Time to say adieu to Gambhir’s experiments!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Decoding the whimsical nature of India’s cyclones!

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

(Pic representational)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Pic representational)

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

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

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

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

The leopard question: Crisis or overreach?

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

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

(Pic representational)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When death becomes clickbait!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Pic representational)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Aliens are human too. They're entitled to boredom!

Raju Korti
It all began when I stumbled upon this rather delightful theory by Dr Robin Corbet of NASA. He calls it radical mundanity, which, in plain language, means that aliens might be as ordinary as us, only with slightly shinier gadgets. For years, we have imagined them cruising around in shimmering spaceships, manipulating gravity and sipping quantum cocktails. But Corbet suggests they might be no more exciting than a cosmic neighbour who once bought a telescope, got tired of stargazing, and decided to stick to their version of afternoon tea.

Pic as imagined by me, Who ese?

The more I thought about it, the funnier it seemed. Imagine an alien research council somewhere in the Andromeda Galaxy holding an emergency meeting: “Operation Contact Earth: Status?” And one sleepy alien saying, “We sent them a signal 3 million years ago. Still buffering.” At some point, even the most patient civilisation would give up and reach for a plate of samosas instead.

It turns out that sending messages across galaxies is not like sending a WhatsApp text. It takes colossal amounts of energy and time. Possibly millions of years just to get a ‘hello’ back. So, after a few cosmic centuries, our alien friends might have realised it was not worth the trouble. You can almost picture them sighing, “These humans can’t even agree on the taste of chai. Let’s move on.”Dr Corbet’s theory also punctures the grand myth of aliens being godlike. He suggests they might just have slightly better tech. An iPhone 42 instead of an iPhone 17. Which means, instead of building galaxy-sized marvels or bending space-time, they could be stuck dealing with their own version of power cuts, software crashes, and interplanetary traffic snarls.

In fact, this makes the universe feel oddly familiar. The Fermi Paradox, the question of why we haven’t heard from anyone yet, might just have the most human answer imaginable: they got bored. Picture the aliens tuning into Earth’s broadcasts, watching endless election debates on television, and deciding that advanced communication with us was a bad idea.

But on a serious note, there is something oddly comforting in this mundanity. If they are indeed out there, maybe they are not perfect, not terrifying, just as flawed and easily distracted as we are. Maybe their greatest invention wasn’t some interstellar engine but a better version of the pressure cooker.So yes, the universe might be full of intelligent life, but it could also be full of civilisations that simply lost interest halfway. In the end, perhaps we are all, humans and aliens alike, victims of the same cosmic condition: short attention spans and the irresistible lure of comfort over curiosity.

After all, even in the grand theatre of the cosmos, it seems boredom truly is universal.

When the monster turns: Pakistan’s Taliban dilemma and India’s calculus

Raju Korti
I have always believed that history punishes those who ignore its lessons. The events now playing out between Pakistan and the Taliban are a grim reminder of that truth. Creating a monster in the hope of controlling it is a strategy that never ends well. From a diplomatic and strategic standpoint, nurturing groups like the Taliban was a miscalculation of monumental proportions. And now, the fallout is at Pakistan’s doorstep.

What was once Islamabad’s prized proxy has evolved into its most formidable adversary. The recent breakdown of talks between Pakistan and the Taliban has set the stage for a dangerous confrontation. The Tehrik-e-Taliban Pakistan (TTP), emboldened by ideological kinship and territorial sanctuary in Afghanistan, has declared open hostility toward its former patron. The hunter has indeed become the hunted.

Divided by barbs

The Taliban’s defiance of Pakistan’s pleas to rein in TTP is not mere brinkmanship. It signals a deeper shift in regional power equations. The Taliban, now in control of Kabul, no longer needs Pakistan’s patronage or protection. For the first time, it sees itself as an independent force. Perhaps even as the arbiter of South and Central Asian jihadist politics. That confidence, or arrogance, makes the situation far more volatile.

Pakistan’s military, long seen as the orchestrator of regional power plays, suddenly finds itself cornered. The optics of TTP fighters moving freely in Khyber Pakhtunkhwa and mocking the Pakistani army are not only humiliating but also destabilizing. For Islamabad, this is no longer about containing insurgency. It is about surviving a rebellion it once armed and funded.

In this shifting dynamic, India inevitably enters the frame. Pakistan’s accusation that the Taliban is now acting as an “Indian puppet” borders on the absurd. India has maintained a consistent distance from the Taliban, both ideologically and diplomatically. No senior Taliban leader had set foot in India since the group recaptured Kabul on August 15, 2021; until now. The visit of acting Foreign Minister Amir Khan Muttaqi to New Delhi marks a cautious, calibrated engagement, not an embrace.

India’s position must remain clear-eyed. Any engagement with the Taliban must serve two purposes: safeguarding Indian interests in Afghanistan and ensuring that terror networks with cross-border ambitions find no sanctuary there. While dialogue is not endorsement, it does signal a pragmatic recognition of the new realities in the neighbourhood.

But caution must remain the watchword. The Taliban’s past record of duplicity, ideological rigidity, and support for extremism cannot be overlooked. Its promises of moderation have so far been largely rhetorical. India must balance outreach with vigilance, ensuring that any diplomatic engagement does not legitimize or embolden a regime still struggling to align with international norms.

