, Nariman Point, Mantralaya, Colaba, parts of Marine Drive, Girgaon, Breach Candy, Haji Ali and Worli have repeatedly figured in assessments and warnings. A 2023 RMSI analysis identified several vulnerable locations, including areas around the Mithi River, parts of Colaba, Haji Ali, coastal stretches of Worli and settlements around Mahim Fort. It also identified risks around the airport and the Jawaharlal Nehru Port Trust area.

The vulnerability extends well beyond the postcard image of South Mumbai. Much of Mumbai's core and parts of its suburbs stand on reclaimed or very low-lying land. Research has pointed to the Bandra Kurla Complex, the airport and Worli as examples of major built-up areas located on reclaimed land and therefore exposed to high tides and storm surges. Dharavi too is particularly vulnerable because of its low-lying location and its proximity to the Mithi River and drainage channels.

The western coastal belt and the creek systems on the eastern side deserve equal attention. Low-lying areas around Malvani, Bhayander and the western suburbs have been identified as particularly susceptible to tidal flooding, while the Mithi, Mahim and other waterways can become conduits through which tidal water moves inland. The eastern suburbs face their own vulnerabilities around creeks, salt pans and low-lying terrain.

This is why the phrase "Mumbai will be submerged" can be misleading. Mumbai is not one uniform geographical entity. Its elevation varies, its coastline is irregular and its drainage systems are different from one locality to another. One neighbourhood may face regular tidal flooding while another may remain relatively safe. Some areas may experience temporary inundation during extreme events decades before they face any possibility of permanent inundation.

The year 2050 has acquired an almost ominous significance in discussions about Mumbai. But 2050 should be understood as a planning horizon, not a date stamped on a calendar when the sea is expected to arrive.

Climate models work with scenarios. Their projections depend on future emissions, ocean behaviour, ice-sheet dynamics, land movement and local geography. They therefore cannot tell us that a particular building will be underwater on a particular date. What they can tell us is that the probability and severity of coastal flooding will increase as sea levels rise.

The scientific evidence is already strong enough to act on. A 2025 study of major Indian coastal cities found Mumbai and Kolkata among the cities facing the highest future coastal flooding risks, particularly under higher-emissions scenarios. The study's modelling also showed that lower-emissions scenarios reduce, but do not eliminate, the threat.

There is consequently no justification for waiting until the threat becomes visually dramatic. By the time the sea regularly reaches homes, roads and electrical installations, adaptation will be considerably more expensive.

If Mumbai is a city built intimately around the Arabian Sea, Kolkata's vulnerability is inseparable from the Hooghly, the Bay of Bengal and the wider Ganga delta system.

The UN has placed Mumbai and Kolkata in the same category of concern, but their physical vulnerabilities are not identical. Kolkata is a low-lying delta city and is affected not only by rising sea levels but also by land subsidence, river flooding, storm surges and the loss of wetlands that historically absorbed excess water.

Research using satellite observations has found significant land subsidence in parts of Kolkata. Between 2003 and 2011, parts of eastern Kolkata experienced subsidence of roughly 4 to 12 mm a year, while newer subsidence zones emerged west of the Hooghly between 2017 and 2021. Excessive groundwater extraction is one of the factors associated with this sinking.

That makes the arithmetic particularly worrying. If the sea rises while the land sinks, the effective rise relative to the ground can be greater than the rise of the sea alone.

Kolkata's eastern and south-eastern fringes are particularly important because of their relationship with the East Kolkata Wetlands. Recent research has found that the wetlands have shrunk dramatically over the past three decades, while another study of flooding between 2016 and 2023 found south-eastern Kolkata, including the East Kolkata Wetlands and adjacent rapidly urbanising areas, to have the highest flood hazard. The study also concluded that land-use change and wetland loss can have a stronger influence on flood levels than elevation alone.

Kolkata's vulnerability is therefore also a story about what happens when a city gradually destroys the very ecological systems that once protected it.

It would be tempting to blame everything on global warming and leave it there. That would be convenient, but incomplete.

Climate change is the great multiplier. It raises the baseline sea level, warms the oceans and can intensify extreme weather. But cities determine how badly those changes affect their populations.

Mumbai's concretisation has reduced natural spaces through which water can be absorbed. Wetlands and mangroves have been degraded. Drainage channels have been narrowed or encroached upon. Reclamation has altered the relationship between land and sea. Kolkata has experienced wetland loss, urban expansion and groundwater-related subsidence.

