Balochistan: The X-Factor in a two-front crisis for Pak?

Raju Korti
Watching the war clouds gather once again over the Indo-Pakistan border, my attention is fixed not just on Kashmir, but also westward -- on Balochistan. The overlooked fault line in Pakistan’s fragile unity may well emerge as the X-factor in the subcontinent’s latest chapter of hostility.

Balochistan -- Pakistan’s largest and most restive province -- is not new to insurgency. But this time, something feels different. From the recent dramatic arrest of human rights activist Mahrang Baloch, to the chilling train hijack that exposed the insurgents’ operational depth, it’s clear that the Balochistan Liberation Army (BLA) is no longer a rag-tag tribal militia. It is an evolved, coordinated, and media-savvy insurgency, increasingly drawing educated youth who are done waiting for justice from Islamabad.

The Pakistani state’s decades-old playbook -- dismissing Baloch anger as tribal posturing -- is no longer convincing. The grievances are rooted in brutal facts: economic plunder, political disempowerment, and forced annexation in 1948. While the gold, gas, and copper from Baloch soil fuel Pakistan’s economy and China’s ambitions via CPEC, the locals remain in penury. The BLA has declared this exploitation as war -- and they are responding in kind.

Naela Qadri (file grab)

Amid this, Naela Qadri, the Prime Minister-in-exile of Balochistan, made waves by appealing directly to India and the UN for support. In a passionate video statement, she accused Pakistan of genocidal oppression and sought India's active role in backing Balochistan’s freedom. Her words weren’t just rhetoric -- they echoed the growing sentiment within Baloch political circles that this moment of Indo-Pak hostility is a rare strategic opening.

India, of course, has historically refrained from overt involvement in Balochistan. Geography doesn’t favour it -- there’s no contiguity, no corridor. Yet, India’s moral and diplomatic support -- especially in international forums -- is not without precedent. In 2016, Prime Minister Modi’s Independence Day remarks gave voice to Balochistan’s struggle. However, India’s challenge lies in translating sentiment into strategic leverage without triggering a full-scale regional conflagration.

Then there’s the other wildcard: the Taliban. Pakistan's Frankenstein has turned rogue. Post-US withdrawal, the Taliban not only refuses to police the Tehrik-e-Taliban Pakistan (TTP) -- its ideological cousins -- but has also rejected the legitimacy of the Durand Line (the international border between Afghanistan and Pakistan). For Pakistan, this is more than a diplomatic slight. It is a security nightmare. Reports of co-ordination between the TTP and BLA suggest a budding convergence -- a de facto pincer movement from the west.

Pakistan’s military, always focused eastward, now finds itself encircled. It is impossible to ignore that a two-front crisis is no longer hypothetical. The Taliban and the BLA may not be allies in the conventional sense, but both benefit from keeping Pakistan destabilized. And if India-Pakistan tensions escalate into conflict, Baloch separatists may well see it as the perfect storm to press for an independent homeland.

Could Balochistan seize this moment and tilt the balance? Possibly -- but not without international recognition, safe sanctuaries, and sustained pressure on Islamabad. Whether or not India is prepared to play that hand is a matter of both geopolitical calculation and moral conviction.

What is undeniable is this: Pakistan is a state under siege -- not by India, but by the ghosts it helped raise and the voices it tried to silence. In the next war, Balochistan may not just be collateral -- it may be the catalyst.

A pause in war: Putin’s surprise ceasefire and Its broader implications!

Raju Korti
On May 8, 2025, as the world commemorates the 80th anniversary of the end of World War II, I find myself grappling with the implications of an unexpected announcement from Moscow. Vladimir Putin, in a move that has stunned both allies and adversaries, has ordered a 72-hour ceasefire in Ukraine, effective from May 8 to May 10. The Kremlin frames this as a gesture rooted in “humanitarian considerations,” a symbolic nod to the shared sacrifices of the Soviet people and their allies in defeating fascism. Yet, as someone who has closely followed the geopolitical chessboard, I cannot help but view this development with a mix of cautious intrigue and scepticism. What does this ceasefire signify? Is it a genuine olive branch or a calculated maneuver? And what should the international community --particularly in regions like South Asia, where tensions simmer along the Indo-Pak border -- make of it?