For Pakistan, the crisis is existential. Its decades-long use of militant groups as instruments of state policy has finally imploded. The Taliban, now its nemesis, refuses to dance to Islamabad’s tune. The threat is not only military but also psychological. Pakistan’s strategic depth has turned into a strategic disaster.

As the dust settles on this dangerous confrontation, one thing is clear: Pakistan’s experiment with terror as foreign policy has collapsed under its own weight. The Taliban’s rise may have changed Afghanistan’s power map, but its newest battleground lies within Pakistan itself. For India, this is a moment to watch, not rush. In the great game of the subcontinent, patience, prudence, and preparedness will be the best weapons.

The paradox of Death: Routine, yet always exceptional!

Raju Korti
To me, death has always existed on two irreconcilable planes. One philosophical, the other painfully real. In thought, it overwhelms; in experience, it devastates. No amount of spiritual discourse can cushion the blunt force of absence. The unbearable knowledge that you will never again see that person in flesh and blood. The mind can debate eternity; the heart cannot bear finality.

Board at a crematorium

Yet, amid this emotional chaos, I find myself observing those who live and work in the orbit of death, people for whom it has become almost procedural. In hospitals, nurses and doctors steel themselves before breaking the news to a waiting family. Their faces, often expressionless, betray the fatigue of repetition. It is not callousness, but a necessary armour, a coping mechanism that allows them to serve without collapsing.

At crematoriums and burial grounds, attendants perform their duties with an economy of gesture that borders on ritual precision. They lift, place, and light pyres, their hands moving through smoke and ash as if through air. To them, the end of life is another beginning of a shift, a routine, a livelihood. I often wonder whether the smell of burning wood still stirs anything in them or whether familiarity has numbed them into quiet acceptance.

Even in government offices, death finds bureaucratic expression. A death certificate is printed, stamped, and filed away like any other document. The clerk behind the counter may not flinch at the name, but somewhere, that piece of paper marks the end of someone’s world.

My own tryst with loss, the untimely death of my 37-year-old nephew, tore open this contemplation. Grief, I discovered, is not a moment but a state of being. People say time heals; perhaps it only dulls. The death of someone close is a terminating pause. From where one does not move on, only around.

Science explains death as the irreversible cessation of vital functions. Philosophy frames it as transition, religion as liberation. Yet no definition has ever truly captured its essence. Death remains the one mystery no living being has ever returned to decode.

Perhaps those who deal with it daily are the closest we have to understanding it. Not through theory, but through endurance. Their detachment is not indifference, but wisdom earned through proximity. They remind us that while death may be universal, the way we meet it -- with grief, grace, or grim duty -- is profoundly human.

Death may be an illusion, as some say, but never illusive. We can study it, philosophize about it, even grow accustomed to it, yet never truly know it.

Ram Ram! Random Access, Random Memories: Becoming a late-in-life psychologist

Raju Korti
A few days back, I happened to read an article that has provided grist to my counselling mill. It was about how the brain “rescues” fragile memories and discards others. The study, published recently in Science Advances, explores how our memory system gives ordinary moments staying power when they are linked, before or after, to emotionally charged or rewarding experiences.

I am no cognitive psychologist or memory researcher, but I find this fascinating. My own vault of memories is cluttered not with grand moments but with stray, inconsequential ones. I can recall the pattern on a teacup from a forgotten afternoon or the exact sound of a ceiling fan from a childhood home, but not the details of a far more significant event. None of these recollections seem to fit neatly into the categories scientists describe. How does science explain such random retention? Perhaps even the brain does not always know why it keeps what it does.

Pic merely representational

The study argues that memory is not a passive recorder but an active decision-maker. It “rescues” fragile memories if they share a sensory or conceptual link with a meaningful event. My little research tells me that this phenomenon, called graded prioritization. means that the brain’s emotional circuitry can reach backward or forward in time to stabilise related experiences. For instance, an emotional high or shock can strengthen the memory of neutral moments that came just before or after it.In simpler terms, the brain saves stories, not snapshots. It chooses fragments that fit into a narrative it can later reconstruct. That to me explains why emotional significance, attention, and relevance to current goals weigh heavily in memory formation. The brain privileges what it finds useful for survival, learning, or identity building. Emotional events, especially those invoking stress or reward, activate the key regions that signal the brain to consolidate the experience into long-term storage.

Yet what intrigues me most is how arbitrary it still feels. Many of my most vivid memories have no emotional weight or logical purpose. They are sensory fragments. Smells, sounds, and fleeting visuals that seem detached from context. Maybe they once brushed against a meaningful experience, or maybe they were just efficiently encoded by chance. Science might call this selective capture, the brain’s way of economising energy by keeping only what fits its evolving model of the world. But that explanation feels, at best, partial.

This puzzle becomes even more interesting when we think about dreams. Some researchers believe that dreams are the brain’s nocturnal workshop, replaying and reorganising fragments of waking life to strengthen certain connections. Others suggest they are a by-product of random neural firing with no structured purpose. The boundary between dreams and memories often blurs. I have woken up unsure whether a vivid scene was a remembered event or a dream. Proof, perhaps, that both arise from the same creative, reconstructive process.

