Time to say adieu to Gambhir’s experiments!

Raju Korti
Gautam Gambhir’s stint as the head coach of the Indian cricket team has turned into a troubling case study of how poor strategy, erratic decision making and muddled communication can derail an inherited cricketing powerhouse. His politics has nothing to do with this evaluation. The failures stand on their own. What makes the situation alarming is the consistency of those failures across Tests, selections, role definitions, dressing room atmosphere and public communication. The pattern is unmistakable and the conclusion is unavoidable. Gambhir has not succeeded as India’s coach and the time has come to consider a change.

His record as coach is the most straightforward indictment. India under Gambhir won only three Tests, lost eight and drew one. That is roughly a one in three success rate. For a team that has built a reputation as a dominant Test side for over a decade, this slide is startling. The 3–0 whitewash at home against New Zealand in 2024 was unprecedented. India had not lost a home Test series for twelve years and they did not merely lose this one but were comprehensively outplayed. The pattern continued with a 3–1 defeat in Australia, prompting Sunil Gavaskar to publicly question the purpose of having a coaching staff when the basics of preparation and reading conditions seem consistently wrong. The decline has now deepened with the series loss to South Africa after the defeat in the second Test, a result that further underlines how far the team has fallen under his stewardship. These losses were not unfortunate. They were built on flawed planning, indecisive selections and players entering matches without clarity or confidence.

One of the most destabilising aspects of Gambhir’s tenure has been his restless experimentation. His frequent tinkering with the batting order has unsettled players instead of empowering them. Sanju Samson, for instance, has been made to oscillate between opening and batting as low as number eight, a shift that would unsettle even the most seasoned cricketer. Shreyas Iyer, despite a strong record, has been ignored, while Harshit Rana, associated with Gambhir from their KKR days, has repeatedly been preferred ahead of more deserving and experienced bowlers. Shubman Gill’s elevation across formats, including Tests and T20s, has also raised doubts about whether personal preferences are outweighing merit. And I am not even speaking about Rohit Sharma and Virat Kohli. This sense of unpredictability has created an atmosphere where players are unsure of their role, position or security, a stark contrast to the stable environments created by earlier coaches.

The recent Test against South Africa at Eden Gardens provided a telling example of how Gambhir’s decision making repeatedly backfires. The pitch became the subject of national ridicule after Sourav Ganguly revealed it had not been watered for four days. It was totally unfit for a proper Test match. India fell while chasing a target of only 124. Instead of acknowledging the poor call, Gambhir insisted there were no demons in the pitch and that the team could have easily chased down 124. That defence was not just specious. It was unconvincing and tone deaf. The team had gone in with four spinners, including Washington Sundar, who barely received any overs. The planning was confused. The execution was worse. The outcome was a collapse of their own making.

Adding to the technical failures is Gambhir’s temperament and communication, which have not helped create a cohesive dressing room. He appears withdrawn and humourless and rarely projects the warmth or assurance that helps players handle pressure. Many find him unapproachable and stiff. Younger aspirants like Sarfaraz Ahmed must wonder what more they need to do to break into the eleven. Even in public communication, he often appears defensive or combative rather than introspective. His tendency to dismiss criticism outright, whether regarding the New Zealand whitewash or the Harshit Rana selection debate, further isolates him from stakeholders. It is telling that former influential players including Gavaskar, Srikkanth and even R Ashwin have voiced concerns over his methods. Such criticism from seasoned names rarely emerges unless the rot is deep.

Gambhir also compares poorly with his predecessors. Rahul Dravid offered calm, clarity and a clear developmental arc for players. Ravi Shastri provided authority, tactical firmness and man management. Gary Kirsten brought emotional intelligence, structure and the ability to build a united team environment. Gambhir, by contrast, has neither the stability nor the vision that these roles demand. To be fair, he remains a man of great passion and strong will and his support for young players and India’s 2025 Champions Trophy triumph stand out as positive notes in an otherwise uneven tenure. Yet these are exceptions, not the blueprint.