The UN itself emphasises that sea-level rise is not simply an environmental problem. It threatens housing, drinking water, sanitation, health, infrastructure, livelihoods and economic stability.

The poorer sections of the population are likely to suffer first and most severely. A wealthy household may be able to move to a higher floor, reinforce a building, insure property or eventually relocate. A fishing community, slum dweller, street vendor or low-income household living close to a creek has considerably fewer options.

That is why the issue should not be reduced to a debate about whether Mumbai's luxury towers will be submerged. The real question is whether the city's poorest and most vulnerable citizens will be repeatedly displaced by floods long before the city's skyline is visibly threatened.

The first requirement is to stop treating climate adaptation as an occasional project. It has to become part of every major urban decision.

Mumbai needs a detailed ward-by-ward coastal risk map that is continuously updated rather than produced once every few years. The map must combine sea-level projections with tides, rainfall, storm surges, drainage capacity, land subsidence, land elevation and population vulnerability. Every major infrastructure project should then be tested against those projections.

The second requirement is to protect natural defences. Mangroves, wetlands, mudflats, salt pans and floodplains are not vacant land waiting to be developed. They are part of Mumbai's flood-control infrastructure. The same principle applies to Kolkata's East Kolkata Wetlands and the wider deltaic ecosystem.

Third, drainage must be treated as climate infrastructure rather than merely municipal housekeeping. Drains, pumping stations, stormwater channels and outfalls have to be designed for the rainfall and tidal conditions that cities are likely to experience in the future, not those they experienced decades ago.

Fourth, development permissions in vulnerable areas need to become much more stringent. It makes little sense for one arm of government to warn that a locality is at risk from inundation while another arm continues to encourage intensive construction there without adequate adaptation measures.

Mumbai also needs to ask whether every piece of coastal reclamation is compatible with the city's long-term survival. Infrastructure that solves a transport problem today but increases flood vulnerability tomorrow cannot be called successful development.

Kolkata faces an equally urgent task of protecting wetlands, regulating groundwater extraction, restoring drainage channels and ensuring that urban expansion does not eliminate the natural spaces that absorb floodwater.

The responsibility cannot be pushed entirely on to the BMC or the Kolkata Municipal Corporation. Municipal bodies are the first line of defence, but they do not control everything that determines coastal vulnerability.

The Maharashtra and West Bengal governments have crucial responsibilities in land-use regulation, coastal management, infrastructure and disaster preparedness. The Union government has a role in climate finance, scientific monitoring, coastal regulation and long-term adaptation policy. Metropolitan development authorities, ports, infrastructure agencies and planning bodies must also be brought into one integrated framework.

And there is a larger responsibility that belongs to all levels of government. Climate warnings cannot be treated as news events that generate anxiety for a few days and disappear from public discussion.

The BMC's new study should therefore not end as another report on a shelf. It should become the basis for a legally backed coastal resilience programme, with deadlines, funding, accountability and public disclosure. Kolkata needs an equivalent seriousness.

The UN warning should not frighten Mumbai and Kolkata into paralysis. It should frighten them out of complacency.

Neither city is going to vanish beneath the sea tomorrow. Nor does the UN report say that. What it says is considerably more important: sea-level rise is already happening, it is accelerating, and cities such as Mumbai and Kolkata are particularly exposed because geography, urbanisation and land subsidence magnify the consequences.

The rest of India's coastline faces varying degrees of risk too. Chennai, Kochi, Surat, Visakhapatnam, Mangaluru and other coastal cities are exposed to combinations of sea-level rise, storm surges, erosion and extreme rainfall. A recent comparative study of Indian coastal cities found Mumbai and Kolkata among the highest-risk cities, although the nature and intensity of vulnerability differ from place to place.

For Mumbai and Kolkata, however, the warning has a special resonance. Both cities have already received versions of it before. Mumbai has had its climate action plan. Kolkata has had studies on flooding, subsidence and wetlands. Scientists have repeatedly explained the danger. The evidence has accumulated.

What is required now is to move from prediction to preparation. The sea does not negotiate with municipal boundaries, political terms or development timetables. It advances in millimetres, almost imperceptibly, while cities advance in concrete and steel. The tragedy would not be that Mumbai and Kolkata were warned too late. The greater tragedy would be that they were warned early enough and still chose to wait.