I understand that memory science is fundamentally an approximate science rather than a perfect one. It relies on observation, experimentation, and evolving theories to make sense of a fallible biological process. Even the most sophisticated brain imaging cannot fully decode how a fleeting sensory impression becomes an enduring recollection. Researchers are still uncovering how memories are encoded, stored, and retrieved, and how the emotional brain decides which ones to rescue and which to release into oblivion.

That uncertainty, in a way, makes the science even more beautiful. Memory, after all, is not about accuracy. It is about meaning. The fact that our minds sometimes cling to the trivial and discard the important may not be a flaw but a reflection of how deeply human, creative, and imperfect the process really is.

Inside the Solitude Zone: Are We Truly Alone in the Cosmos?

Raju Korti
Are we truly alone in the universe? It is a question that has stirred human imagination for centuries, and one that science keeps trying to answer with logic rather than longing. A new theory known as the “Solitude Zone” offers a startling possibility: that our civilisation may be the only one of its kind in existence right now.

The “Solitude Zone” is not a cosmic boundary or mysterious void, but a mathematical probability model suggesting that, under certain conditions, a single technologically advanced civilisation (ours) could exist at a time. Conceived to address the Fermi Paradox, which questions why no alien life has yet been detected, the Solitude Zone reframes the issue as one of statistical emergence rather than physical absence.

As I understand, one approach proposes that for a civilisation to emerge, three factors must align: the number of habitable planets, the complexity of the civilisation, and the likelihood of such complexity arising. When the probability of emergence is finely balanced, neither too rare nor too common, it creates a statistical window where one civilisation can exist in isolation. Humanity, by this model, could occupy that window.

The implications are profound. If correct, the Solitude Zone suggests our loneliness is not by design or cosmic neglect, but by probability. It paints intelligence as a fleeting, perhaps self-limiting phenomenon, appearing sparsely across the vast universe. This idea tempers the optimism of projects like SETI and challenges the assumption that advanced civilisations are waiting to be found.

For the uninitiated, SETI stands for Search for Extraterrestrial Intelligence. It is a collective term for scientific efforts to detect signals or signs of intelligent life beyond Earth. SETI researchers use large radio telescopes and other instruments to scan the skies for non-random, structured radio waves or laser pulses that could indicate communication from alien civilizations.

The idea behind SETI is that if intelligent beings exist elsewhere in the universe, they might use electromagnetic signals, just as humans do, to communicate across space.

However, the theory’s credibility remains limited by its reliance on assumptions. The variables such as how often complex life evolves or survives long enough to be noticed, are largely speculative. Without empirical evidence of other civilisations or clearer understanding of life’s distribution, the Solitude Zone remains a mathematical abstraction, not a definitive conclusion.

As for any connection to Comet Atlas 31’s recent erratic behaviour, there is none scientifically established. The comet’s trajectory changes and unexplained luminosity are natural astrophysical phenomena, not evidence of extraterrestrial design. The idea of alien involvement belongs more to imaginative conjecture than to credible science.

In essence, the Solitude Zone theory reframes our existential question. It neither proves nor disproves alien existence but suggests that cosmic silence may simply be the statistical norm. Whether that solitude is comforting or disquieting depends on how humanity chooses to see its singular place in the universe.

Crisis in PoK: Opportunity wrapped in risk for India

Raju Korti
As I watch events unfold across Pakistan-occupied Kashmir (PoK), it is clear that Islamabad’s control over the region has begun to crack. The massive protests that forced Pakistan’s government to accept a sweeping 38-point charter mark more than just civil unrest. They signify the people’s accumulated anger against decades of exploitation, neglect and empty promises. For India, which has consistently claimed PoK as its own, these developments carry serious implications, both as a potential opening and as a test of restraint.

The Pakistani military establishment clearly appears rattled. In recent months, its tone has grown more defensive, almost panicky. Prime Minister Narendra Modi’s statement that Operation Sindoor was only “paused,” and the unequivocal comments by Defence Minister Rajnath Singh, External Affairs Minister S. Jaishankar and Army Chief General Upendra Dwivedi, have unnerved Islamabad. Pakistan’s predictable response has been to issue its routine threat of “cataclysmic” consequences, invoking its nuclear arsenal as it has done many times before.

This nervousness is not without reason. The growing domestic anger in PoK has coincided with India’s aggressive diplomacy and clear articulation of its rightful claim over the territory. Posters calling for merger with India have emerged during protests in towns like Muzaffarabad and Rawalakot. Rajnath Singh’s remark that India may not even need to use military means to reclaim PoK carries symbolic weight. It suggests that Pakistan’s own citizens in the occupied territory may become the agents of change.

For Islamabad, the timing could not have been worse. The Pahalgam terror attack, which killed 26 Indian tourists, was followed by India’s stern warnings and heightened military readiness. Meanwhile, Pakistan’s ruling elite seemed to misread the situation, buoyed by false perceptions of global support. US President Donald Trump cosying up to Pakistan’s army chief Asim Munir, though transactional, has led Pakistan to believe it has regained international relevance. The defence pact with Saudi Arabia added to that illusion. Yet beneath this veneer of confidence, Pakistan’s internal rot has become visible, and the PoK protests have laid it bare.

