Axis, angles and shifting sands; global ties on a rollercoaster!

Raju Korti
I wake up each day to a map that has shifted overnight. The English weather looks steady by comparison. Alliances bend. Old enmities soften for a moment and then harden again. The last year has been a masterclass in churn. The result is a global order that is more fluid and more brittle at the same time.

Start with Washington. Donald Trump is back in the White House. That one fact alone resets many dials at once. His second term has already brought sharp rhetoric at home and a punchy posture abroad. He has weighed in on China and Russia with the usual mix of praise, warning and provocation. Only yesterday he said he was disappointed with Vladimir Putin even as he played down the China Russia embrace. The signal is mixed by design. It keeps friends guessing and rivals off balance.

Moscow is still at war. Ukraine bleeds. The front ebbs and flows. Drones, missiles and artillery define the rhythm of days. Russia probes for advantage while Kyiv absorbs pressure and strikes back. Today’s battlefield reads like yesterday’s and yet the numbers keep climbing. Independent trackers and daily situation reports show a grind with occasional bursts of movement and a steady rain of long-range hits. That grind shapes energy flows, defence budgets and public patience far from the trenches.

Now layer in Beijing. China hosts pageantry and partners. It courts Moscow on energy and technology while managing an economy weighed down by property woes.

Evergrande’s long unwind tells its own story. Creditors wait. Confidence wobbles. The state smooths edges but does not erase losses. Markets read that as caution from the top and fragility below. The geopolitical message is simple. China projects calm power even as it paddles hard under the water. Then the triangle of Washington, Moscow and Beijing meets the arc from New Delhi to Islamabad. India plays long game realpolitik. It deepens technology and defence ties with the United States. It keeps its energy lifeline with Russia alive on price and volume. It competes and cooperates with China depending on the file. That balancing act has grown harder in recent weeks. Think sanctions overhangs. Think trade frictions. Think a sharper American tone when India hunts for cheap barrels. The logic in Delhi is clear. Strategic autonomy is not a slogan. It is a daily spreadsheet.

Pakistan tries to steady itself under Shehbaz Sharif. The coalition is broad. The economy is tight. Security threats chew bandwidth. Islamabad looks to Beijing for projects and to Washington for trade relief where it can get it. Every move is constrained by politics at home and debt math on the table. The room for manoeuvre is narrow but not closed. Across the wider chessboard, clubs and coalitions keep morphing. NATO grew when Sweden joined in March 2024. That was a clear line drawn after Russia’s invasion. On the other side, BRICS added new members and even new partners. Indonesia’s entry this year, after last year’s wave from West Asia and Africa, gave fresh weight to talk of a multipolar world. Labels aside, the hard test is delivery. Can alternative blocks clear payments, insure cargoes and settle disputes at speed. That is where theory meets practice.

Leaders add their own theatre. Trump and Putin have traded compliments and criticism in equal measure. The tone changes by the week and sometimes by the hour. Trump salutes Xi one day and needles him the next. Media and experts feast on each swing. Op-eds frame it as strategy. Others call it improvisation. Think tanks urge pressure on Moscow. They also warn against treating every rival camp as a single monolith. I read them all and then return to the scoreboard of actions and outcomes.

What does all this churn mean in practice. Three things stand out.

First, deterrence now travels with discounts. Energy, chips and critical minerals sit at the heart of diplomacy. Russia offers deeper crude discounts to keep India in the buyer’s queue as sanctions bite. China courts commodity security and export control relief through side deals and summit optics. The price at which a barrel moves says as much about the war as any communiqué.

Second, alignments are broad but not deep. The China Russia North Korea embrace has grown tighter on paper with new treaties and talk of mutual help. Yet even there, caveats abound. Analysts note the limits of trust and capacity. Reports point to North Korean personnel heading to Russia in support roles, not front-line combat, which is telling. It shows Moscow needs manpower elasticity, while Pyongyang seeks relevance and aid. It is alignment by necessity, not destiny.