Indian cricket thrives on structure, confidence and long-term planning. Gambhir has introduced uncertainty, inconsistency and fragmentation. The team often looks unsure of itself, its selections, its hierarchy and its tactical direction. That is the direct result of a coach who has failed to provide clarity, cohesion or conviction. The evidence has piled up long enough. It is clear that India needs new leadership, someone who can restore stability, inspire trust and bring sharp cricketing judgment to the job. Gambhir’s continued presence in the role risks further decline at a time when Indian cricket stands at a critical juncture. The team deserves better. The time for change is now.

Decoding the whimsical nature of India’s cyclones!

Raju Korti
As someone who evinces keen interest in Climate Physics, cyclones hold an abiding interest for me as a way to understand how oceans quietly script the fate of nations and the more I observe the recent churn in the Bay of Bengal and Arabian Sea, the more I realise that India is living through a climatic inflection point that is both scientifically fascinating and deeply unsettling because cyclones are no longer following the seasonal discipline we once took for granted. Since the early onset of the monsoon in the second half of May 2025, the number of cyclonic disturbances has risen sharply and almost rhythmically, beginning with Depression ARB 01 and Deep Depression BOB 01 in May, continuing through Deep Depression BOB 07 and Depression ARB 03 in October, and culminating in intense and damaging systems like Cyclone Shakti, Cyclone Montha and now the expected Cyclone Senyar around November 26. What is striking is not merely their frequency but the time window in which they are forming because cyclones typically prefer predictable seasons whereas this new behaviour is a climate signal that cannot be ignored.

(Pic representational)

The Bay of Bengal has always been India’s cyclone factory owing to its warm surface waters, abundant moisture, and favourable atmospheric structure. Between 1990 and 2020 it recorded 190 cyclones compared to the Arabian Sea’s 73, but what has changed is the velocity and intensity of this engine. Warmer waters are the raw fuel for cyclogenesis and the Bay of Bengal is now consistently warm enough to trigger and sustain more frequent storms, which explains why Cyclone Montha could intensify rapidly before hitting Kakinada and why a low-pressure system over the Strait of Malacca is already primed to turn into another depression by November 24. What is even more telling is the Arabian Sea’s newfound restlessness because historically it remained cooler during most of the year, limiting cyclone formation, yet in the last two decades its cyclone frequency and intensity have gone up appreciably owing to human-induced climate change that is warming its upper ocean layers faster than expected.

This year’s early monsoon itself was a clue that the ocean-atmosphere machinery was behaving in overdrive because an active Madden Julian Oscillation, a positive Indian Ocean Dipole, and unusually strong cross-equatorial winds through the Somali Jet created a conveyor belt of moisture that pushed the monsoon ahead of schedule and simultaneously set the stage for more cyclonic spin-ups. When such background conditions persist, cyclones are no longer anomalies but expressions of a new normal that is deeply tied to global warming. In climate physics terms, every extra tenth of a degree in sea surface temperature increases the probability of a cyclonic system drawing enough latent heat to intensify quickly and unpredictably and this is exactly what India is experiencing. The grim reality is that once sea temperatures rise beyond a threshold, there is no known human intervention that can cool ocean surfaces on a regional scale because heat absorbed by the ocean is a global, not local, phenomenon and therefore part of the broader crisis of global warming that needs coordinated international mitigation.

Untimely cyclones wreak havoc on economies because they disrupt ports, power grids, transport networks and coastal industries and they strike hardest at the agricultural heartland which depends on predictable rain cycles. When storms like Shakti or Montha arrive in the wrong month, they flatten standing crops, ruin soil fertility through salinity intrusion and throw rural livelihoods into chaos. Each cyclone comes with an invisible economic signature in the form of damaged fisheries, lost workdays, reconstruction expenses, and insurance burdens. In the long run, a climate of frequent cyclones becomes a drag on GDP as governments are forced into perpetual relief and rehabilitation cycles while farmers grapple with the psychological toll of unpredictability.

