Trump’s Iran overture & his penchant for unilateral announcements

Raju Korti
If the past is any indication, the latest assertion by President Donald Trump that a peace agreement with Iran is “largely negotiated”, sits at the intersection of ambition, signalling, and strategic ambiguity. At face value, the claim suggests a diplomatic breakthrough in one of the most intractable geopolitical theatres. Yet the immediate rebuttals from Tehran, particularly on the sensitive question of control over the Strait of Hormuz, underscore a more familiar reality. The contours of any such agreement remain undefined, contested, and possibly overstated.

Trump: Jumping the gun as usual.

The Strait of Hormuz is not merely a bargaining chip but a critical artery of global energy flows. Iran’s insistence on retaining exclusive authority over its management, including shipping routes and permits, indicates that sovereignty concerns remain non-negotiable. Trump’s suggestion that the strait would be “opened” appears less a reflection of agreed policy and more an attempt to frame the narrative in advance of any actual convergence. This divergence highlights a structural gap between declaratory diplomacy and negotiated substance.

Compounding this is the conspicuous absence of any meaningful progress on the nuclear file, historically the central axis of US-Iran engagement. Despite Trump’s earlier insistence that any agreement must address Iran’s nuclear ambitions, Tehran’s position suggests that this issue has not been substantively engaged. This omission is telling. It implies either that negotiations are at a preliminary stage or that the public articulation of progress is detached from the actual negotiating agenda.

The reported dynamic between Trump and Benjamin Netanyahu adds another layer of complexity. The apparent divergence, with Netanyahu favouring immediate military pressure and Trump advocating a negotiation-first approach, may not be a straightforward rift. It could equally represent a calibrated dual-track strategy designed to maximise leverage. By projecting dissonance, Washington and Tel Aviv may seek to create uncertainty in Tehran’s strategic calculations. Alternatively, it may reflect genuine differences in threat perception and timing, with Israel prioritising pre-emption and the United States exploring diplomatic manoeuvrability.

What lends coherence to Trump’s latest claim is his well-established penchant for unilateral and premature announcements. This approach, visible across trade, security, and diplomatic domains, is not incidental but instrumental. By declaring a deal before it is fully formed, Trump attempts to shape the negotiating environment itself. Such assertions serve to set expectations, define the narrative, and compel other actors to respond within a framework he has already publicised. In game-theoretic terms, it is an effort to constrain the option space of counterparts by anchoring outcomes in the public domain.

This tactic also leverages asymmetries of power and perception. For Iran, publicly contradicting the United States risks escalating tensions, yet acquiescing to an inaccurate narrative could weaken its negotiating position. The result is a delicate balancing act, where Tehran must simultaneously refute and engage. Reports that American officials themselves have characterised Trump’s statements as primarily for domestic consumption further complicate the picture. It suggests a dual messaging strategy; one aimed at international counterparts and another at a domestic audience attuned to displays of assertiveness.

The broader strategic implications of this episode are contingent on whether rhetoric can translate into structured negotiation. If Trump’s announcement is a precursor to intensified diplomatic engagement, it may generate momentum, however artificially, towards dialogue. The emphasis on not rushing into a deal, coupled with the continuation of economic pressure through port blockades, indicates that Washington is still operating within a coercive diplomacy framework. Negotiations, in this sense, are not a departure from pressure but an extension of it.

However, the risks of this approach are equally evident. Premature declarations can erode credibility if they are not substantiated by tangible outcomes. They may also harden positions on the opposing side, particularly if perceived as attempts at public coercion. In the context of Iran, where strategic patience and resistance to external pressure are deeply embedded, such tactics may yield diminishing returns.

The reference to the earlier nuclear agreement under Barack Obama as a “flawed framework” further situates Trump’s current posture within a broader ideological critique. By framing his approach as the “exact opposite,” Trump seeks to differentiate his strategy not only from Tehran but also from his domestic predecessors. This layering of domestic political signalling onto international diplomacy adds another dimension to the analysis.