Representational pic: Wikipedia

The announcement comes at a time when the war in Ukraine has settled into a stalemate, with neither side achieving decisive gains. Russia’s military has faced setbacks, yet its resolve remains unbroken, fueled by nationalist rhetoric and a narrative of historical destiny. Ukraine, bolstered by Western support, continues to resist fiercely, but the toll on its people and infrastructure is staggering. Against this backdrop, Putin’s call for a truce, ostensibly to honour Victory Day, feels both poignant and perplexing. The cessation of “all hostilities” for three days is a rare pause in a conflict that has defied de-escalation. But the Kremlin’s track record -- marked by strategic ambiguity and opportunistic diplomacy -- demands that we probe deeper.

Is this ceasefire a genuine humanitarian gesture? Possibly. Victory Day holds profound significance in Russia, a moment to honour the 27 million Soviet lives lost in World War II. A temporary halt could allow civilians in war-torn regions to access aid, bury their dead, or simply breathe. Yet, the timing raises questions. Why now, when Russia’s military position, though strained, is not desperate? Why a unilateral declaration, with an appeal to Kyiv to reciprocate, rather than a negotiated truce? The answers likely lie in a blend of domestic and international objectives.

At home, the ceasefire ostensibly seeks to polish Putin’s image as a leader who balances strength with magnanimity. Amid economic sanctions and growing internal dissent, projecting a humanitarian face could shore up support among Russians who revere Victory Day. Internationally, it positions Russia as a moral actor, potentially softening criticism from Global South nations wary of Western dominance. By framing the truce as a tribute to a shared Allied victory, Putin subtly reminds the world of Russia’s historical role in shaping the modern order -- a narrative that resonates in countries like India, where anti-colonial sentiments linger.

The ceasefire, on its face, is welcome. Any reprieve from violence, however brief, saves lives and offers a glimmer of hope for dialogue. If Kyiv reciprocates, as the Kremlin has urged, it could create a fleeting window for humanitarian corridors or backchannel talks. The international community, particularly the United Nations, should seize this moment to press for aid deliveries and civilian evacuations. A neutral mediator like India -- could facilitate confidence-building measures to extend the truce’s benefits beyond 72 hours.

Yet, the welcome must be tempered with vigilance. Russia’s history of using ceasefires as tactical pauses to regroup or rearm is well-documented, from Syria to earlier phases of the Ukraine conflict. The unilateral nature of the announcement, without prior coordination with Kyiv, suggests a public relations gambit as much as a peace offering. If Ukraine rejects the truce, citing distrust, Russia can paint Kyiv as intransigent, scoring propaganda points. Moreover, the ceasefire’s brevity -- three days -- limits its practical impact, raising doubts about its sincerity. 

The international community must also consider the broader strategic context. Putin’s move could be a signal to China and other non-Western powers, reinforcing Russia’s narrative of moral equivalence with the West. By invoking World War II, he taps into a universal aversion to global conflict, subtly pressuring nations to view Russia’s actions in Ukraine through a less condemnatory lens. This is particularly relevant for countries like India, which maintain strategic ties with Moscow while navigating their own regional tensions.

The war clouds gathering along the Indo-Pak border offer a stark parallel to the Ukraine crisis, underscoring the fragility of peace in regions marked by historical grievances. Tensions between India and Pakistan, fuelled by territorial disputes and cross-border militancy, have flared periodically, with ceasefires often serving as temporary bandages rather than lasting solutions. The 2021 reinstatement of the 2003 ceasefire along the Line of Control brought a measure of calm, but recent incidents -- shelling, troop buildups, and inflammatory rhetoric -- suggest that the truce is fraying.

What can South Asia learn from Putin’s gambit? First, unilateral ceasefires, while symbolically powerful, are inherently unstable without mutual trust. India and Pakistan, like Russia and Ukraine, view each other through a lens of suspicion, with each side fearing that a pause will be exploited. Second, external actors play a critical role. Just as the UN or neutral nations could leverage Russia’s ceasefire to push for de-escalation, global powers -- particularly the United States and China—must actively support Indo-Pak dialogue to prevent a slide into conflict. Finally, the invocation of shared history, as Putin has done with Victory Day, holds potential. India and Pakistan share a pre-partition past and cultural ties that, while fraught, could be harnessed to humanize the “other” and build constituencies for peace.