Whether governments are alert to these disturbing shifts is a question that demands uncomfortable honesty. India’s meteorological systems are improving in tracking and forecasting but mitigation remains fragmented because true cyclone management means tackling the root cause, which is global warming. No coastal embankment can compensate for warmer oceans and no disaster management manual can keep up with a climate that is mutating faster than policy. What is required is not just national preparedness but a sustained global campaign to cut emissions, invest in renewable energy, restore coastal ecosystems and negotiate climate justice with more urgency because warming oceans do not recognise national borders and neither do cyclones.

The sudden proliferation of cyclones in 2025 is therefore not a coincidence but a climatic message written in the language of physics. It tells us the oceans are warmer, atmospheric rhythms are shifting and the boundaries of our old assumptions have dissolved. Cyclones were once seasonal events and are now year-round reminders that climate change is not a theory but a lived reality.

(NB: The picture is representational, since cyclones generally look and behave alike, differing only in their severity and the impact they leave behind. So there!)

In a world of strange viruses, survival Is the real marvel

Raju Korti
I have been thinking a great deal about the Washington case where an elderly resident became the first human to die of an H5N5 bird flu strain that had never before crossed into people. It is a chilling reminder of how easily the microscopic world can ambush us. The patient lived far from the bustle of Seattle, kept a backyard flock of domestic birds, and by all accounts had no reason to imagine that a virus unknown to medicine would slip silently from his poultry into his bloodstream. He arrived at the hospital with a blazing fever, confusion and laboured breathing. Tests revealed the strain had jumped from birds into him, but thankfully it has shown no inclination to spread among humans. His isolated tragedy is a stark illustration of how little we truly control in the biological universe that swirls around us.

When I first read a deeply researched Time Magazine piece on viruses sometime in the late seventies, immunology and virology were still finding their feet. Even then, scientists warned us that humanity lives on a razor’s edge, surrounded by a cosmos of invisible particles. Today we know the scale far better. Earth is home to an estimated ten nonillion virus particles. That is a number so absurdly large that it makes the stars in the universe look sparse. Fewer than seven thousand viruses have been studied in any meaningful detail and millions more continue to exist in forms we have not catalogued. The astonishing part is that most of these do not harm humans and never will. They float in the air we breathe, drift through oceans and soil, ride on insects and animals and even infect bacteria, yet our bodies repel their advances without us even knowing.

(Pic representational)

That, to me, is the real marvel. The human immune system is a fiercely intelligent protector that learns, adapts and remembers. It keeps guard from the moment we are born until the moment we die. Every second of our lives it is intercepting invaders, neutralising threats and outsmarting organisms that would overwhelm us if not for our internal vigilance. It is almost miraculous that we survive at all in an atmosphere saturated with viruses that exist only to replicate. Their behaviour is strange. They have no cellular structure, no heartbeat, no metabolism. They are obligate parasites that do nothing until they enter a host cell. Once inside they hijack the cell’s machinery, forcing it to produce viral copies instead of doing its usual work. Some viruses behave so cleverly that they seem to bend the rules of life itself. There are giant viruses whose genomes are so complex that they mimic cellular organisms. Others display behaviours that almost feel sentient, as if they network with fellow viruses or borrow protective coats from other viruses to survive. It is a world that sits right at the edge of what we define as living.

Every now and then one of these organisms mutates or leaps across species and reminds us how vulnerable we are. The recent resurgence of chikungunya in several countries is one such reminder. Anyone who has experienced it knows the misery of its joint pains and fever. There is no cure and the fever eventually ebbs, but the pain can linger stubbornly and make even daily chores a challenge. Viral illnesses are mostly like this. A small number can be cured, but most are managed. The Hepatitis C virus is a rare triumph because modern antivirals can eliminate it in more than ninety five percent of cases. Ebola too can be cleared fully with specific treatments. But chronic infections like HIV and Hepatitis B can only be held in check. Antibiotics are useless because they work on bacteria, not viruses. For most viral diseases we treat the symptoms and wait for the body’s defences to push the invader out.