Ultimately, the substance of Trump’s claimed agreement remains uncertain. What is clearer is the method behind the messaging. The announcement functions less as a confirmation of diplomatic success and more as an instrument to shape the trajectory of negotiations. Whether this leads to a verifiable agreement or dissipates into another episode of rhetorical overreach will depend on the ability of all parties to move beyond narrative construction to concrete compromise. In a region where symbolism and substance often diverge, the distinction between the two becomes the central question.

When cockroaches campaign and parasites pontificate

Raju Korti
Cockroaches, it is often said, will outlive humanity. Parasites, on the other hand, never quite die, they simply change hosts. Indian politics, with its remarkable resilience and adaptability, appears to have taken both metaphors rather seriously.

Enter the Cockroach Janata Party.

(Pic merely symbolic)

Founded by Abhijeet Dipke, the man who decided to give satire a party symbol, the CJP is less a political formation and more a running commentary on the ecosystem it seeks to mock. Its timing is not accidental. It scurried into public consciousness after remarks attributed to Justice Suryakant about cockroaches and parasites triggered outrage, amusement, and a predictable avalanche of hashtags.

The internet did what it does best. It turned metaphor into meme, outrage into opportunity, and somewhere along the way, irony into an organisation.

The Cockroach Janata Party is, in many ways, an exaggerated extension of the Aam Aadmi Party template. Where the AAP once emerged as a disruptive force challenging entrenched political structures with the rhetoric of the common man, the CJP takes that rhetoric to its logical absurdity. If the common man could organise, why not the most indestructible creature in the urban imagination? If the system is seen as parasitic, why not embrace the label and contest elections under it?

Social media, always eager for novelty, has lapped it up. The CJP’s rise has been swift, not in terms of votes or cadres, but in shares, likes, and forwards. Its messaging is sharp, irreverent, and perfectly calibrated for an audience that prefers its politics with a garnish of sarcasm. Young users, fatigued by repetitive political narratives, have found in it a form of catharsis. Others have treated it as a joke that has gone just far enough to be taken seriously.

Yet, beneath the humour lies a familiar pattern.

Movements born in the digital ether often mistake visibility for viability. The CJP’s proclamations about youth frustration, systemic decay, and the need for radical overhaul resonate at a superficial level. But resonance is not the same as relevance. The distance between a trending hashtag and a polling booth is far greater than it appears on a smartphone screen.

This is where the satire begins to turn on itself.

The Cockroach Janata Party claims to represent the ignored, the dismissed, the trampled upon. But beyond the clever wordplay and visual symbolism, there is little evidence of organisational depth. No grassroots machinery, no sustained engagement with communities, no clear articulation of policy beyond broad, almost theatrical declarations. It thrives in the realm of commentary, not in the arena of action.

And that is its central contradiction.

Revolutions are not conducted on timelines or in comment sections. They are messy, laborious, and deeply rooted in human engagement. Social media can amplify voices, but it cannot substitute for the slow, unglamorous work of building trust, negotiating differences, and delivering outcomes. The CJP, for all its noise, remains confined to the echo chamber that created it.

This is not entirely new. The trajectory of the Aam Aadmi Party itself offers a telling contrast. It began with street protests, public mobilisation, and a clear articulation of grievances before translating that energy into electoral success. Even then, sustaining that momentum required transitioning from rhetoric to governance, from protest to policy. That journey has been anything but simple.

The CJP, by comparison, appears content being perpetually in the protest phase, without ever stepping into the discomfort of responsibility. What, then, does this phenomenon say about democracy?

At one level, it reflects a healthy irreverence. The ability to mock power, to turn criticism into caricature, is a sign of a society that has not entirely surrendered its voice. The very existence of a party like the CJP suggests that political discourse is not immune to humour, however biting it may be.

At another level, it reveals a growing impatience with conventional politics. When citizens feel unheard, they often resort to satire as a form of protest. The joke becomes a shield, allowing them to express dissent without fully committing to a cause. But there is also a risk.