Of “instant” heroes like Abhijeet Dipke and Vidyanand Bapat

Raju Korti
India appears to have discovered a new species of public figure: the instant hero. He arrives suddenly, usually through social media, carrying a lofty cause, a vocabulary of indignation and, more often than not, an army of followers who have decided within 48 hours that they have found the messiah they had been waiting for. The same public, with equal efficiency, reverses the verdict a week later and converts the messiah into a fraud, an agent, a political plant or, in particularly imaginative circumstances, all three.

We are living in the age of instant everything. Instant coffee, instant noodles, instant opinions, instant outrage and now instant reputations. There is little appetite left for the tiresome business of investigation, comprehension, context and rationalisation. Why examine a person when a three-minute video will do? Why read a manifesto when a viral clip can provide a conclusion? Why wait for facts when an algorithm has already supplied an opinion?

Abhijeet Dipke

The phenomenon is worth examining because two young men, Abhijeet Dipke of the Cockroach Janta Party and Pune's Vidyanand Bapat, have recently found themselves propelled into public consciousness with remarkable speed, albeit through very different causes. Their individual motives, political affiliations and future ambitions deserve to be judged on evidence, not rumour. But the larger phenomenon surrounding them is unmistakable. A cause acquires a face, the face acquires followers, the followers create a hero, and before anybody has had the time to ask inconvenient questions, the hero has acquired a political biography.

Dipke's rise is particularly instructive. The Cockroach Janta Party began as an irreverent response to the controversial "cockroach" remark and subsequently became associated with the student movement around education and examination-related issues. It acquired extraordinary visibility among young people and Dipke emerged as its most recognisable face. The organisation has since developed an identifiable structure, with Dipke being named national convenor.

There was, on the face of it, nothing wrong with the cause. In fact, causes concerning students, competitive examinations and the credibility of India's education system deserve serious public attention. The problem begins when a movement's moral capital becomes indistinguishable from the political capital of its organisers.

That is precisely where Sonam Wangchuk's recent observation becomes significant. Wangchuk, who had supported the student movement, has now said that he believes Dipke and his fellow organisers do have political ambitions. Importantly, he did not suggest that having such ambitions was inherently wrong. His point was that political ambition is perfectly legitimate, provided a supposedly non-political movement is not covertly converted into a vehicle for somebody's political agenda.

That distinction is crucial. There is nothing dishonourable about wanting to enter politics. Politics is not a contagious disease from which public activists must maintain quarantine. If a young man wants to become an MLA, MP, minister or even Prime Minister, he should say so. What is questionable is the theatrical pretence that politics has nothing to do with the enterprise when politics may eventually be its destination.

Vidyanand Bapat

Pune has produced another fascinating example of how quickly a cause can manufacture celebrity. Vidyanand Bapat's campaign against excessive DJ noise during public festivities, particularly during Ganeshotsav, struck a chord with many citizens tired of having their ears subjected to what can sometimes sound less like devotional music and more like an assault on the decibel meter. His invocation of Sanskrit texts, constitutional principles and social reform gave the campaign an intellectual wrapping. There is nothing inherently objectionable in the argument itself. Indeed, the larger issue of noise pollution deserves a rational and uniform policy, irrespective of which religion, festival or political gathering produces the noise. Recent protests in Pune have shown that the concern extends well beyond one festival or one community.

But here too the public conversation soon moved away from the issue and towards the man. Questions about his background, employment, ideology and political associations began to dominate the discussion. That is the moment when the cause starts losing its innocence. It is also the moment when the public ought to become more discerning, not more hysterical.

There is, after all, absolutely nothing wrong with being a BPO employee. There is nothing wrong with being an atheist. There is nothing wrong with being on the Left, the Right or somewhere in the political middle. Nor is there anything wrong with having political ambitions. What is objectionable is concealment when transparency would have been simpler. A citizen has every right to know whether he is listening to an activist speaking for a cause or a future politician speaking through a cause.

This is where instant deification becomes dangerous. Deification is merely condemnation's more flattering cousin. Both suffer from the same intellectual disease: premature conclusion. We do not really examine people anymore. We either worship them or demolish them. The middle ground, where judgement resides, has become distinctly unfashionable.