The character of the agitation is worth noting. It is not externally instigated but locally driven. What began as anger over inflated power tariffs, food shortages and bureaucratic privileges has evolved into a full-blown civic movement demanding transparency, local rights and resource justice. The Jammu Kashmir Joint Awami Action Committee has become the voice of this movement. The fact that Islamabad had to capitulate to most of its demands underscores how brittle its hold on PoK has become.

For India, this moment must be handled with both sensitivity and foresight. It is tempting to view Pakistan’s crisis as an opening for bold action, but prudence is key. India’s best move lies not in military adventurism but in narrative precision and diplomatic assertiveness. The unrest offers a powerful counterpoint to Pakistan’s long-standing rhetoric about human rights in Kashmir. India can use this to expose the hypocrisy of Islamabad’s position, preaching self-determination while denying the same to those living under its administration.

New Delhi should take this opportunity to amplify the issue in multilateral forums, highlighting the denial of rights and economic exploitation in PoK. By maintaining diplomatic pressure and moral high ground, India can reinforce its legitimacy without crossing lines that might trigger reckless responses from Pakistan. It is equally important not to mistake turbulence for collapse. Pakistan’s security apparatus remains formidable, and its leadership could easily resort to diversionary tactics, including cross-border provocations, to unify a restless population.

That said, India must not let the moment slip away. The people of PoK have begun to see the stark difference between their stagnation and the visible development across Jammu and Kashmir after Article 370’s abrogation. Their demands for accountability and equitable resource distribution are, in essence, demands for dignity. India can quietly acknowledge and morally support these aspirations without overt interference.

If India plays this phase with composure and strategy, it can strengthen its position both diplomatically and ideologically. The unrest in PoK underscores that Pakistan’s narrative on Kashmir is collapsing under its own contradictions. For India, this is not just a vindication of its long-held stand but a reminder that patience, not provocation, will yield the greater reward.

The winds of change in Pakistan-occupied Kashmir may not yet be a storm, but they are unmistakable. India must watch closely, act wisely and prepare for a future where the people across that line may one day decide their own destiny, and perhaps, align it with India’s. 

A chat with Tony Greig: Chronicling the man who made Cricket talk back!

Raju Korti
My first glimpse of Anthony William Greig, better recognised by cricket buffs the world over as Tony Greig, dates back to 1972-73 when I was among the countless school-going boys hysterical about the game. The Englishmen were led by another Tony, Lewis, who looked more like a Hollywood star and became an instant hit with the Indian media for his impeccable manners. On that tour of India, however, the scene stealer was Greig with his six feet seven-inch frame and infectious energy. That was not his only claim to fame. Greig, with his aggression and crowd-friendly antics, was lustily cheered wherever the teams played. My most abiding memory of that tour is of Greig protecting the boundary and catching oranges thrown at him by exuberant spectators with the same practiced ease as he caught cricket balls.

Tony Greig (Wikipedia grab)

Greig was a revelation on that tour with his all-round performance. As a batsman, he would stride out boldly to the Indian spinners and hit them into the stands. As a bowler capable of bowling gentle medium pace and cutters, he could extract awkward bounce even from the placid Indian pitches. Greig had both height and stature, if you know what I mean. Thanks to Wisden Almanack and Sports and Pastime, which carried articles by the likes of Neville Cardus, Jim Swanton, Jack Fingleton, and Richie Benaud, we youngsters were very well informed. We knew how Greig, who could never have played international cricket because of the Gleneagles Treaty, was pitchforked into the English team due to his Scottish parentage. The Treaty barred South Africa and its players from international cricket because of apartheid, and had it not been for his ancestry, Greig would have been condemned to play alongside greats like Ali Bacher, the Pollock brothers, Eddie Barlow, and Mike Procter in domestic cricket, since the Pretoria regime remained adamant on its racial policies.

In a way, Sunil Gavaskar, who strode like a colossus on the cricketing firmament during the historic 1971 Caribbean tour, was partly responsible for introducing us to those South African giants. Garry Sobers, whom I consider the game’s greatest of all time, picked Gavaskar for the Australia versus Rest of the World series, and that team included several South Africans whose names were already legends to us.A couple of years later, Greig’s antecedents came in handy for media tycoon Kerry Packer, who used him to recruit the best of West Indian, Australian, Pakistani, and South African talent for the World Series of Cricket, derisively dubbed the “Packer Circus.” It turned out to be just that in letter and spirit. All the cricketers were banned by their national boards for their “betrayal.” For all the interest and hoopla generated by the Packer Series, the matches were largely low scoring and became little more than statistics in record books. The point, however, is that Greig’s leadership qualities had surfaced even before he was formally inducted into the MCC’s Test eleven. His role in that colourful venture later cost him England’s captaincy, which he had inherited from Mike Denness, and exposed him to criticism and bitterness.