When politics becomes performance, and movements become memes, the line between engagement and escapism begins to blur. It becomes easier to laugh at the system than to participate in changing it. The Cockroach Janata Party, in this sense, is both a critique and a symptom. It exposes the absurdities of the political landscape while simultaneously embodying the limitations of reactionary, novelty-driven activism. Its surge, therefore, is unlikely to translate into longevity.

Novelty has a short shelf life. What is amusing today becomes repetitive tomorrow. Without substance, structure, and sustained effort, even the most creative political experiments fade into obscurity. The CJP’s future, if it remains anchored solely in satire, is likely to follow that familiar arc.In the end, the cockroach metaphor may prove unintentionally ironic. Cockroaches survive because they adapt to hostile environments, not because they trend on social media. Political movements, too, endure not through clever branding but through the hard work of relevance.

The Cockroach Janata Party has certainly captured attention. Whether it can capture anything beyond that remains an open, and rather uncomfortable, question.i 

"High spirits in the House of Udta Jhoomta Punjab"

Raju Korti
The latest stir inside the Punjab Legislative Assembly had less to do with legislative heft and more with olfactory speculation. The Opposition, led by the Indian National Congress, claimed that Punjab Chief Minister Bhagwant Mann addressed the House “drunk”, turning what should have been a sober exchange into a heady controversy. Mann, never one to shy away from theatrics, found himself at the centre of a debate where the proof, as they say, was not in the pudding but allegedly in the breath. The Assembly, usually echoing with policy arguments, briefly resembled a courtroom of whispers, winks, and raised eyebrows.

Mann (Wikipedia grab)

Yet, in a political culture that often thrives on exaggeration, the episode also revealed the Opposition’s flair for dramatic timing and the ruling side’s studied nonchalance. If governance is serious business, Punjab’s politicians reminded us that it is also, occasionally, comic theatre. Whether the charge holds water or evaporates like a fleeting scent, the incident has already added another anecdote to Mann’s colourful public persona, where the line between satire and statesmanship is, at times, delightfully blurred.

Thereafter, as a reminder of how enduring some impressions can be, I had written this on a blog on Mann on January 19, 2022: One must hand it to the propensity of the Aam Aadmi Party in choosing candidates that do full justice to the party's label. Going by that yardstick, its CM's face in Punjab, Bhagwant Singh Mann has to be the 'Aamest" of them all. I am presuming readers have caught on to the superlative degree. Mann's credentials are such that any journalist will give his right hand to write the man's colourful profile.

The 48-year-old MP from Punjab's Sangrur the same place from where the signatory to the historic Punjab accord, Akali Dal President late Harchand Singh Longowal hailed; has been making waves with videos that show him inebriated in the jostling crowds. Even as he is seen talking, his face flushed red, he is being held in place by supportive partymen.

There is a considerable outrage in certain quarters of Punjab that an "alcoholic" is being projected as CM's face. That too in a state that has already acquired notoriety for rampant drug abuse. Now we all know that an "alcoholic" is a sober version of the cruder "drunkard". But Sardar Bhagwant Mann dismisses all such ungenerous talk and is least bothered about the dubious reputation that precedes him.

The man has made it to the record books by arriving in the parliament drunk. It is a measure of his popularity that he still is a crowd puller with the theatrics that he used so effectively as contestant of a Laughter Show, incidentally hosted by another Sardar, Navjot Singh Sidhu. The comedy forum was fine but in the august House he clearly looked like a square peg in a round hole, if you forgive my penchant for some cheap pun. Bhagwant Singh Mann has earned the sobriquet "Pegwant Singh Mann" not for nothing.

I have no idea what is Mann's preferred brand and whether he goes for the country-made stuff or the imported one, but in 2019, Mann had reportedly promised not to touch alcohol again. Apparently, he reneged on that. Confronted by some snouty journalists about getting back to his drinking habits, Mann had a classic reply that would do any pulp film-maker proud: "At least I don't drink people's blood." Taking his justification forward, he also retorted that "no one is perfect. Look at the Congress CM. He sits with his Pakistani women friends and says cheers.