The internet has made this worse. Social media does not reward nuance. It rewards certainty. The person who says, "Let us examine the evidence" rarely goes viral. The person who says, "I have exposed the truth" does. A complicated argument requires attention; outrage requires only a thumb. And so an individual can become a national phenomenon before the country has had the opportunity to discover whether he is a serious public figure, an energetic activist, a political aspirant or merely a particularly gifted user of social media.

The danger for the supposed hero is equally considerable. Instant fame creates an expectation of instant perfection. The public that crowns you today can crucify you tomorrow for discovering that you are human. We have created a culture in which public figures are expected to be saints until proven political, and villains until proven innocent. Both expectations are absurd.

The mythology surrounding new political formations is especially revealing. Every generation believes it has invented political purity. Young faces, fresh slogans, new acronyms and impressive mission statements are presented as evidence of a new politics. But politics has an irritating habit of remaining politics. Change the bottle, redesign the label, introduce Gen Z and add a fashionable logo, but the contents can remain remarkably familiar. Old political wine has survived many modern plastic bottles.

This is not an argument against young political leaders. Quite the contrary. India desperately needs young people to enter public life. It needs activists who can challenge established political parties, bureaucracies and institutions. It needs citizens who are prepared to question authority. But it needs them to enter the arena honestly. A political ambition declared openly is far more respectable than a political ambition concealed behind a halo.

The same principle applies to established political parties. The temptation to manufacture or appropriate spontaneous movements is hardly confined to one ideological camp. The BJP, Congress, AAP, Shiv Sena, MNS and virtually every other political formation have understood the enormous value of associating themselves with movements that already possess emotional energy. Why build a constituency from scratch when somebody else has already built one for you?

But the public is not quite as naive as political strategists imagine. It may be slow, but it is not permanently stupid. Sooner or later the question emerges: who benefits? Who funds? Who organises? Who stands behind the curtain? And most importantly, where does the movement go when the original cause has exhausted its news value?

That is the real test of instant movements. If the cause survives after the celebrity disappears, it was probably a genuine cause. If the cause begins disappearing the moment the individual starts acquiring political prominence, the public is entitled to ask whether the cause was ever the destination or merely the vehicle.

There is also a lesson here for the media. We have become enthusiastic manufacturers of heroes. Television studios need faces, digital platforms need clicks and newspapers need headlines. The young activist with a memorable line is infinitely more marketable than the anonymous citizen who has spent ten years working quietly on the same issue. Serious causes are therefore increasingly personalised. The issue becomes secondary; the influencer becomes primary.

And therein lies the irony. We complain about personality cults in politics while creating miniature personality cults every day on social media.

Perhaps the wiser response is neither adulation nor condemnation. It is patience. Let the cause be tested. Let the individual be questioned. Let political affiliations be declared. Let the record accumulate. Let time do what virality cannot do: reveal character.

Dipke may eventually become a politician. Bapat may or may not. Either would be perfectly legitimate. What matters is that neither should need to pretend otherwise if that is indeed where the road leads. Politics is not a crime. Ambition is not a crime. Ideology is not a crime. But disguising politics as pure activism, if that is what happens, is precisely what invites suspicion.

India's political landscape is changing, and the young will inevitably occupy more of it. That is welcome. But the country does not need instant heroes. It needs durable leaders. The distinction is enormous. An instant hero is produced by a moment. A leader is tested by time.

The age of instant fame has taught us to press the accelerator before starting the engine. We discover somebody on Monday, adore him on Tuesday, defend him on Wednesday, suspect him on Thursday and denounce him by Friday. By the weekend, another hero has arrived.

Perhaps the only sensible response is to slow down. Before putting anybody on a pedestal, ask who built the pedestal. Before tearing it down, ask why. And before assuming that a lofty cause has no political destination, remember the oldest rule of politics: the most important part of the journey is often the destination nobody wants to talk about.

The Indus Waters Treaty: What Comes After the Hague?

Raju Korti
For 65 years, the Indus Waters Treaty survived what diplomacy between India and Pakistan could not. Wars, terrorism, political upheavals and repeated crises failed to dislodge an agreement signed in 1960 under the auspices of the World Bank. Yet the treaty is now suspended by India, challenged by Pakistan and, following the latest ruling from The Hague, caught in an extraordinary legal and diplomatic limbo. The Permanent Court of Arbitration has ruled that the treaty remains binding and that India cannot unilaterally place it in abeyance. India, however, has rejected the ruling, maintaining that the court has no jurisdiction and that its decision to keep the treaty in abeyance remains firmly in force.