During the home summer of 1974, England faced three Tests each against India and Pakistan. Greig averaged 42 with the bat and took 14 wickets, his hundred against India at Lord’s being the highlight. It was good preparation for the Ashes tour of Australia, where the Englishmen, uncharitably called “Poms”, were the favourites. As it turned out, they were made to hop, skip, and jump by the blistering pace of Dennis Lillee and Jeff Thomson. While most of his teammates were clueless about what had hit them, Greig stood tall with a gritty 110. He was a standout character in a losing team and won the admiration of the “hard-playing” Aussies who respected his approach to the game.

When Greig toured India again in 1976-77 as captain, he justified the mantle by winning a series in the subcontinent against the best spinning attack in the world. I was then a college-going youngster who realised how thoroughly he had done his homework. I remember watching the tall Greig holding his bat almost chest-high against pacers and then adjusting his stance quickly to bring the bat down against the Indian spinners.

By 1987, the equations had changed. I was now a journalist with The Hindu, and Greig had taken on a new role as writer and commentator. In the Press Box, I was fortunate to be seated between Greig and another commentator I deeply admired, Trevor Bailey. I was working on an in-depth feature on Bailey. Greig, who overheard our conversation, tapped me on the back and said warmly, “That was wonderful, mate.” That little boost led to an interview with him at his hotel. He was amused to know that he had once caught an orange I had thrown at him during the 1972-73 series.

By then, I knew how brutally blunt he could be. His ebullient oratory had created quite a flutter when he commented that the West Indian players wilted under pressure. He said, “I like to think that people are building these West Indians up because I am not really sure they are as good as everyone else thinks they are. People are forgetting they were beaten 5-1 by the Aussies and barely survived against the Indians. Sure, they have a couple of fast bowlers, but I do not think we will run into anything faster than Lillee and Thomson. The West Indians are magnificent when they are on top. But if they are down, they grovel, and I intend to make them grovel.

”There was a furore as expected. The word “grovel” carried sinister connotations for the West Indians, many of whom had slave ancestry. At a time when apartheid and the Gleneagles Agreement were live issues, a white South African using the word “grovel” was bound to be explosive. Stung to the quick, the West Indian bowlers took special delight in targeting Greig, and he became their prized wicket. True to his nature, he expressed no remorse.

By then, Greig had made a smooth transition to the commentary box. As a commentator, he was expressive, animated, and sometimes theatrical. You could visualise his intense face and the excitement of the game through his words. He probably knew, and perhaps even revelled in, his enduring popularity in India whenever he commentated in matches involving the Indian team.

Partly because he had seen me chatting at length with the likes of Bailey, Henry Blofeld, and Peter Roebuck (who would later take his own life), Greig spoke with complete candour when I interviewed him. “I still think of the West Indians in the same breath,” he told me. I did not mince words either. “As a commentator, your bias often showed. You spoke as fluently as the BBC greats like Brian Johnston, Don Moseley, Jenkins, and Blofeld, but you sometimes overplayed your hand. Was it exuberance or design?” I asked. “Oh, they are all seasoned veterans and peerless,” he said with a smile, “but I am what I have to be.

”That same flourish often coloured his commentary, whether he was describing the cricket or the jewellery worn by ladies in the stands. His narration could swing from extreme to extreme, sometimes carried away by his own passion, never overly concerned about the fallout. Yet, whether one liked him or not, he remained in a league of his own.

In that conversation, Greig spoke freely. Sometimes criticising Indians, sometimes admiring them unabashedly. He was always candid, never cautious. When he later spoke matter-of-factly about his lung cancer and its inevitability, there was no trace of self-pity. Compare that with our own Yuvraj Singh, whose bout with cancer was endlessly revisited by the media and public.

In his last lecture at the Spirit of Cricket Cowdrey, Greig said, “I have never had any doubt I did the right thing by my family and by cricket.”

He truly epitomised that.

When retirement becomes a rehearsal for freedom with no quests!

Raju Korti
I have worked for donkey’s years in a profession that offered little by way of gratitude, much by way of unpredictability, and almost nothing by way of respite. The hours were odd, the demands incessant. Life was one long haul of fulfilling expectations, both spoken and unspoken, from people who rarely paused to ask: how are you doing?

In my salad days, I looked at retirement as a faraway mirage. A land meant for the weary, the spent, the purposeless. Not for me. I was so consumed by motion and meaning that I genuinely wondered what kind of soul would voluntarily hang up their boots. Of course, like many others, I too grappled with the unsettling question, Would I be able to sustain myself financially? But that anxiety soon faded when I turned to the larger ethos that had always guided my choices.

Age has its own silent curriculum. It doesn’t scream lessons into your ears, it whispers them. Softly, steadily, until the truth seeps in like light through curtains left ajar. And now I know: perhaps those who retired before me had simply walked the same spiral of realisation. You don’t suddenly become tired. You simply begin to know. In your bones. That it is time.

There comes a time when you realise you have nothing left to prove. Certainly not to those perennial auditors of your life. The naysayers, the disappointed, the hypercritical, the ones who sniff out flaws like bloodhounds. For years, I played host to their expectations. I stood by them: in their thick, in their thin, in their mess. I offered trust like one offers water to the thirsty. And like most such offerings, it was taken for granted. Sometimes spilled, sometimes thrown back.