"You can't, of course, hold it against Mann for his indulgence. That may not have to do anything with his skills as a politician. I know many politicians who enjoy a drink. I particularly recall one 75-year-old politician from Maharashtra (now no more) who could down a full bottle of Scotch and still stand ramrod straight and speak minus the lisp that comes with it. Comparatively, Mann might be still learning to hold his glass.

To be even more fair to Mann, he has a number of cassettes even before the advent of digital and video era, and has hosted several satirical shows. The reason why AAP leadership dithered long before naming him as the CM face was because of its inability to find an alternative. The party, I suspect, was sort of pushed to an expedient corner with Mann winning elections consecutively in 2014 and 2019. Besides, Mann emerged as the majority choice in a phone-in poll conducted by the party.

As an aside it would be pertinent to recall the first two lines of a song tuned a few years back by one of the greatest composers of this century, Himesh Reshammiya. It is for you to decide whether the lines are chivalrous or uncharitable about the Punjabis. The lines say that after sunset, it is risky to toast the Punjabis with a glass in their hand as they tend to veer out of control. The lines run thus:
ओ ना पिलाना पंजाबियो को नाप तोल के
सूर्य अस्त, पंजाबी मस्त.

Mann calls himself a social drinker that many assert gives drinking an elite status. I am hoping that he does become the chief minister without giving up on any of the traits that make him so uncommonly common. It is worth the fun. AAP's pride will be people's envy.

 i 

The unquiet prospect of a refugee tide into Bangladesh!

Raju Korti
I find myself looking at the unfolding West Bengal assembly elections with a sense of déjà vu, layered with unease. Elections in India are often intense, but this one feels distinctly more turbulent, almost existential. For Mamata Banerjee and her Trinamool Congress, the stakes are nothing short of political survival. For the Bharatiya Janata Party, it is an opportunity to breach what has long been a formidable bastion. Exit polls, as always, speak in discordant voices, yet there is a perceptible suggestion of a churn, even a possible upheaval.

The exodus after 1971 war (file grab)

What concerns me is not merely who forms the government in Kolkata, but the chain reaction such a verdict could set off beyond India’s borders. For decades, West Bengal has been both a destination and a transit point for migrants from Bangladesh. Estimates have varied widely, often coloured by political interpretation, but even conservative assessments suggest that several million undocumented Bangladeshi migrants reside in the state. Some figures place this number between 3 million and 10 million, though precise data remains elusive due to the very nature of undocumented migration.

If a new political dispensation were to pursue a stringent policy of identification and deportation, the implications would be immediate and profound. A reverse migration of even a fraction of these numbers would place extraordinary pressure on Bangladesh, particularly Dhaka. This is a country already grappling with economic headwinds, currency stress, and periodic political unrest. Its population density is among the highest in the world, exceeding 1,200 people per square kilometre. Urban centres are stretched, infrastructure is fragile, and employment generation struggles to keep pace with demographic realities.

To suddenly absorb a large influx of returnees, many of whom may have lived in India for years or even decades, would not merely be an administrative challenge. It would be a humanitarian, economic, and political test of considerable magnitude. Housing, employment, healthcare, and social integration would all come under strain. The spectre of informal settlements expanding around Dhaka and other cities is not difficult to imagine. Nor is the potential for social friction, particularly if returnees are perceived as outsiders in their own country.

At moments like this, history offers both perspective and caution. In 1971, during the Bangladesh Liberation War, India received an estimated 10 million refugees fleeing violence in what was then East Pakistan. States like West Bengal, Assam, and Tripura bore the brunt of this influx. India, despite its own economic limitations at the time, opened its borders and treated these refugees as guests. Camps were set up, international assistance was mobilised, and an enormous humanitarian effort was undertaken. The strain was immense, but it was managed with a combination of political will and societal resilience.

