The diplomat who speaks plainly, no nonsense!

Raju Korti
To describe the 71-year-old S. Jaishankar as merely blunt would be to miss the method in his candour. He represents a distinct evolution in India’s diplomatic voice, one that has moved from cautious non-alignment to confident articulation of national interest. His rise to the position of External Affairs Minister is itself rooted in a career steeped in strategic exposure. A 1977-batch Indian Foreign Service officer, Jaishankar served as India’s Ambassador to the United States, China and the Czech Republic, besides holding key positions in the Ministry of External Affairs. His tenure as Foreign Secretary from 2015 to 2018 coincided with a phase of heightened geopolitical churn, preparing him for the political role he assumed in 2019.What sets Jaishankar apart is not just what he says, but where and how he says it. His now widely circulated remark in Finland at the Kultaranta Talks, an annual foreign and security policy forum hosted under the aegis of the Finnish President, exemplifies this. Referring to European criticism of India’s energy ties with Russia, he pointedly observed that weapons sold by Europe have long been used against India, adding that India has never posed a similar threat to Europe. The articulation of that sentiment, which has resonated widely, underscores both its bluntness and its historical grounding. The remark was not an off-the-cuff provocation but a calibrated intervention in a forum where strategic signalling carries weight.

S, Jaishankar (Wikipedia grab)

This is not an isolated instance. At various international platforms, including think tanks and press interactions in Washington and Brussels, Jaishankar has called out what he terms as Western “double standards.” When questioned about India’s oil imports from Russia, he countered by highlighting Europe’s far larger energy purchases. When pressed on human rights concerns, he has often turned the lens back on critics, insisting on mutual respect rather than one-sided scrutiny. His responses to journalists, often clipped and precise, have gone viral not merely for their tone but for their clarity.

Yet, this bluntness is not indiscriminate. Jaishankar demonstrates an acute awareness of diplomatic context. At multilateral forums such as the United Nations or G20 meetings, his language remains measured, layered with the conventions of diplomacy. In bilateral engagements or public discussions, however, he allows himself greater directness. This duality creates the impression of a diplomat who does not mince words, while still operating within the discipline required of his office.

His approach also signals a broader transformation in India’s foreign policy. In the decades immediately following Independence, India’s diplomacy under leaders like Jawaharlal Nehru was shaped by idealism and the doctrine of non-alignment. The emphasis was on moral positioning and global leadership among newly independent nations. Over time, especially after the economic liberalisation of the 1990s, pragmatism began to take precedence. Today, under Jaishankar, this pragmatism has sharpened into an explicit “India First” articulation, where national interest is asserted without apology.

In comparing Jaishankar with his predecessors, one must acknowledge the distinctive style of Atal Bihari Vajpayee, who also held the External Affairs portfolio. Vajpayee’s diplomacy was marked by poetic eloquence and moral clarity, often conveying firmness through persuasion rather than confrontation. Jaishankar, by contrast, employs the language of a career diplomat shaped by contemporary geopolitics. Where Vajpayee persuaded, Jaishankar often challenges. Where earlier foreign ministers exercised restraint in public articulation, Jaishankar uses public platforms as instruments of strategic messaging.

Internationally, Jaishankar is viewed with a mix of respect and caution. In the United States and Europe, he is seen as a tough negotiator who reflects the confidence of a rising India. His familiarity with Western institutions and his ability to engage them on equal terms add to his credibility. In China, his tenure as ambassador and his subsequent handling of border tensions lend him the image of a seasoned interlocutor. In Pakistan, his blunt references to terrorism and bilateral issues leave little room for ambiguity. Across Southeast Asia, his articulation of India’s Indo-Pacific vision has been received as part of a broader balancing strategy in the region.

Critically, his style also aligns with the centralisation of foreign policy under the Prime Minister’s Office, particularly under Narendra Modi. While Jaishankar’s voice is distinct, it operates within a larger strategic framework defined at the highest political level. This has led some analysts to argue that his bluntness is as much a reflection of political backing as it is of personal inclination.