But something shifted. Rancour, that old rusted emotion, eventually wore out. And in its place, I discovered a calm relief. I do not miss those who walked away. I do not mourn those who failed me. In fact, I silently thank the invisible hand of nature for taking out the emotional trash. Good riddance is not an act of bitterness. It is ecology. A defence mechanism that helps you survive with grace.

So here I am, looking at retirement not with dread, but with curiosity. Perhaps even glee. I turned 70 on August 31 last. A milestone, not of age, but of arrival. I looked forward to announcing, not with fanfare but with quiet satisfaction. The over-riding thought was: I am done. The race is run. The boots, finally, are hung.

Idleness does not scare me. I have walked enough to now enjoy sitting still. The mind, thankfully, has not retired. It reads, it writes, it stirs a pot of curry every now and then. These small acts of creation are what keep me gently tethered to the world.

I have no doubt that solitude will embrace me like an old friend. Not the cloying loneliness people dread. This is something more elegant. It is space, it is silence, it is sovereignty. I do not count regrets anymore. I do not run a ledger of things left undone. I live simply, perhaps invisibly. And that, to me, is liberation. Almost like nirvana where even your own identity becomes irrelevant.

Retirement, I have observed, is often viewed through a lens of reinvention. The bucket lists, the travel plans, the long-postponed passions. Others see it as a void to be filled. But I feel neither. I seek not activity, nor reinvention, nor reflection. I seek simply being. A slow, intentional existence with no badges to wear, no scores to settle, no self to sculpt.

There is life after retirement. Mine will be modest. No pension, no windfall. Just a gentle clamour within that says: Go get a life. And that is what I intend to do.

In retreating, I will not disappear. I will arrive. Into myself.

Dev Anand and the untold story of his misplaced picture!

Raju Korti
There are stars, there are legends. And then there is Dev Anand. Even in a city overpopulated with charm and charisma, Dev Anand stood apart. You couldn’t quite put a finger on what made him the cynosure of all eyes, but when he entered a room, the atmosphere changed perceptibly. The air thickened with awe and admiration. My most unforgettable experience of this phenomenon was in 1982 during the premiere of Swami Dada. The cast included rising stars like Mithun Chakraborty, Jackie Shroff, Padmini Kolhapure, and Rati Agnihotri. Yet they stood almost forgotten in a quiet corner, swallowed by the magnetic presence of (then) 59-year-old Dev Anand. Angular swagger intact, toothy smile firmly in place, his screen persona had simply spilled into real life. You saw the flesh-and-blood silhouette of a man who had eluded the clutches of age and irrelevance.

Over the years, I met him several times. At events in 2003 and 2007, and many more informally at Navketan Studios over his favourite snack sukhi bhelpuri. I normally steered clear of glittery events, wary of filmy noise and flashbulbs. But with Dev Anand around, all scepticism dissolved. I saw something remarkable: even when surrounded by stars like Hema Malini, Salman Khan, Girish Karnad or Boman Irani, the gravitational pull was always towards him. It wasn’t about seniority or legacy. It was something deeper, subtler. An aura that made even the accomplished appear as part of the crowd. As Asha Parekh once narrated to me, during the shooting of Jab Pyar Kisise Hota Hai, fans swarmed the sets only for Dev Anand. And after hours of shooting, he would patiently sign autographs, never once losing his temper or his radiant energy.

However, as claimed by producer-director Raj Khosla in his autobiography, that same overpowering charisma didn’t always sit well with co-stars. During the shooting of Bombai Ka Babu, Suchitra Sen, already a reigning superstar in Bengal, would sit sulking when crowds in Kullu gravitated entirely towards Dev Anand. She wasn’t used to playing second fiddle in public affection. Things came to a head when a wrap-up party celebrating Dev Anand’s shoot disturbed her and her husband’s rest. The resulting friction nearly derailed the schedule, until she returned to the set with a pointed quip, “You think she (the body double) can act better than me?”

There was also the warmth. Dev Anand never played the aloof matinee idol. He remembered names. He connected. Picked calls himself, never left it to his secretary. He exuded the kind of friendliness that made each person feel uniquely seen. He had no need to attract attention. It came to him effortlessly, like iron filings to a magnet. He didn’t have to retreat behind walls; he remained accessible, almost humbly so.

Many people realised pretty late that Dev Anand could be easily approached. In person, even over a call. That human accessibility, combined with his surreal stardom, was the enigma. His charm wasn’t just in the way he looked, but in the way he spoke. Distinct, stylised, with that peculiar cadence of words that drew you into his world. Everyone who met him felt as though they had glimpsed something intimate, something enduring. And perhaps, that only they had been privileged to be its privy.

Through it all, he remained ever-youthful. Dev Anand refused to be defined by time. He once told me, half-jokingly, that he was life itself. And in some way, I believed him. He would smile at me and say, “Ah, Raju Guide!”, a nod to Guide, his masterpiece. There couldn’t have been a more perfect metaphor for PR and communication. He was his own brand, his own campaign, his own message. No birthday tribute or memorial event can truly capture Dev Anand’s essence. Because legends like him don’t die. They simply move offscreen, letting the reels of memory play on.