Third, middle powers act like system managers. India hedges across capitals. The Gulf states arbitrage energy and logistics. Turkey brokers talks when it suits. Southeast Asia adds BRICS heft while keeping the United States close. This is not fence sitting. It is risk management in a world of sudden gusts.Experts and media have had a field day. Some frame the moment as the rise of a new axis. Others insist it is a messy marketplace of deals. Brookings calls this a challenging moment for India United States ties with many frictions breaking at once. Atlantic Council voices push the White House to bear down harder on Putin. The split in prescriptions is the point. It reflects a global order with too many moving parts for one neat narrative.

Where do I land. I see a world that rewards speed and punishes rigidity. Trump’s Washington runs hot and cold by design. Putin’s Moscow seeks relief and time. Xi’s Beijing wants stability at home and leverage abroad. Modi’s New Delhi wants freedom of choice at scale. Ukraine fights for survival and sovereignty. Pakistan searches for oxygen. Markets mark every tremor in oil, freight and metals. Culture and society absorb the shocks through inflation, migration and a new edge in public discourse.

Now you know why I have kept my short. Almost like in a school-boyish essay. The map will move again tomorrow. Maybe by this evening. My only safe bet is that the political mercury will keep misbehaving. And that we will all keep learning to read it faster.

Playing ball at SCO: India, China and Russia!

Raju Korti
By all available indications, a new power axis is quietly taking shape in the East. The just concluded SCO Summit in Tianjin suggested as much, as India, China and Russia appeared to move in closer concert at a time when the United States finds its own tariff regime questioned in its courts and its global influence increasingly challenged. What emerged was not routine diplomacy but the outline of a counterweight to Western dominance, with images of bonhomie among Xi Jinping, Narendra Modi and Vladimir Putin carrying echoes of a world order in transition.

Modi, Putin & Xi

As images of Xi Jinping, Narendra Modi and Vladimir Putin exchanging warmth and laughter made global headlines, what resonated louder was the symbolism. The three leaders, representing vast civilisational legacies and commanding significant economic and military weight, looked less like rivals jostling for space and more like a compact capable of shaping an alternative order. The parallel with the BRICS moment of 2018 was hard to miss, only this time the undertone was far stronger.

Xi Jinping in his address targeted what he called bullying behaviour in the world order, a clear reference to Washington. He called for fairness, justice and an end to Cold War mentalities. By unveiling ambitions for a new security architecture, Xi positioned the SCO not merely as a regional bloc but as a counterweight to Western frameworks like NATO. Putin, whose ties with both Beijing and New Delhi remain critical, lent gravitas to the proceedings. And Modi, by his measured articulation of trust, dignity and sensitivity in relations with both Russia and China, ensured India did not appear a reluctant participant but an equal partner in this evolving geometry.

India’s presence at the SCO was not without context. Its ties with the United States have entered turbulent waters after Washington imposed steep tariffs on Indian exports and targeted its oil trade with Russia. Trump’s repeated attempts at taking credit for brokering India Pakistan peace only aggravated New Delhi’s perception of American condescension. When Washington demanded alignment with its energy policies, India chose instead to stand its ground. It is in this backdrop that the optics of Modi walking shoulder to shoulder with Putin and Xi acquired deeper significance.

For India, the SCO summit was also an opportunity to recalibrate ties with China after the bitterness of Galwan. Modi’s first visit to China in seven years saw a significant bilateral with Xi, where both leaders spoke of moving ahead on the basis of mutual trust and respect. This was not an easy conversation, but it showed intent to move beyond confrontation. The irony is not lost that while Washington’s pressures have pushed India closer to Moscow and Beijing, India has simultaneously retained its sovereign agency by not conceding to either side.

The SCO itself is not a perfect bloc. It carries the burden of internal contradictions, not least the presence of Pakistan, which in 2020 had provoked India by displaying an offensive map during a virtual meeting. That led to Ajit Doval’s walkout, a reminder that India is prepared to draw red lines even within multilateral frameworks. Pakistan again found itself marginalised in Tianjin, with its Prime Minister left on the fringes while the real centre of gravity rested with Modi, Xi and Putin.