Ultimately, Jaishankar’s significance lies in how he has normalised a more assertive Indian voice in global affairs. His statements, whether on Europe’s arms exports, American policies, or regional security dynamics, are not mere rhetorical flourishes but indicators of a country more willing to state its case plainly. In doing so, he has redefined the contours of Indian diplomacy, making it less about cautious positioning and more about confident assertion.

Whether this approach will sustain its effectiveness in an increasingly complex global order remains to be seen. What is undeniable, however, is that under Jaishankar, India’s foreign policy has acquired a sharper edge and a clearer voice, one that is heard, noted and often debated across the world.

Living under the shadow of growing nuclear deterrence!

Raju Korti
The Stockholm International Peace Research Institute’s latest report offers a stark reminder that while the Cold War may have ended, the nuclear age has not receded into history. Instead, it has entered a more complex and arguably more dangerous phase. The global inventory of nuclear warheads, estimated at roughly 12,000 to 13,000, remains concentrated among a handful of major powers, with the United States and Russia accounting for nearly ninety percent of the total. Both nations continue to maintain thousands of deployed and reserve warheads, many of them on high operational readiness, capable of being launched within minutes.

(Visual an Instagram grab)

China’s nuclear arsenal, though significantly smaller, is expanding at a pace that has drawn international attention. Estimates suggest Beijing now possesses over 400 warheads, with projections indicating further growth as it modernises its delivery systems and builds new missile silos. France and the United Kingdom maintain comparatively modest but technologically advanced arsenals, designed primarily for deterrence. India and Pakistan, locked in a historically fraught regional rivalry, continue to incrementally build their stockpiles, with India estimated to have around 170 to 180 warheads and Pakistan slightly more. Israel maintains deliberate ambiguity about its capabilities, while North Korea’s arsenal remains opaque but steadily advancing.

What distinguishes the current moment from earlier decades is not merely the number of weapons, but the context in which they exist. The Cold War, for all its dangers, was structured around a relatively stable bipolar rivalry with established communication channels and arms control frameworks. Today’s landscape is far more fragmented. Strategic competition now spans multiple theatres, from Eastern Europe to the Indo-Pacific, with overlapping rivalries and fewer guardrails. The erosion of arms control agreements, such as the collapse of the Intermediate-Range Nuclear Forces Treaty and the uncertain future of New START, has further weakened mechanisms that once imposed limits and transparency.

Equally concerning is the technological evolution accompanying nuclear arsenals. Advances in hypersonic delivery systems, cyber capabilities, and artificial intelligence are compressing decision-making timelines and introducing new uncertainties. The risk is no longer confined to deliberate escalation but extends to miscalculation, system failures, or cyber interference. In such an environment, deterrence becomes both more critical and more precarious.

India’s nuclear posture occupies a distinct place within this global framework. Its doctrine of No First Use has long been projected as a stabilising commitment, signalling that nuclear weapons are intended solely as a retaliatory measure. This position, coupled with a policy of credible minimum deterrence, seeks to balance strategic necessity with restraint. However, evolving regional dynamics, particularly China’s expansion and Pakistan’s tactical nuclear developments, continue to test the durability and interpretation of this doctrine. While India has officially reiterated its commitment to No First Use, debates persist within strategic circles about its future applicability under extreme scenarios.

The doctrines of other nuclear powers vary significantly. The United States and NATO retain the option of first use under certain circumstances, integrating nuclear weapons into broader defence strategies. Russia’s doctrine similarly allows for nuclear use in response to existential threats, with some interpretations suggesting a lowered threshold through concepts like escalation for de-escalation. China officially maintains a No First Use policy, though its rapid arsenal expansion has led to questions about how this stance will evolve. Pakistan, in contrast, explicitly rejects No First Use, viewing nuclear weapons as essential to offset conventional military asymmetry with India.