The background is well known. Following the Pahalgam terror attack of April 2025, in which 26 people were killed, India announced that the Indus Waters Treaty would remain in abeyance until Pakistan credibly and irrevocably ended its support for cross-border terrorism. The decision represented a fundamental departure from India's traditionally cautious handling of the treaty. The agreement had given India the principal rights over the eastern rivers, Ravi, Beas and Sutlej, while Pakistan received the larger share of the western rivers, Indus, Jhelum and Chenab, subject to specified Indian uses, particularly for hydropower.

The Hague ruling has now complicated an already difficult situation. The Court of Arbitration concluded that the treaty does not provide for unilateral suspension or termination by either country and directed India to continue observing its obligations. It also imposed interim restrictions on certain construction at the Ratle hydro-electric project in Jammu and Kashmir, pending consideration by the treaty's separate neutral-expert mechanism. India has rejected the award in its entirety, describing the arbitration body as illegally constituted and reiterating that it has never recognised its jurisdiction.

Indus Waters (File grab) 

Pakistan, predictably, has welcomed the ruling. Islamabad sees it as an affirmation of its contention that India cannot use the treaty as an instrument of political pressure and cannot unilaterally alter the established water-sharing arrangement. Significantly, however, Pakistan has also indicated that it is studying the decision and considering how it might help create a pathway back to engagement under the treaty. That phrase may ultimately prove more important than the celebratory rhetoric surrounding the verdict.

For neither country does the present impasse offer a satisfactory long-term solution. India cannot reasonably be expected to accept a judicial mechanism whose jurisdiction it disputes, particularly when it believes Pakistan has exploited the treaty's dispute-resolution machinery to delay or complicate Indian hydroelectric projects. Pakistan, equally, cannot afford to treat the Indus system merely as another arena of confrontation. Around four-fifths of its agricultural land depends on the river system, while its food security, power generation and drinking-water requirements are deeply intertwined with it. Water is therefore not simply an economic issue for Pakistan. It is an existential one.

What, then, happens next? The answer is unlikely to emerge from another courtroom. The more plausible route is a return, however reluctant, to direct diplomacy. The two countries will eventually have to distinguish between the legal dispute over the treaty and the practical necessity of managing rivers that do not recognise political frontiers. A functioning dialogue on reservoir operations, hydrological data, flood management, hydropower projects and future storage capacity would serve both sides better than an endless succession of competing legal proceedings.

India has acquired considerable strategic leverage by placing the treaty in abeyance, but leverage is most useful when it produces an outcome. Its objective cannot simply be to demonstrate that it possesses the capacity to alter the status quo. The larger objective would be to secure a new understanding in which India's legitimate developmental and strategic requirements are acknowledged while Pakistan receives credible assurances about downstream water flows. Such an arrangement could involve revisiting outdated technical provisions, strengthening data-sharing mechanisms and creating a more contemporary dispute-resolution framework.

Pakistan, for its part, will have to recognise that the old assumption of an immutable treaty operating independently of the broader India-Pakistan relationship has become untenable. Islamabad cannot expect the water relationship to remain insulated indefinitely from terrorism, security concerns and the larger deterioration in bilateral relations. If it wants the treaty restored, it may eventually have to address the political conditions India has attached to its suspension.

The World Bank, meanwhile, is unlikely to be able to impose a solution. Its role was instrumental in facilitating the original treaty, but the present crisis is fundamentally political. The parallel mechanisms involving the Court of Arbitration and the neutral expert have themselves become part of the dispute. The Hague ruling may establish one legal interpretation, but it cannot compel India to accept a jurisdiction it does not recognise.

The ultimate irony is that both countries have a powerful reason to negotiate. India may possess the advantage of being the upper riparian, but it cannot manufacture water at will, nor can it escape the ecological and humanitarian consequences of a destabilised Indus basin. Pakistan may be the more water-dependent country, but its best protection lies not in international declarations alone, but in a workable relationship with the country upstream.

The Indus Waters Treaty may therefore be entering not its final chapter, but a period of renegotiation in everything but name. India is unlikely simply to return to the old status quo, while Pakistan cannot permanently live with an arrangement in abeyance. Somewhere between these two uncompromising positions lies the only sustainable answer. The Hague may have delivered a ruling, but the real verdict will ultimately be delivered across the negotiating table. And that is where India and Pakistan must eventually meet.