Beyond theatrics, the summit revealed three layers of importance. One, the consolidation of an Eastern narrative challenging the West’s monopoly over security and trade frameworks. Two, the emergence of SCO as a parallel platform to BRICS in articulating the concerns of a multipolar world. And three, the subtle but unmistakable hint that India is no longer willing to play second fiddle to any bloc, East or West.

As I see it, India did its part well at Tianjin. It held its own in the presence of two giants, strengthened old bonds with Russia, reopened doors with China, and projected itself as a sovereign actor unwilling to be bullied into choices. The SCO Summit may not have redrawn the world map overnight, but it set into motion a conversation about power, parity and partnership. And that conversation is only just beginning.

Seventy, and fortunately, still counting!

Raju Korti
As the clock strikes midnight on August 30, I cross into my seventies. In India, this age is viewed with a certain awe, almost as though life has turned a ceremonial corner. I often wonder why. People do go on to live into their eighties and even their nineties, although such longevity is rare. What makes the seventies so special, I cannot say. Yet I find myself standing at its threshold, proud to be its chosen recipient.

Coffee as the judge at Times function 

There is an inevitability to the march of time, but it also invites introspection. My good old well-wisher, the dashing and eternally youthful Dev Anand, once told me with a twinkle in his eye: growing old is compulsory, but ageing is optional. His words return to me now with a quiet resonance. What keeps me afloat is not the ticking of years but the loyalty of my memory. It has never betrayed me. Childhood episodes, distant yet vivid, come alive with the freshness of yesterday. That vividity has been my compass. Nostalgia, often dismissed by others as the indulgence of the past, has been my lifeline.

In my late sixties I discovered a truth that seems sharper with age: life goes on, utterly indifferent to anyone or anything. It does not pause for triumphs or tragedies. What unsettles us are not events themselves but the emotions they unleash. I prefer to see them as catalysts. The seventies whisper another truth. You are on your own. Your only true companions are conviction and memory. At times I feel my mother delivered me into this world only yesterday. That is how young, or perhaps how ancient, I truly am.

Looking back, the journey has been a mosaic of light and shade, like anyone else’s. Moments of exultation, moments of despair. There were strangers who opened their arms to me and kin who shut their doors. Not all blood is thick; not all strangers are suspect. But time, that great equaliser, teaches you to outgrow betrayal and blesses you with the wisdom that you come alone and you go alone.

In these seven decades, I have been privileged to encounter people of every hue. Celebrities whose names fill headlines, politicians who strutted on national and international stages, ordinary men and women, and even those who might appear utterly inconsequential. Yet my heart has leaned always towards those who live by the simple creed that has guided me: love and be loved. Life, distilled to its essence, is nothing more than that.

The rigours of 70s!

Crossing into the seventies feels less like surrender and more like a renewal. It is an opportunity to simplify life, to release grudges and regrets, to nurture health, and to treasure friendships that have endured. Ten years ago, when I survived a near-fatal coronary bypass, every dawn became a new lease of life. Today I stand at seventy, grateful, curious, and ready to embrace each day with intention.

Ageing, of course, is not without its toll. The body carries the quiet signs of pure aging, those universal shifts of time. But with every wrinkle and scar comes another layer of perspective. What once felt like middle age now yields to the honest recognition of old age. And yet, I refuse to surrender to it.

I have lost my parents, two brothers, and a sister. Their absence is a shadow, but around me remain friends who love me fiercely, colleagues who stood by me, and students who once hero-worshipped me. Some admired me, others reviled me, but together they shaped my life. I hold no regrets. If I ever sit down to write my memoirs, I dare say it will be a bestseller, not merely for its truths but for the cadence and flourish of my words.

At seventy, the road behind me stretches with stories untold and the road ahead, though shorter, glimmers with promise. I do not see this as an ending but as another beginning. The leaf may be dry, but it still rustles with life.

NB: 70th birthday hai to do photos ka indulgence to banta hai. I am no narcissist, you know.