Despite these doctrinal differences, a common thread runs through all nuclear-armed states: none show any inclination towards complete disarmament. Modernisation programmes are underway across the board, encompassing new warheads, delivery systems, and command structures. Nuclear weapons, far from being relics of a bygone era, remain deeply embedded in national security doctrines.

This reality leads to an uncomfortable but unavoidable conclusion. The world continues to rely on nuclear deterrence as a guarantor of strategic stability, even as the risks associated with it multiply. The paradox is stark. These weapons are seen as essential precisely because their use would be catastrophic beyond comprehension. Since the end of the Second World War, their presence has arguably prevented large-scale conflicts between major powers. Yet, their continued existence ensures that humanity lives under the constant shadow of annihilation.

In an era marked by persistent conflicts, shifting alliances, and rising nationalism, the hope that nuclear weapons will never be used becomes both fragile and indispensable. The absence of any serious movement towards disarmament suggests that these arsenals are here to stay. The challenge, therefore, lies not in imagining a world without them in the immediate future, but in ensuring that they remain what they have largely been since 1945: instruments of deterrence, never of deployment.

The danger today is subtler but deeper than in decades past. It lies in the erosion of norms, the diffusion of power, and the speed of technological change. The nuclear balance is no longer a static equation but a shifting, unpredictable landscape. In such a world, restraint, communication, and renewed commitment to arms control are not idealistic aspirations but urgent necessities.

Humour has been reduced to a poor joke!

Raju Korti
Humour, at its finest, is a deeply human faculty. It is the psychological and cognitive ability to recognise the absurd, to find lightness in heaviness, and to connect with others through shared laughter. It thrives on wit, irony and unexpected perspectives. At its best, it relieves stress, builds bonds and helps societies cope with discomfort. Yet, what we increasingly witness today is not humour in this classical sense but its distortion into something crude, shallow and, at times, disturbingly inhuman.

(Visual conceived by me)

Recent controversies only underline this decline. The flippant reduction of human suffering into something as trivial as a “370 rupaye ki biryani” remark, or the shocking admission by a young doctor that she and her colleagues mocked the private parts of male dead bodies (read dicks), are not isolated aberrations. They are symptomatic of a larger cultural decay where insensitivity is repackaged as boldness and cruelty is mistaken for wit. These incidents are not merely offensive. They reveal a worrying shift in what we now consider acceptable humour.

To understand this erosion, it is worth revisiting why we find things funny in the first place. The incongruity theory suggests that humour arises when expectations are disrupted in surprising ways. Relief theory sees humour as a release of pent-up tension. Superiority theory explains how laughter can stem from a sense of feeling above others. It is this last strand that appears to have metastasised unchecked. What was once a fleeting psychological impulse has now become the foundation of an entire industry of mockery.

The consequences are evident in the types of humour that dominate public spaces. Body shaming is passed off as candid observation. Physical disabilities and deformities become punchlines. The dead, who command dignity in every civilised culture, are reduced to objects of ridicule. This is often justified under the convenient labels of black humour or morbid humour. But true dark humour has always had a purpose. It confronts uncomfortable truths, exposes hypocrisy or helps process grief. It does not trivialise suffering or strip individuals of dignity. What we see today is not dark humour but a darkening of humour itself.

The explosion of stand-up comedy circuits, television formats and private shows has only accelerated this trend. The barrier to entry has lowered, but so have the standards. Many performers rely on contrived provocations, rehearsed outrage and predictable jabs at the vulnerable. The canned laughter that follows, whether from a live audience conditioned to respond or from recorded tracks, creates an illusion of success. It reinforces mediocrity rather than challenging it. The result is a feedback loop where the easiest laugh is also the cheapest, and therefore the most frequently deployed.

This degeneration is not without consequence. Humour that humiliates does not relieve stress. It transfers it. It creates discomfort rather than dissolving it. It alienates rather than unites. When laughter comes at the cost of another’s dignity, it ceases to be a social glue and becomes a social toxin. One may still laugh, but it is a hollow reaction, closer to derision than delight.