When scientists warn us about the unpredictability of bird flu strains like H5N5, they are really reminding us of the delicate interaction between humanity and the viral world. From what I can gather, viruses shape evolution. They alter genes. They influence ecosystems. A world without viruses would collapse because they keep entire biological cycles functioning. They infect plants, animals, fungi and even bacteria. They are a necessary evil in the grand design of life. Total victory over them is neither possible nor desirable. The real achievement is our ability to coexist with them without being destroyed.

As I reflect on the Washington case, I realise that fear should not be the dominant emotion. Awareness is essential, vigilance matters, and responding with science instead of panic is what keeps us safe. The miracle is not that there are outbreaks. The miracle is that outbreaks are so rare when the world is saturated with trillions upon trillions of viral particles. Our survival is a quiet daily triumph of biology over chaos. Viruses were here long before us and will be here long after us, yet we continue to flourish in a world teeming with them. In the end, coexistence is the only equilibrium nature offers and the one we must continue to respect.

The leopard question: Crisis or overreach?

Raju Korti
I write this as someone who has been a wildlife enthusiast from very early in life and who lives tantalisingly close to the Sanjay Gandhi National Park in Mumbai, a region where leopards routinely stray into human spaces. During the COVID period one leopard slipped into our residential complex in the dead of night and on another occasion two cubs were spotted very close to the SGNP fringes, indicating the continued presence of an adult pair and reminding us that this is a living, overlapping habitat where the boundaries between human and wild are porous. Against this lived reality, Maharashtra Chief Minister Devendra Fadnavis recently directed officials to declare leopard attacks on humans as a state disaster and prepare a proposal for the next cabinet meeting that seeks to remove leopards from Schedule I and reclassify them under Schedule II so that officials have greater flexibility in dealing with confirmed man-eaters.

The announcement came after a high-level meeting attended by Deputy Chief Ministers Eknath Shinde and Ajit Pawar, Forest Minister Ganesh Naik and senior officials in the wake of rising leopard attacks, especially in Pune district’s Shirur tehsil under the Junnar forest division where three persons were killed in just over a month, triggering public outrage and even arson in which a forest department vehicle was torched. A man-eating leopard in this very tehsil was ultimately shot dead by sharpshooters in early November after repeated attempts to capture it failed.

(Pic representational)

The state has responded with a mix of immediate and structural directions: deploying cages in vulnerable areas, using drones to track leopards near villages and urban settlements, increasing patrols by police and forest personnel, expanding rescue teams and vehicles, enhancing the capacity of existing rescue centres like Gorewada in Nagpur, setting up two new rescue centres in Pune district within the next two to three months, and securing the Centre’s permission to sterilise man-eating leopards. District planning committees have been asked to fund cages, manpower and vehicles to intensify capture operations. These measures reflect the administration’s argument that Schedule I protection often creates operational challenges, particularly when officials have to deal with repeat offenders. The government says reclassification under Schedule II will streamline permissions and enable swift action, including sedation, capture, sterilisation or controlled removal of confirmed man-eaters.

The broader context makes the debate more urgent and more complicated. Maharashtra is home to one of the largest leopard populations in the country, with national and state estimates placing the number in the approximate range of 1,600 to 2,000 individuals depending on survey year and method. Yet an RTI-based report recently revealed that between January 2022 and September 2025, some 537 leopards died in the state from causes including road accidents, electrocution and poaching. At the same time localised attacks like those in Shirur overwhelm the administrative capacity of field officers and lead to sudden law-and-order flashpoints that the state struggles to contain.

As a Disaster Management Consultant, I feel that whether these incidents justify classifying leopard attacks as a “state disaster” demands a careful reading of disaster law. The Disaster Management Act allows states to notify calamities to unlock funds and coordinate responses, but typically disasters are large-scale events such as floods, earthquakes, tsunamis, radiation leaks or cyclones that exceed the coping capacity of local authorities.