Asteroids, space junk and the gravity of consequence

Raju Korti
I often wonder if the ancient proverb “what goes up must come down” was meant not only for human ambition but also for our reckless adventure into space. After reading a recent article on the mounting threat of space debris, that thought became sharper. Since Sputnik’s lonely beeping in 1957, nearly 20,000 satellites have been thrust skyward. Seventy percent of them still hang in orbit, while others have either broken apart or plummeted back to Earth. We call it space junk, but that term hardly captures the menace.

Just ask the residents of Mukuku village in Kenya, who woke up one December morning to find a smouldering ten-foot-wide titanium ring in their fields. It had fallen from the heavens, defying our illusion of control. Had it landed on homes, the story might have been told in tragedy.

Every other day, NASA warns of asteroids brushing too close for comfort. In the last five years alone, hundreds of such alerts have been issued, making one wonder whether the agency should set up a full-fledged Department of Asteroids. The frequency is almost comical, if not for the lurking threat. Asteroids may be ancient wanderers, but our contribution is newer and no less ominous: more than 600,000 pieces of man-made debris spinning above us at 18,000 miles an hour. From paint flakes to abandoned satellites, each one is a bullet without a trigger, waiting for collision.

Do we have a dumping ground for such detritus of human progress? None yet. And the irony is bitter. We cannot rid ourselves of mountains of garbage on Earth, and now we have extended our footprint of waste to the skies.

The international community treats this issue with the kind of distracted awareness one reserves for a distant storm. Yet every year, the risk grows. From what I understand, the number of tracked debris has risen sharply, and already 36,000 large chunks threaten to make Low Earth Orbit a perilous no-go zone. If that day comes, exploration may stall, communication networks may suffer, and the promise of space could turn into an obstacle course of our own making.

Perhaps the lesson is a philosophical one. Civilizations may dream of reaching the stars, but unless they learn to clear their mess, the heavens will remind them of their limits. Just as empires crumble and towers fall, so too must space-borne relics return to Earth. Sometimes gently, sometimes with fire. The skies, after all, were never meant to be a landfill.

From Ghalib to Trump: The rise and rise of ‘Chutiya’

Raju Korti
There was a time when this word was spoken in hushed tones. It was a private indulgence of men, tucked away from polite company. Its sting was sharp but private. Mothers would pretend not to hear it. Fathers would cough loudly if it escaped their sons’ lips. And yet, like all forbidden fruit, it thrived. Now, thanks to Christine Fair, it has become an international export. 

Fair, a professor at Georgetown University, yesterday stirred controversy by referring to US President Donald Trump as "Chutiya", a Hindi profanity, during a live interview with Pakistani origin analyst Moeed Pirzada. She used the word not once but a couple of times, while discussing the US foreign policy. From the galli to Georgetown University. From paan shops to prime-time interviews. Quite the global leap. It is perhaps the only Indian export that needed no trade treaty, no WTO clearance, and no marketing campaign.

C. Christine Fair (filegrab)

It takes nerve to call the President of the United States a “chutiya”. Even if that President happens to be Donald Trump. Fair must be applauded for her audacity. Trump deserves credit too. Few men rise to such heights of absurdity that they inspire this particular honour in public. In a way, both are pioneers.

In India, the word has had a longer apprenticeship. It was practically newsroom currency. In our newsrooms, it was practically a second byline. I particularly remember in the mid-eighties, the (late) Mohammad Saghir, (Peace be upon him!) a sub editor with a wicked tongue. With unmatched wit, he made it an anthem. Our General Manager, who had zero idea of news, display and design grids, made it a point to carry a book “World’s 50 Best Newspapers”. He would walk into the newsroom every evening and ask the night sub in-charge to replicate the complicated layout of one of the newspapers in it. One such evening he demanded a layout copied from the Spanish newspaper El Pais. Saghir hardly waited for his back to turn around, chuckled like a hyena, and declared, “Duniya mein chutiyon ki kami nahi hai Ghalib…..”, leaving us to complete the original but profound quote. We nearly fell off our chairs. It was irreverence, scholarship, and satire rolled into one. And it stuck.