It is often argued that humour is subjective and that boundaries are inherently fluid. That is true to an extent. But subjectivity cannot be an alibi for insensitivity. A society that normalises ridicule of the weak, the dead or the defenceless is not expanding the scope of humour. It is shrinking its moral imagination. Freedom of expression does not absolve one of responsibility. It demands a greater awareness of the impact of one’s words.

There was a time when humour could be sharp without being cruel, irreverent without being disrespectful, and bold without being vulgar. Satire could challenge power, wit could expose folly, and irony could provoke thought. That tradition has not disappeared, but it is increasingly drowned out by noise masquerading as comedy.

If humour is meant to lighten the human condition, then what we are witnessing today is its inversion. When jokes deepen discomfort, when laughter feeds on indignity, and when insensitivity is celebrated as courage, humour ceases to serve its purpose. It becomes, quite simply, unmitigated stupidity.

The question is not whether we should laugh. It is whether we still remember what is worth laughing at.

From celebration to liability: The Stokes–Atkinson episode & cricket’s thin red line

Raju Korti
In the early hours following England’s Test win over New Zealand, Ben Stokes and teammate Gus Atkinson found themselves at the centre of an off-field storm. The pair had reportedly stepped out to a nightclub in breach of a newly introduced midnight curfew and were later linked to an altercation involving a Saracens rugby player. What appears, on the surface, to be a late-night argument that escalated into physicality has since evolved into a far more consequential debate about discipline, leadership, and institutional response.

Stokes and Atkinson (a Facebook grab)

At one level, the incident is straightforward. Two players celebrated a win, overstayed the team’s permitted hours, and became embroiled in a confrontation, reportedly triggered by a trivial exchange about sporting codes. But elite sport rarely evaluates events in isolation. Context defines consequence. And in this case, the context is loaded. Stokes is not merely another player. He is England’s Test captain, a figure entrusted with setting behavioural benchmarks in a dressing room that has consciously tried to rebuild its identity.

The curfew rule itself is neither arbitrary nor novel. Teams impose such restrictions to balance recovery, focus, and public accountability, especially during international assignments. A midnight curfew, in essence, is a behavioural contract. It does not prohibit celebration. It regulates it. Breaching it is not just indiscipline. It signals disregard for collective norms. When that breach is followed by a public altercation, the optics shift from private lapse to institutional embarrassment.

This is precisely where the criticism from former players has sharpened. David Gower was measured but firm: “He’s in serious doubt. One of the key duties of a captain is to establish the right standards, if you are in charge, you must lead by example.” He added that it was “poor judgement” and that Stokes had “put himself in a difficult position and exposed himself to risk.” The emphasis here is not moral outrage but leadership accountability. Gower’s argument is simple. Authority demands restraint.

Geoffrey Boycott, predictably, was blunter, insisting that the England and Wales Cricket Board must make an example of the captain and arguing that Stokes had shown a lack of judgement. Boycott’s position reflects an older school of thought where discipline is non-negotiable and symbolic punishment is necessary to preserve institutional authority.

By contrast, Kevin Pietersen offered a more cautious reading. “First thought on Stokes/Atkinson - they’re out celebrating a Test win, so no issues!” he said, before adding, “The altercation stuff, this is an unknown as of now.” Pietersen’s intervention is important because it separates celebration from misconduct and urges restraint in judgement until facts are fully established.

That divergence of opinion mirrors a deeper tension within modern sport. Where exactly does celebration end and indiscipline begin? The line is thinner than teams often admit. Professional athletes operate under intense scrutiny, yet they are also expected to express spontaneity and team bonding. Alcohol, late nights, and competitive egos form a combustible mix. The difference between harmless revelry and reputational damage can be a matter of minutes.

History suggests that such incidents are hardly unprecedented. Cricket, like many sports, has long grappled with off-field excesses. The most tragic example remains that of David Hookes, who died in 2004 after a punch from a bouncer outside a Melbourne pub. That incident was not about elite indiscipline alone. It was a stark reminder of how quickly alcohol-fuelled confrontations can turn fatal. Over the years, various international players across teams have faced disciplinary action for pub altercations, late-night misconduct, and breaches of team codes. The pattern is familiar. The consequences vary.