Leopard attacks, although serious and tragic, are spatially concentrated and usually addressed through wildlife and forest management mechanisms. Declaring a state-wide disaster invites criticism as an administrative overreach unless supported by clearly documented evidence that the frequency, spatial spread and socio-economic consequences of attacks have grown beyond local handling. For a few tehsils where fatalities cluster, the “disaster” logic may hold; for a whole state it requires careful justification so that precedent does not dilute the very meaning of disaster classification.

Reclassifying leopards from Schedule I to Schedule II is an even more sensitive proposal. Schedule I confers the highest protection under the Wildlife (Protection) Act, imposing stringent penalties and permitting intervention only under narrow, well-regulated circumstances. Moving to Schedule II relaxes these constraints and allows more administrative discretion for capture, handling and lethal control. The state argues this is essential for quick and decisive action in conflict zones. The conservation community worries that the shift weakens deterrence against poaching, emboldens illegal killings and creates a permissive environment where the line between a confirmed man-eater and a merely sighted leopard becomes dangerously thin. The Shirur case, where a leopard was shot dead by sharpshooters, illustrates the slippery slope: when pressure mounts, lethal force becomes the path of least resistance.

Understanding why leopards enter human spaces is crucial to assessing the wisdom of such policy shifts. The primary drivers are habitat loss, fragmentation and decline in natural prey, all of which compel leopards to seek food near human habitation. In many landscapes, the prey base within forests is depleted due to habitat degradation and human pressure while stray dogs, cats, calves and goats near villages and city fringes provide easy pickings. Some leopards are old or injured and no longer capable of hunting wild prey; others become habituated to scavenging near human settlements, and in rare but documented cases, access to human corpses in cremation grounds or desolate areas can initiate dangerous behavioural changes. These ecological stresses, coupled with human encroachment into forested land and expansion of urban infrastructure, mean that leopards are often not invading human spaces but navigating a shrinking habitat mosaic in which humans have already advanced deep into their former ranges.

The contradiction at the heart of the government’s approach becomes clear here. On one hand it plans to ease legal protection, making removal easier; on the other hand, it promises to rehabilitate, treat and house leopards in newly constructed centres. Rehabilitation relies on strong legal safeguards because without them, capture can quickly slide into disappearance, and treatment into mere holding before euthanasia or unofficial disposal. If protections are diluted, the incentive to invest in long-term rehabilitation diminishes and the risk of leopards being killed under vague justifications rises. Poaching, already a documented threat, could exploit the relaxed schedule to mask illegal trade and killings under the guise of conflict control. This risk grows in landscapes already stressed by reported leopard mortality in the hundreds over just a few years.

The way forward lies not in blunt reclassification but in calibrated, evidence-led policy. Immediate measures such as cages, drones, increased patrolling and rapid-response teams are necessary to protect human lives and calm public anger. Long-term solutions must focus on habitat restoration, prey-base strengthening, secure wildlife corridors, strict action on encroachments, transparent protocols for defining and handling man-eaters, improved training of forest staff, rapid compensation for livestock loss, and community involvement in coexistence strategies. Scientific monitoring through camera traps, telemetry and GIS mapping should guide interventions. If any legal reclassification is pursued, it should be narrow, time-bound and limited to specific circumstances with independent oversight to prevent misuse.

Human safety is non-negotiable but conservation cannot be an afterthought. Treating leopard attacks as a “state disaster” and lowering their protection may produce short-term administrative convenience but could, if not tightly regulated, erode long-term ecological stability and legal safeguards. The real challenge is ensuring that compassion, science and law work together rather than at cross-purposes. Maharashtra’s response must rise to this complexity rather than simplify it, for if we reduce the debate to an administrative binary, both people and leopards will remain trapped in a cycle of conflict that neither emergency declarations nor legal downgrades can solve.