The parallel is not exact, but it is instructive. Then, India was the recipient of a refugee tide driven by conflict. Today, Bangladesh could potentially face an inward surge driven by policy enforcement across the border. The difference lies in preparedness and context. India in 1971 had the moral clarity of a humanitarian crisis unfolding next door. Bangladesh today would be dealing with a more complex situation involving identity, legality, and economic capacity.

Yet, it would be simplistic to assume that such a scenario is inevitable. Deportation at this scale is not merely a political decision. It requires legal processes, bilateral coordination, and verification mechanisms that are often painstakingly slow. Questions of documentation, proof of origin, and human rights obligations complicate any mass exercise. Even if the political intent is strong, the administrative execution is likely to be gradual and contested.

There is also the alternative scenario. If the Trinamool Congress retains power, the status quo may largely persist. Migration, both legal and undocumented, would continue to be managed in the ambiguous space it has occupied for years. Demographic shifts would remain a subject of political debate rather than immediate policy action. For Bangladesh, this would mean avoiding a sudden shock, though the underlying issues of cross-border movement would remain unresolved.

Between these two possibilities lies a spectrum of outcomes, each carrying its own implications. What is clear to me is that migration in this region cannot be viewed through a narrow electoral lens. It is deeply entwined with history, geography, economics, and human aspiration. Any abrupt attempt to redraw these patterns risks triggering consequences that extend far beyond the immediate political moment.

As I reflect on this, I am struck by the irony of borders that once opened to receive millions in a time of crisis potentially becoming conduits of return under very different circumstances. The subcontinent has lived through the upheavals of partition, war, and displacement. It has also demonstrated an ability to absorb and adapt. The question now is whether that collective memory will guide a measured approach, or whether the pressures of contemporary politics will push the region into another phase of uncertainty.The answer, perhaps, will not emerge from the ballot boxes alone. It will depend on how responsibly power is exercised once the votes are counted.

नात्यांचा नवा हिशेब: मी उपरा, म्हणूनच अनाम

राजू कोर्ती 
माझ्या स्मरणात अजूनही एक धूसर दुपार ताजी आहे. साधारण १९८३ चा काळ असावा. एका जुन्या, शांत लायब्ररीत मी वारंवार पाहत असलेले एक पुस्तक.‘उपरा’. लक्ष्मण माने यांचे ते आत्मकथन, जणू एखाद्या वेदनेचा दस्तऐवज. एक दिवस मी ते हातात घेतले आणि वाचत गेलो. पानोपानी उलगडत गेलेली जातिभेदाची निर्दयी वास्तवता, अपमानाची चिरफाड, आणि समाजाच्या कडवट नजरा. हे सर्व मनाला चटका लावून गेले. ‘उपरा’ म्हणजे केवळ बाहेरचा नाही, तर आपल्या जगात असूनही न स्वीकारलेला, अनोळखी, अनाहूत, अनाम.

तेव्हा मला वाटले होते की हा ‘उपरेपणा’ हा जातीचा, गरिबीचा आणि सामाजिक अन्यायाचा परिणाम आहे. पण आयुष्याच्या पुढच्या वळणांवर मला जाणवले. उपरेपणाची कारणे इतकी सरळ, इतकी एकरेषीय नसतात. काळ बदलतो, संदर्भ बदलतात, पण ‘उपरा’ हा शब्द मात्र त्याच अर्थाने चिकटून राहतो. फक्त त्याची कारणे बदलतात.

आज मी मागे वळून पाहतो, तेव्हा लक्षात येते की उपरा  हा केवळ जातीनं ठरत नाही; तो समाजाच्या बदलत्या ‘अल्गोरिदम’नं ठरतो. एकेकाळी नात्यांचे गणित धर्म, जात, भाषा, संस्कार यावर मांडले जात असे. पण आजचे समीकरण वेगळे आहे. पैसा, प्रतिष्ठा, रूप, पद, सत्ता, आणि प्रभाव. ज्याच्याकडे हे आहे, तो ‘आपला’; ज्याच्याकडे नाही, तो ‘उपरा’.माझ्या आयुष्यातील सर्वात कडवट जाणीव हीच.