What complicates the present case further is Stokes’ own public acknowledgement of his struggles with alcohol in the past. That admission had earned him a degree of empathy and respect. But it also raises the stakes now. If the captain, aware of his vulnerabilities, is seen to relapse into risky environments, it invites questions not just about discipline but about judgement and self-management.

For England, the potential fallout is significant. If Stokes were to be suspended, removed from captaincy, or step down voluntarily, the team would lose more than a player. It would lose its central figure in the ongoing Test revival project. Stokes has been the axis around which England’s aggressive red-ball philosophy has revolved. His absence would create both a tactical vacuum and a leadership void. It would also force the ECB to confront a delicate balance between enforcing discipline and preserving a transformative leader.

Equally relevant is the question of the rugby player involved, reportedly a member of Saracens. If a professional athlete from another sport initiated or escalated the physical aspect of the altercation, accountability cannot be selective. Legal processes, if invoked, would operate independently of cricketing authority. But from a sporting standpoint, the principle remains. Elite athletes, regardless of code, are expected to adhere to standards of conduct. Whether the rugby player faces sanctions from his club or governing body will depend on the facts established. He is unlikely to simply walk away without scrutiny if culpability is proven.

For the ECB, the options are structured but sensitive. An internal investigation is already underway. Possible actions range from fines and formal warnings to suspension or removal from leadership roles if the board concludes that the game has been brought into disrepute. The ECB must also consider consistency. Past incidents, both within England and across other teams, will form an implicit benchmark. Too lenient a response risks eroding authority. Too harsh a reaction could destabilise the team at a critical juncture.

Ultimately, this episode is not just about a night gone wrong. It is about the enduring tension between human instinct and professional expectation. Elite sport often celebrates passion, spontaneity, and edge. Yet it demands control, discipline, and example. Stokes, perhaps more than most, embodies both sides of that equation. That is what makes this moment consequential.

The lesson, if there is one, is not that celebration must be curbed into sterility. It is that leadership narrows the margin for error. In modern cricket, where scrutiny is relentless and symbolism matters, even a few hours beyond curfew can carry consequences far beyond the night itself.

If AI solves it all, what’s left for us in Mathematics?

Raju Korti
Mathematics has always been less about answers and more about the journey to reach them. For many of us, it has been a strange companion, a mix of fear and fascination. Problems from calculus books, whether from Wartikar brothers or Kaplan & Lewis, were never just exercises. They were small battles. You struggled, you doubted, and then suddenly, everything clicked. That quiet “click” was the real reward.

(Visual conceived by me)

Today, that experience is quietly changing. Recently, an Artificial Intelligence system reportedly solved the long-standing Erdős unit distance problem, a puzzle that had challenged mathematicians for nearly 80 years. This was not just another academic milestone. It signalled a deeper shift. For the first time, a machine-generated proof may find its place in a top mathematics journal. While this is impressive, it also raises an uncomfortable question. If machines begin to do the thinking for us, what happens to the essence of mathematics?

Because mathematics is not just about getting the right answer. It is about how you get there. Think of a simple situation. When you solve a tricky problem after hours of effort, there is a sense of ownership and pride. Now imagine typing the same problem into an AI tool and getting the answer instantly. It may feel efficient, but it also feels hollow. It is like watching a suspense film after someone has already told you who the murderer is. The story remains, but the thrill disappears.

The joy of mathematics rests on very human elements. It begins with curiosity, the urge to understand why something works the way it does. It grows through struggle, the mental effort that forces you to think deeper. And it peaks in that “aha” moment, when everything suddenly falls into place. If the struggle is removed, the “aha” loses its meaning. Without that journey, mathematics risks becoming a mechanical task rather than an intellectual adventure.