No EMI, No GST, just bliss: The joy of daydreaming

Raju Korti
I confess, with no remorse whatsoever, that my favourite entertainment involves neither OTT platforms nor blockbuster movies nor five-star vacations. I simply lean back and… drift. Yes, daydreaming. The finest pastime ever invented, and the best part is it costs nothing, not even small change from the pocket of your kurta. There are no rules, no regulations, no committees hovering over your imagination with red files. In this private universe of mine, the mind has a free run like a child in an empty maidan, picking characters, locations, conversations and rewards at will. These are dreams without the inconvenience of sleeping. And unlike my waking life, no one cross-questions my motives. My daydreams remain my closely guarded secrets, a kind of agreeable split personality that stays blissfully distant from the jarring cacophony outside.

Science, in its earnest way, is still debating how mind-wandering works. Theories come and theories go, but frankly, I daydream too happily to worry about their technicalities. Freud, with all his seriousness, believed daydreaming was the polite version of suppressed instincts, made more lucid by a “secondary revision.” Others say it’s a liminal state, standing halfway between logic and lullaby. To me, the heartening truth is simpler: the mind is not idle even when the world thinks it is. During these wanderings, we sift through memories, tinker with future goals, polish our psychological selves and still manage to keep one ear on the cooker whistle. It is multitasking of the most graceful kind.

Of course, even this delightful habit comes with disclaimers. Too much daydreaming and you may find yourself staring blankly at your laptop while the world assumes you are deciphering national budgets. It can become maladaptive if it starts interrupting daily life. And yes, escaping into fantasy may soothe you but it won’t fix your rising electricity bill or that colleague who specialises in stress distribution. Like all good things in India, from pickles to politics, moderation is key.

What truly excites me is that science now suggests wandering into comforting, playful thoughts lifts the mood and sparks creativity. If someone ever conducts brain-mapping on utopian daydreamers, I volunteer as a sample with unmentionable sections safely censored. Perhaps my own blogs are children of these mental excursions, though I won’t reveal the rest of the “benefits.” They might scandalise those who pretend they never daydream, the saints.

Let me share some of the harmless, uplifting scenes from my internal cinema: perfect weather, soulful vacations, politicians who are honest, officials with integrity, colleagues who are benign, neighbours who are helpful, and good Samaritans everywhere. Meals that are healthy, trains that are on time, medical treatment that is free, money that flows generously to the needy, recognition that arrives in heaps, and the humility to stay grounded while the world showers praise. A world where everything is hunky dory and no one steals your peace of mind. Now tell me, which multiplex offers this?

My two cents: daydreaming is a glorious escape, a personal amusement park where you can be king, wanderer, poet or philanthropist on the same day. It is a creative intermission, a mental vacation with you as architect, director and hero rolled into one. Enjoy it, indulge in it, but don’t let it hijack your schedule. After all, even fantasy tastes sweeter when savoured at the end of a long, honest day’s work.

When death becomes clickbait!

Raju Korti
I began the day reading that Dharmendra, the original macho man of Hindi cinema, had passed away. Within minutes, social media was flooded with “RIP” messages, mournful tributes, and pictures of him in his heyday. As I write this, Dharmendra thankfully remains alive, hopefully for many more years. Yet, a section of both social and mainstream media seems content to send him on a premature heavenly journey. No one really knows the truth, but that hardly matters in the viral economy of grief.

Parallelly, Jackie Chan too became a trending topic worldwide after Facebook lit up with news of his “tragic death.” A photo showing him on a hospital bed did the rounds, along with fake claims that his family had confirmed the news. It was all fabricated. Fans panicked, the media speculated, and for a few hours, the virtual world buried him alive.

What intrigues me is this perverse obsession with celebrity deaths. Why are people, especially those on social media who fancy themselves as journalists, so eager to write epitaphs before their time? Is it the thrill of “breaking news,” the hunger for attention, or the morbid delight that fame brings even in death? Many celebrities have died multiple times before they actually died. Lata Mangeshkar, Dilip Kumar, and Amitabh Bachchan have all been victims of such premature digital funerals.