Epilogue
There is an interesting piece of history behind the picture that I actually wanted to use with this blog. I thought it deserves a honourable mention, at least as a sidelight. My father had bought an Agfa-Gevaert camera from Rangoon way back in 1950 which lay unused for years in his almirah. I was (and am) no photographer, nor had the instincts for it. Yet, on an impulse, I decided to check out if the camera worked; and took it along for this event. Our official photographer (the late) Ashok Sawane looked at it curiously, chewed his pan, spat viciously before saying, “chal jayega shayad” (it might just work). It did and I clicked a picture with Dev Anand standing and making a point. DA autographed the back side of the printed invitation for the event; which I got affixed below the picture. Yesterday, I spent hours searching for the picture which now seems misplaced from my burgeoning memorabilia. Discarding all other picture of him with me, I finally decided to make do with this picture which Ashok had clicked; for sheer topicality!
Photo photo pe likha hota hai kheechne waale ka naam!

My encounter with Henry Blofeld: A voice, a presence, a memory

Raju Korti
My first encounter with Henry Blofeld came during the Reliance World Cup of 1987. And it left me, well, a little startled. On hindsight, it reminds me of that theme from Satyam Shivam Sundaram, where a voice beguiles you into imagining a visage that doesn’t quite match reality. Having heard Blofeld's voice, rich, full-bodied, and impossibly British, I had expected a tall, dapper man, the kind who might have walked off the lawns of Lord’s in a cravat. What I got instead was a balding, slightly portly gentleman whose wavy locks fluttered in the breeze. But what a voice! It shook your hand long before he did. “Hello Raju,” he said as I introduced myself, his tone a perfect mix of polish and warmth -- practiced, perhaps, but never impersonal.

Unlike Trevor Bailey’s more studied detachment or Peter Roebuck’s analytical flair, Blofeld was instinctively affable. We spoke on and off around the match, and he seemed genuinely pleased, even mildly amused, that BBC’s Test Match Special had a loyal Indian following. I remember asking if it was an unwritten rule that TMS commentators had to christen each other with nicknames. Boiley for Bailey, Johnners for Brian Johnston. Blofeld burst out laughing. “I know what you're hinting at,” he said, eyes twinkling. “Johnners called me ‘Blowers’ and there was no escaping it.” His delight in recounting that was almost childlike, and I understood in that moment what made him so beloved.

Blofeld’s cricket commentary was a tapestry. Not just of overs and wickets, but of pigeons on the outfield, construction cranes on the skyline, a lady in a pink sari in the upper tier, or an airplane buzzing overhead. Purists often scoffed at these ‘digressions,’ but to me, they were the seasoning in the cricketing stew. I told him that, and he seemed pleased. That voice, seasoned by years of TMS duty since the 1970s, had a cadence that could make even a dull draw feel like a Shakespearean drama. I still remember, vividly, when Srikkanth flicked Danny Morrison to fine leg and Blofeld turned to me and exclaimed, “That was a marvellous shot!” I didn’t care about the analysis that followed. I just wanted that voice to linger in my ears a little longer.

There were others I wished I had spoken to. Christopher Martin-Jenkins for one, though I treasure the copy of his autobiography CMJ – A Cricketing Life, gifted to me by my friend Dr Rashmin Tamhane. Alan Wilkins, to my good fortune, did not escape. We had a lovely chat and he even signed his book Easier Said Than Done. But with Blowers, it was different. It was less about the man and more about the aura, the theatricality, the self-effacing humour, the occasional bumbling charm. He once famously went on talking after the commentary had gone off-air, unaware, while Johnston couldn’t stop laughing. And then there was that ever-cherished catchphrase: “Oh my dear old thing”. It had a way of wrapping around you like a warm scarf on a chilly London evening.

Blofeld has since stepped out of the commentary box, his farewell marked by a thunderous ovation during an England–West Indies match. I am sure he met it with that same whimsical sign-off: “Oh my dear old thing…” Yes, I never did get my hands on his memoirs Squeezing the Orange or Over and Out, but I suspect I don’t need them. Because for me, the memory of that singular voice, and that unexpectedly delightful man behind it, remains far more eloquent than any book could be.

We talk the weather but forget the climate!

Raju Korti
Climate change is perhaps the least of human concerns for many, overshadowed by immediate crises like economic instability, political turmoil, and public health challenges. Yet, as the deadline for updated climate action plans draws near, the urgency of the environmental crisis becomes impossible to ignore. The upcoming UN Climate Summit in New York, with over 100 countries, including 40 heads of state, set to attend, will focus on turning the promises made under the Paris Agreement into tangible actions. This summit is a crucial moment for nations to demonstrate whether their climate goals are more than just political rhetoric and whether they can shift from abstract pledges to real, impactful measures for the planet's future.

From green to charcoal black!

However, the road ahead is fraught with challenges. I understand that as of mid-September, only 36 countries have officially submitted their updated nationally determined contributions (NDCs), falling far short of expectations. The Paris Agreement, signed by 196 nations in 2015, set the ambitious goal of limiting global temperature rise to 1.5 degrees Celsius above pre-industrial levels. This agreement did provide a roadmap for global climate action, but then, its success would depend on nations' ability to not only set targets but also execute them. The extension of the deadline for submitting NDCs until the end of September has offered more time, but the window for meaningful action is closing rapidly.