This concern is not limited to personal nostalgia. Leading mathematicians across the world have begun to voice similar worries through what is now known as the Leiden Declaration. Supported by global bodies like the International Mathematical Union, this declaration urges caution. It warns governments and institutions not to get carried away by the hype surrounding AI’s mathematical abilities.

The concern is rooted in the very foundations of mathematics. The discipline is built on trust. A proof is not merely a result but an explanation that can be checked, debated, and understood by others. AI systems, however, can produce answers that appear correct but may not always be reliable. They can blur authorship, skip proper credit, and make independent verification more difficult. In doing so, they threaten the core values of clarity, transparency, and accountability that mathematics depends on.

There is also a larger concern about control. Much of today’s AI development lies in the hands of private companies. The declaration cautions governments against blindly trusting these systems and stresses the need to prevent knowledge from being concentrated in a few hands. If research begins to depend heavily on such tools, even the direction of mathematics could change. Problems may be chosen not for their depth or importance, but because they are easier for machines to handle. This would mark a subtle yet profound shift in the discipline.

In response, the declaration offers a broad but clear direction. Governments must regulate the AI industry with care, ensuring transparency and reliability rather than accepting claims at face value. They should invest in public alternatives so that dependence on private technology is reduced. Academic standards must be protected, with AI-assisted work held to the same rigour as traditional research. At the same time, access to such tools must remain fair, so that they do not deepen inequalities among students and researchers.

Mathematics has survived many technological changes in the past. Calculators did not destroy it, nor did computers replace it. But Artificial Intelligence feels different because it touches the very act of thinking. It does not just assist the process; it risks taking it over.

At its core, mathematics has always been a deeply human endeavour. AI can certainly help us move faster and even open new doors of discovery. But if it takes away the struggle, the curiosity, and the joy of finding answers ourselves, then something essential is lost.

Solving a difficult problem from an old textbook may soon become optional. But the satisfaction of solving it on your own should never become obsolete. 

Annamalai’s exit, a strategy or schism?

Raju Korti
The reported departure of K. Annamalai from the Bharatiya Janata Party is not merely a personnel shift. It is a moment that exposes the tension between ideological ambition and electoral pragmatism in Tamil Nadu, a state where politics has long been shaped by the gravitational pull of powerful regional forces.

At one level, the BJP’s decision to ease Annamalai out of the state leadership and rebuild ties with the All India Anna Dravida Munnetra Kazhagam suggests a clear case of expediency. The party chose alliance arithmetic over the risk of a solitary, long-haul expansion strategy that Annamalai appeared to favour. His insistence on growing independently, without leaning on Dravidian majors, ran counter to the BJP’s immediate electoral needs. In a state where the Dravida Munnetra Kazhagam and AIADMK have alternated dominance for decades, the BJP’s recalibration was less ideological retreat and more tactical adjustment.

(Pic courtesy Instagram)

Yet, to call it mere capitulation would be simplistic. Tamil Nadu has historically resisted national parties, not just electorally but culturally and linguistically. The Dravidian movement’s legacy has created a political ecosystem where identity, regional pride, and welfare politics intertwine tightly. For an outsider party, the choice is stark. It can either embed itself gradually through alliances or attempt a disruptive, independent rise that may take decades. The BJP, under leaders like Narendra Modi and Amit Shah, has shown patience in other states, but Tamil Nadu remains a tougher terrain.

Annamalai represented the disruptive option. His direct, combative style, rooted in his background as a former IPS officer, gave the BJP a distinct voice in the state. He broke through the party’s earlier anonymity and built a recognisable political persona. However, that same approach strained ties with potential allies. His sharp attacks on AIADMK icons and leadership made coexistence difficult, especially in a coalition-driven landscape.

His exit, therefore, signals a divergence in method rather than ideology. The critical question is whether this divergence is final. Indian politics offers enough precedents of leaders stepping out only to remain informally aligned. If Annamalai does launch a regional outfit, it could follow one of two paths. It may evolve into a genuinely independent force competing for the same political space, which would fragment the non-Dravidian vote further. Or it could function as a quasi-aligned entity, retaining ideological proximity to the BJP while shedding its “national party” tag, thereby gaining local acceptability.