The anatomy of a rumour is simple yet sinister. It feeds on fear, curiosity, and the herd mentality that governs our online interactions. It spreads through anxiety and thrives on our need to feel informed or relevant. Once unleashed, it mutates, gathering new details, false confirmations, and emotional hooks. Until it becomes indistinguishable from fact.

But rumours are not harmless chatter. They can wound reputations, distress families, and corrode public trust. When falsehoods are circulated about public institutions or leaders, they can even shake faith in governance and democracy itself. A society that thrives on fake information eventually forgets how to think critically.

India does have laws against rumour-mongering, Various sections of the Indian Penal Code, the Disaster Management Act, and the Information Technology Act prohibit spreading false information. Yet convictions remain few and far between. The lack of strict enforcement makes rumour-mongering seem like a trivial offence when in fact, it eats away at our moral fibre.

We all must die someday, but death should not become a matter of speculation and spectacle. Let us not make mortality a trending topic just because it fetches likes, clicks, and fleeting visibility. If we cannot honour life, the least we can do is respect death.

Facebook’s ‘Digital Royalty’: "Digital Creators" and their "followers"

Raju Korti
There was a time when Facebook was a cheerful adda for long-lost friends, old classmates, ex-colleagues, and that uncle who sends ‘Good Morning’ messages before sunrise. You could share photos, poke fun, disagree, even argue; and yet remain friends. The unwritten rule was simple: friendship meant affection, not algorithmic hierarchy.

But now, as I scroll through my feed, I realise that Facebook has been quietly colonised by a new tribe: the Digital Creators. These self-styled geniuses are convinced that everyone else exists only to “follow” them. Their profiles proudly declare, “1.8K followers, 123 following”. As if the fewer they follow, the more divine their existence.

My notifications keep telling me: “So-and-so has highlighted a post for you.” Really? Highlighted? As if it is some royal proclamation. And when I open the post, I find that I have been automatically demoted from friend to follower. In other words, a humble spectator whose sacred duty is to clap, like, and share.

(Pic representational)

Let me confess: I hate this word follower. It reeks of servitude. I joined Facebook to make friends, not to become part of some digital durbar. It is very rare that I send a friend request, yet, when I do, I find myself converted into a “follower”. A faceless minion expected to hang on to every selfie, quote, and “motivational” post my new monarch uploads.

Now, I am told that a digital creator is someone who “produces and distributes original, engaging, and valuable content.” Beautiful words, but quite meaningless when you look around. What exactly are they creating? Ninety percent of what passes for “original content” today is a recycled meme, a borrowed quote, or a dance reel set to someone else’s song. If this is creativity, then the world’s WhatsApp groups are full of creative geniuses.

And please, don’t tell me there was no creativity before the digital age. By that logic, the likes of Shakespeare, Tagore, R.K. Laxman and Sahir – to name a few -- must have been mere amateurs because they never monetized their content through reels. What unmitigated nonsense!

What irritates me even more is how these digital creators hardly ever acknowledge others’ posts. They live in a world of one-way admiration. You comment on their post, and silence follows. The royal silence of someone too elevated to notice the commoners. Yet their “followers” dutifully shower likes and emojis as though attending a daily darshan.

To me, friendship is about equality. I don’t want to lead, and I certainly don’t want to follow. I want to connect. Genuinely, without hashtags or hierarchies.

If this obsession with followers continues, perhaps Mr. Zuckerberg should consider rebranding Facebook altogether. Maybe call it Followbook or Feudalbook. At least then we’ll know where we stand, kneeling at the feet of “digital creators,” proudly part of an utterly stupid algorithm.

Some might take offence to this post. That’s fine. After all, Facebook still asks me, “What’s on your mind?” I only hope it doesn’t soon change that to, “What’s on your leader’s mind?”