The word’s democratic (and universal!) spirit spared no one. Chief Ministers, cabinet ministers, editors, bureaucrats, peons -- all were within its range. History, of course, has its favourite jokes. As Editor of the Free Press Journal in 2004, I once cut out the very opening line from a story filed for its sister Marathi publication Nav Shakti. Vilasrao Deshmukh, then Chief Minister, had retorted to a petitioning leader with “Aamhala kaay chutiya samajta ka?” It was accurate reporting, but not quite printworthy. It was a rib-tickling copy with all frills of an exciting political theatre but I snipped the line from the copy, only to spark a debate that lasted days. Should facts be printed as spoken? Or does editorial judgement play censor? In that one word lay the whole dilemma of journalism. Fidelity versus discretion. Was discretion wise or did it betray the spirit of truth? In hindsight, it was both.

But the word refused to stay caged. It slipped out of newsrooms and political corridors, and settled comfortably into middle-class drawing rooms. I realised it had gone mainstream the day a polite neighbourhood aunty, all of fifty plus, reprimanded a carpenter with, “Humko kya chutiya samjha hai?” There it was, spoken with the confidence of someone asking for another round of chai. The word had crossed the final frontier. I realised its time had truly come. Now with Christine Fair, it has marched into the halls of global diplomacy.

My US-based journalist friend Mayank Chhaya reminds that even its intonation is an art form. He says the insult has multiple shades depending on tone. A clipped “chutiya” might mean harmless stupidity. A stretched “chuuutiiiyaa” suggests dangerous incompetence. A muttered version, accompanied by a sigh, conveys resignation at the state of the world. We once joked that someone should write a grammar of the word, complete with tenses and degrees of comparison. Chutiya, more chutiya, most chutiya. Now Christine Fair has catapulted it to international stardom. Trump, unwittingly, has given it the White House seal. One cannot deny the irony. America, after all, prides itself on soft power. Hollywood, hamburgers, hip-hop. India has responded with one four-syllable export. Compact. Potent. Unmistakable.

The only risk is that overuse may blunt its sting. What was once a loaded insult may end up as casual banter. Imagine Oxford and Cambridge dictionaries placing it neatly between “chutney” and “churn.” Will the word lose its power when dressed in academic robes? Will it still retain its bite? Or will it become a tired cliché, like “awesome” or “literally”? Perhaps the day is not far when world leaders will shrug it off like a badge of honour. Until then, we can sit back, sip our cutting chai, and marvel at how one earthy Indian word has managed what no diplomat ever could. It has united the world in knowing exactly what it means. Perhaps. But until then, we can sit back and watch as it continues its unstoppable march from mohalla to Manhattan.

Pakistan’s war games in a Beggar’s Bowl

Raju Korti
It never ceases to amaze me how Pakistan, a nation that perpetually lives on the ventilator of foreign bailouts, still finds the appetite for mischief beyond its borders. The latest spectacle comes from its billion-dollar arms deal with Sudan’s military junta -- yes, the same Sudan where famine stalks millions, where hospitals are bombed, where over a hundred thousand innocents have perished in a civil war since 2023. Now, here is a country that can barely keep its own lights on, with inflation gnawing at its people and its foreign reserves perpetually on life support, suddenly deciding to play quartermaster in Africa’s deadliest conflict. Fighter jets, drones, armoured vehicles --Pakistan is hawking them all to a junta that is already drowning in sanctions and blood. Payment, of course, will likely be arranged through a “friendly” third country -- one of those oil-rich patrons in the Gulf that enjoys a proxy tug-of-war in Sudan.

This is not just hypocrisy. It is dangerous duplicity. Pakistan loves to posture as the voice of the ummah, championing Muslim solidarity on global platforms. But here, it has no qualms about supplying the very weapons that will mow down Muslim civilians in Khartoum, Omdurman, and Darfur. The Sudanese Air Force, whose chief just signed the deal in Islamabad, has a proven record of indiscriminate bombings -- schools, hospitals, markets, all fair targets. Washington and Geneva have sanctioned him, but in Islamabad, he is an honoured guest.

Sudan: A Wikipedia grab

The diabolical design behind this transaction is not difficult to decode. Pakistan is broke, and wars abroad provide a convenient outlet for its arms industry while feeding the military’s coffers. Sudan, meanwhile, offers an entry point into the larger Saudi-UAE rivalry for influence in Africa. In other words, Pakistan is happy to rent out its factory of war, while outsourcing the bill.