The latter possibility feeds into the argument that this could be a longer-term strategic play. By operating outside the BJP’s formal structure, Annamalai might circumvent the resistance that Tamil voters often show toward national parties. This would allow him to build a grassroots base under a Tamil identity while maintaining a broader ideological alignment. Whether this is by design or an unintended consequence remains speculative, but it is not implausible in a state where perception often outweighs affiliation.

For the BJP, the gains and losses are finely balanced. In the short term, aligning with AIADMK restores a viable electoral pathway, even if it limits the party’s independent growth. In the long term, however, losing a figure like Annamalai risks diluting the party’s emerging identity in the state. He was one of the few leaders who gave the BJP a distinct voice in Tamil Nadu’s crowded political discourse.

For Annamalai, the risks are even sharper. Building a new party in Tamil Nadu is not simply an organisational challenge. It requires navigating a deeply entrenched political culture dominated by legacy parties with vast networks and emotional resonance. Without a clear alliance or sustained support base, such a venture could take years to gain traction. His refusal, reportedly, of a Rajya Sabha berth suggests a preference for ground-level politics over institutional accommodation, but it also removes a safety net.

Ultimately, this episode underscores the structural reality of Tamil Nadu politics. The Dravidian stranglehold is not just about electoral numbers. It is about narrative control, cultural ownership, and organisational depth built over decades. Any attempt to break into this space, whether by the BJP or a breakaway leader like Annamalai, must contend with that layered dominance.

Whether this moment marks a rupture or a recalibration will depend on what follows. If Annamalai’s next move creates a parallel political current that complements rather than competes with the BJP, it could reshape the state’s political geometry over time. If not, it risks becoming another instance of ambition outrunning arithmetic in one of India’s most politically distinctive states.

The last silken note falls silent

Raju Korti
There are departures that feel less like an end and more like the quiet extinguishing of a lingering glow. With the passing of Suman Kalyanpur nee Hemmady, that glow dims perceptibly. For with her exit, the last living links to India’s great galaxy of playback legends have finally dissolved into memory, leaving behind an era that now belongs entirely to history.

She belonged to a time when voices did not need amplification through spectacle. They travelled on emotion alone. And hers was one such voice. Gentle, unassuming and silken to the core, it carried within it a rare blend of restraint and resonance. It never demanded attention, yet commanded it effortlessly.

And yet, the very quality that made her unforgettable also became her greatest professional disadvantage. Her voice bore an uncanny resemblance to that of Lata Mangeshkar. In an industry where Lata and her equally formidable sister Asha Bhosle were already calling the shots; such similarity was less a compliment and more a quiet disqualification. The lazy and often unkind labels of “Lata clone” or “second Lata” followed her persistently, betraying more ignorance than insight. For a clone imitates. Suman never did. She simply sounded like herself, and that happened to echo another great voice.

In truth, the difference between the two was, as connoisseurs would say, ‘unnees bees’. So fine was this distinction that even in their rare duet Kabhi aaj kabhi kal kabhi parson from Chand, one could scarcely tell where one voice ended and the other began. But fate is seldom fair in matters of timing. To be born into the shadow of greatness, however inadvertently, is often to remain confined within it.

The Hindi film industry, never known for its generosity, compounded this challenge. Stories abounded of a duopoly, even a monopoly, that left little room for another soprano of similar timbre. Whether these were exaggerations or veiled truths may never be conclusively known. Both Suman and Lata maintained a dignified silence on the matter, lending a quiet credence to the old adage that silence often speaks louder than words. What stood out, however, was Suman’s grace. Not once did she stoke controversy. On the contrary, she readily acknowledged Lata as the superior singer, a gesture that revealed as much about her character as her music did.