मी सवर्ण असूनही (त्याचा अभिमान बाळगावा की लाज वाटावी हे तुम्ही ठरवा) आज उपरा आहे. कधी काळी माझ्याकडे साधनसंपत्ती होती, ओळखी होत्या, माझ्या भोवती माणसांची गर्दी होती. लोक तळहातावर घेऊन फिरवायचे. पण ज्या क्षणी या सर्व गोष्टी निसटल्या, त्या क्षणी नातीही विरघळून गेली. आज माझ्याकडे ना पैसा आहे, ना पद, ना रूप, ना प्रभाव. आणि म्हणूनच, आज मी कुणाचाच नाही.

सॅम्युएल हंटिंग्टनने ‘क्लॅश ऑफ सिव्हिलायझेशन्स’मध्ये जगातील संघर्षांची कारणे धर्म आणि संस्कृतीत शोधली. पण माझ्या छोट्याशा जगातला संघर्ष वेगळाच आहे. येथे सभ्यता नाही, तर स्थिती  बोचते . तुझ्याकडे काय आहे, आणि माझ्याकडे काय नाही, यावर नाती तुटतात, जुळतात, आणि मोडतात. आजचा माणूस विचारांच्या नव्हे, तर वस्तूंच्या आकर्षणाने जोडला जातो.

माणूस जन्मत: उपरा नसतो. त्याला उपरा बनवले जाते. हळूहळू, नजरेआड, शब्दांविना. आणि एकदा का तो या चौकटीत बसला, की त्याचे अस्तित्व नगण्य होते. अपमान हा त्याचा दैनंदिन अन्न बनतो, आणि एकाकीपणा त्याचा श्वास.

माझ्या उमेदीच्या काळात मी अनेकांना आधार दिला. तनाने, मनाने, धनाने. आई-वडील गेले आणि डोक्यावरचे अखेरचे छत्र हरपले. जीवाभावाचे दोन्ही भाऊ काळाच्या पडद्याआड गेले. आयुष्याचा आधार असलेली मोठी बहीणही निघून गेली. इतक्यावर नियती थांबली नाही; मोठ्या भावाचा उमलत्या वयातला मुलगाही हातातून निसटला. प्रत्येक आघात गिळून टाकत राहिलो -- शब्दांविना, आवाजाविना. पण या सगळ्या हानीनंतर जे उरले, ते एक खोल, न बोलता येणारे पोकळीचे जग… आणि त्यात वाढत गेलेले उपरेपण, जे हळूहळू मला नैराश्याच्या अथांग गर्तेकडे ढकलत गेले. पण आज जेव्हा मला आधाराची गरज आहे, तेव्हा माझ्या दारात येणारे पाऊलसुद्धा थांबत नाही. रस्त्यावरचे कुत्रेही कदाचित क्षणभर थांबतील; माणसं मात्र नाही.

हे सगळं लिहिण्यामागे माझा उद्देश केवळ उद्वेग व्यक्त करणे नाही. ही एक नोंद आहे. त्या उपऱ्यांची, जे समाजाच्या काठावर जगतात. जे दररोज जगतात, पण कुणाच्याच स्मरणात नसतात. ज्यांचे आयुष्य एक प्रतीक्षा बनून राहते. शेवटाच्या, मुक्तीच्या.पण मुक्ती इतकी सहज मिळत नाही. ज्याच्या वाट्याला जे आले आहे, ते भोगल्याशिवाय त्याची सुटका होत नाही. म्हणूनच उपरे जगतात किड्यांसारखे. आणि मरतातही तितक्याच शांत, तितक्याच दुर्लक्षित पद्धतीने.

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

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

(Pic representational)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Asha they did not remember!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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