But where does this leave the Sudanese people? At the bottom of the abyss. Already, 24 million are staring at acute food insecurity. Twelve million have fled their homes, and Darfur echoes again with whispers of genocide. Every new consignment of weapons will only deepen their misery, prolong their displacement, and erase what little hope remains of peace.

Is there a chance for Sudan to climb out of this crisis? Only if the international community wakes up from its slumber. Sanctions on paper mean nothing when loopholes allow Pakistan -- or others -- to pump arms into the conflict. What is needed is a coordinated clampdown on all third-party suppliers and enablers, coupled with real humanitarian investment. Above all, external powers must stop treating Sudan as a chessboard for their rivalries.

In the end, Pakistan’s adventurism in Sudan is not about solidarity, strategy, or survival. It is about a bankrupt state clutching at blood-stained straws to stay relevant. For the Sudanese, it is just another betrayal in a long line of them -- another reminder that in their land, famine feeds on hunger, war feeds on weapons, and hope starves quietly in the shadows.

When ego becomes a medal: Munir & Trump two of a kind!

Raju Korti
Self-love is the new world order. In Pakistan, Field Marshal Asim Munir pinned a gallantry medal on his own chest with all the solemnity of a man discovering gravity. In America, Donald Trump is angling for a Nobel Peace Prize, preferably signed, framed, and gift-wrapped by Hillary Clinton. Different continents, same spectacle. Two men competing in the Olympics of Self-Congratulation.

I sometimes wonder if we have entered a parallel universe where humility has been declared extinct and self-promotion has been enshrined as a fundamental right. Exhibit A: Field Marshal Asim Munir, Pakistan’s top brass, who -- bored of waiting for recognition from others -- decided to skip the queue and simply award himself the Hilal-e-Jurat. Why bother with panels, citations, or history books when you can save everyone the trouble and just pin it on yourself?

To be fair, it is not entirely unprecedented. Kids give themselves gold stars on homework, Instagram influencers add “visionary” to their bios, and YouTubers declare themselves “world’s best.” But a decorated general, no less, awarding himself for gallantry in a nation where gallantry usually involves surviving inflation? That takes audacity, or perhaps just an exceptionally large mirror. Maybe even real gallantry!

And what better mirror image than Donald Trump? The former (and possibly future) US President is currently auditioning for the Nobel Peace Prize, preferably handed to him by Hillary Clinton, his political nemesis. If Munir represents the “ultimate flex” of the uniformed variety, Trump is perfecting the civilian counterpart: strutting into negotiations as though they were beauty pageants and recasting himself as “Architect of World Peace.” It is the kind of peace where he alone gets the photo-ops, preferably under golden lighting, with everyone else playing backup.

What unites them is a flair for spectacle. Munir compares Pakistan to a dump truck that could smash India’s Mercedes, forgetting that dump trucks without fuel don’t move anywhere except the scrapyard. Trump, meanwhile, imagines himself as the only man alive who can look Putin in the eye and choreograph a ceasefire, never mind that global diplomacy is slightly more complicated than hawking real estate in Manhattan.

Both men, in their own ways, have turned governance and strategy into stand-up comedy. One pins medals on himself for wars that never delivered victories; the other waits for a Nobel before even attempting to stop one. For the rest of us, the irony is exhausting yet entertaining: Munir’s dump truck is stuck in IMF’s parking lot, and Trump’s Peace Prize dream rests on Hillary Clinton -- who would rather nominate a stray cat than the man who once branded her “crooked.

”In the end, I suppose both deserve something. Munir deserves a medal -- for self-confidence strong enough to carry a collapsing nation on his ego. Trump deserves a medal too -- for turning even the bleakest geopolitical crisis into a stage for his one-man reality show. Perhaps the UN should introduce a new category: Gallantry in Self-Promotion. That way, both gentlemen can stand tall, medals glittering, dump trucks and Nobel fantasies intact, while the rest of us enjoy the circus from the cheap seats.