Destiny, though, has its own ways of restoring balance. When Mohammed Rafi and Lata Mangeshkar fell out over the issue of royalties, Hindi cinema witnessed an unusual interlude. The two titans did not sing together for several years. In that gap, Rafi’s collaborations expanded, and Suman Kalyanpur found herself stepping into a space that demanded both competence and courage. It proved to be her finest professional phase.

What followed was a series of duets that remain etched in memory. Thehriye hosh mein aa loon from Mohabbat Isko Kehte Hain, Parbaton ke pedon par from Shagoon, Chand hai taare bhi hai from Rooplekha, Jazbaye dil jo salamat hai to, Jab se hum tum baharon mein from Main Shaadi Karne Chala, Aajhu na aaye balma from Saanjh Aur Savera, and Ke jaan chali jaaye from Anjaana were not merely fillers in the absence of another voice. They were expressions of a singer who rose fully to the occasion.

To attribute these successes solely to circumstance would be to diminish her artistry. For alongside Rafi, she held her own with remarkable poise. The argument that she was merely the ‘replacement’ dissolves the moment one listens closely. There was clarity in her notes, an almost crystalline purity that could not be borrowed.

Her versatility extended well beyond duets. With Manna Dey, she created memorable pieces like Naa jaane kahaan tum the from Zindagi Aur Khwab and Tum jo aao to pyaar aa jaaye from Sakhi Robin. With Mukesh, she lent grace to Baharon se puchho from Mera Ghar Mere Bachche and Ye kisne geet chheda from Meri Surat Teri Aankhen. And in lighter moods, her youthful lilt in Chhodo chhodo meri bainya from Miya Bibi Raazi carried the freshness of an adolescent voice discovering its own range.

Her solo repertoire, too, stands as testimony to her depth. Composers of the calibre of Khayyam entrusted her with compositions like Bujha diye hain khud apne haathon, Zindagi zulm sahi, Jo hum pe gujarti hai tanhaa, and Haal-e-dil unko sunaya tha. These were not songs one assigned lightly. They required emotional intelligence as much as technical finesse.

Beyond Hindi cinema, her contribution to Marathi music remains profound. In the evocative world of bhavgeet, her renditions of Din raat tula mi kiti smaru and Maavaltya Dinkara left an indelible imprint. Songs like Saanj aali dooratun, Jhim jhim jharati shravan dhara, Ketkichya bani tithe, and Aakash pangharoni reveal a voice that could caress language as delicately as it handled melody.

There was also that delightful anecdote from a programme in Nagpur. Reminded of the non-film song Rim jhim rim jhim lo barse moti ke daane, inspired note for note by Billy Vaughan’s Come September, she responded not with dismissal but with childlike enthusiasm, singing a portion of it on the spot. That was Suman Kalyanpur. No airs, no pretensions. Only a quiet joy in music.

Her life off the microphone mirrored her art. Self-effacing, almost shy, she avoided the aggressive networking that the industry often rewards. Coming from a relatively comfortable background, she neither cultivated sycophancy nor engaged in the cut-throat manoeuvring that defined many careers. In an age where even excellence sought validation, she remained content with expression.

Recognition, when it came, was often delayed. The conferment of the Padma Bhushan, coming so late, invited the inevitable remark of “better late than never.” Yet such honours, in her case, felt almost incidental. For artists of her kind, awards are mere labels. Their true recognition lies in the permanence of their voice.

To say that she was overshadowed would be both true and insufficient. For even in that shadow, she created a luminous space of her own. A space defined not by rivalry, but by refinement. Not by assertion, but by assurance.

Today, as we bid farewell to the Dhaka-born singer once fondly called the “Dhake ki Malmal,” one is reminded that the softest fabrics often endure the longest. Her voice was just that. Fine, delicate, yet enduring beyond time.

And now, as that voice falls silent, it leaves behind not an emptiness, but an echo. An echo that will continue to drift through radio waves, old recordings and the private corners of memory. For voices like hers do not vanish. They simply recede, like a gentle note that lingers long after the music has stopped.