One of the most significant areas of concern is the implementation gap. The world has witnessed some progress. India, for instance, exceeded its initial target of sourcing 50 percent of its installed power capacity from non-fossil fuel sources. Yet, despite such victories, experts warn that current efforts are insufficient to meet the 1.5-degree target. The climate crisis is worsening, and if we remain on our current trajectory, the world is heading toward a 3-degree rise in temperature by the end of the century. As I had borne in one of my blogs months ago, this trajectory could lead to widespread climate disruptions, from intensified heatwaves to devastating floods and droughts, threatening ecosystems, economies, and livelihoods.

The role of India in this context is critical. As one of the world's fastest-growing economies and a major emitter, India's actions will have a significant impact on the global climate trajectory. While it has made strides in clean energy and emissions reductions, much remains to be done. The country’s leadership, alongside other major emitters like China and the European Union, will be key to bridging the ambition-implementation gap. The upcoming UN Climate Summit is expected to showcase the plans of these nations, and the world will be watching closely. Will they step up with the bold, transformative actions required, or will the rhetoric fall short once again?

Looking ahead, the future remains uncertain. The commitments made at COP28, such as tripling renewable energy capacity, halting deforestation, and doubling energy efficiency, are ambitious, but they require not only political will but also substantial investment in green technologies and infrastructure. The next decade will be a test of multilateral cooperation and the ability of nations to make hard choices in the face of a rapidly warming planet. The success of the Paris Agreement hinges on the strength of these upcoming commitments and their translation into concrete policies.

At this critical juncture, the question is no longer whether the world can afford to act; it is whether we can afford not to. The stakes have never been higher. The window for meaningful climate action is narrowing, and the decisions made in the coming months will determine the future of the planet. Whether those decisions lead to a sustainable, resilient world or a future defined by environmental collapse remains to be seen.

Immortality’s illusion: When longer life may not mean living!

Raju Korti
Almost every day, I read with morbid curiosity (!) the internet awash with dazzling headlines about scientists creating artificial hearts that could beat forever, stem cell therapies promising to wipe out diabetes, and organs that might one day resist all forms of damage. Read together, these advances carry an intoxicating suggestion: that humanity is inching towards immortality. But if you pause and think, the prospect is as troubling as it is exciting.

It is fine to wish that someone lives 100 years (literally) or 1000 years (figuratively). But I seriously wonder if anyone would really want to live beyond 150 years, walking on an earth that continues to age, fracture, and recycle its sorrows, while you remain unnaturally preserved. The body may not crumble, but the world around you surely will. Political strife, climate scars, and unchanging human mindsets would still persist. In fact, the longer you live, the more weather-beaten and time-scarred you might feel. Longevity could deepen disillusionment rather than erase it.

(Pic representational)

Human immortality still belongs more to theory than reality. Yet advances in biotechnology and nanotechnology suggest lifespans could increase dramatically. Some scientists insist there is a natural ceiling to human life. Others believe that merging artificial intelligence with biology could help us defeat aging itself. In truth, much of the current focus is less on endless life and more on extending health, repairing the body, and delaying decline.

I recently stumbled upon research that seeks to remind us that biology has its own ceiling. Even with perfect health, resilience steadily erodes. Young bodies bounce back completely from illness or injury. Older bodies only reclaim part of their former vitality, and this erosion continues until a tipping point is reached. Studies suggest that the upper limit of recovery lies somewhere between 120 and 150 years. That figure is not merely a statistical curiosity. It is a reminder that the end of life is coded into our very biology.

And yet, even if science breaks this ceiling, can it solve the crises of meaning that come with existence itself? Existential angst may only sharpen in a world where you cannot escape time’s sameness. Would endless days make us more purposeful, or merely more restless? It is worth recalling the timeless dialogue from the film Anand: “Babumoshai, life should be big, not long.” The wisdom lies not in stretching years but in deepening experience.

There is also a beauty in life’s ironies, in its oscillation between joy and grief. As one song reminds us:
न मिलता ग़म तो बर्बादी के अफ़्साने कहाँ जाते
अगर दुनिया चमन होती तो वीराने कहाँ जाते
चलो अच्छा हुआ अपनों में कोई ग़ैर तो निकला
अगर होते सभी अपने तो बेगाने कहाँ जाते.
(If sorrow did not exist, the tales of ruin would not be told.
If the world were only a garden, where would the deserts go?
It is perhaps good that among loved ones a stranger appears,
If everyone were one’s own, where would the outsiders go?).
Another lyric lingers in memory:
ज़िन्दा रहने के मौसम बहुत हैं मगर
जान देने की रुत रोज़ आती नहीं
(There are many seasons for staying alive,
But the season for surrender does not come every day.)

Immortality, stripped of these contrasts, risks becoming unbearably monotonous. For without endings, beginnings lose their magic. Without fragility, strength has no meaning. Without death, life loses its urgency.

In chasing immortality, humanity may achieve a technical triumph but suffers a philosophical defeat. For it is not the length of our years that matters but the depth with which we inhabit them. Perhaps true immortality lies not in endless time, but in living moments so intensely that they defy time altogether.