However, the Indo-Pak context also highlights the limits of symbolic gestures. A 72-hour truce, like occasional cricket diplomacy or cultural exchanges, can create goodwill but fails to address root causes -- be it Kashmir’s status or the role of non-state actors. Similarly, Putin’s ceasefire does little to resolve the fundamental issues driving the Ukraine war: NATO expansion, Russian security concerns, and Ukraine’s sovereignty. The international community must recognize that such pauses, while valuable, are not substitutes for sustained diplomacy.

The international community should approach Putin’s ceasefire with pragmatic optimism. It must applaud the gesture while pressing for tangible outcomes—aid access, civilian safety, and ideally, an extension of the truce. Kyiv should be encouraged to respond constructively, perhaps by proposing monitored humanitarian corridors, to test Russia’s intentions. Western powers, often quick to dismiss Moscow’s overtures, should avoid knee-jerk rejection and instead use the moment to explore de-escalatory pathways, however narrow.

For regions like South Asia, the ceasefire serves as both a reminder and a warning. The Indo-Pak border, like Ukraine’s frontlines, is a tinderbox where miscalculation could ignite broader conflict. The global community, often distracted by great-power rivalries, must prioritize preventive diplomacy in such hotspots. India, with its non-aligned credentials and ties to both Russia and the West, could play a unique role, advocating for multilateral frameworks to manage crises, whether in Eastern Europe or South Asia.

As I reflect on this moment, I am struck by the paradox of war and peace. Putin’s ceasefire, like the fragile truces along the Indo-Pak border, embodies humanity’s dual impulses: to destroy and to heal. In 1945, the world emerged from the ashes of World War II with a vow to prevent such devastation again. Eighty years later, that vow is tested daily -- in Ukraine’s ravaged cities, in Kashmir’s contested valleys, and in countless other theaters of conflict. The ceasefire, however fleeting, is a flicker of hope, a reminder that even in the darkest times, the instinct for peace persists. But it is also a challenge -- to leaders, to nations, and to each of us -- to transform fleeting gestures into lasting change. The world is watching, and history will judge us by what we do next.

Time for Pakistan to reclaim its destiny!

Raju Korti
Amid the latest sabre-rattling between India and Pakistan, a post by Pakistani-origin author Harris Sultan caught my attention. In a few sharp sentences, he laid bare an uncomfortable truth: "The Pakistani military has lost every single war -- I think they’re prepared to lose another one." This blunt assessment is going viral, striking a nerve not just within Pakistan, but across the region.

Sultan's frustration is understandable. After yet another Pakistani minister, Hanif Abbasi, boasted about the country’s nuclear arsenal being "only for India," Sultan countered with cold logic. He argued that even if India were to take “Pakistan-administered Kashmir”, it wouldn’t automatically lead to nuclear Armageddon. Self-preservation, not suicidal glory, remains the top priority of military leaderships worldwide -- and Pakistan’s generals are no different. Drawing a parallel with Russia’s Vladimir Putin, Sultan emphasized that dictators cling to survival, even at the cost of their rhetoric.

But this moment -- where rage against the military is visibly bubbling over -- raises a crucial question: Can Pakistan truly rise against its own army? The idea sounds romantic but remains a tough ask in the current climate. The Pakistani military is deeply entrenched, not just in defense but in business, media, and politics. Over decades, it has crafted a powerful narrative positioning itself as the sole guardian of Pakistan’s sovereignty and ideology. Challenging such an institution requires not just public anger, but sustained, organized political action -- something Pakistan’s fragile civilian leadership has historically lacked.

Harris Sultan: An X grab 

Yet, cracks are becoming visible. Economic despair, international isolation, and repeated internal failures have eroded the military’s once-unquestionable aura. Sultan’s call for a mass uprising is a reflection of a wider fatigue among Pakistanis, many of whom are beginning to see the military not as a protector, but as a parasite feeding off the nation’s future. While a direct rebellion remains improbable today, a gradual political awakening -- if led by strong, visionary leadership -- could weaken the military’s chokehold.

This is where Pakistan’s true opportunity lies: not in the fantasy of a dramatic overthrow, but in building political institutions strong enough to outgrow the army’s shadow. A confident civilian leadership, rooted in genuine democratic legitimacy, can shift the balance over time. Civilian supremacy will not come from street protests alone; it must be built brick by brick through reforms, alliances, and above all, by delivering on the people's needs better than the generals ever could.

Even if Pakistan were to achieve an elected government free from military manipulation, another question lingers: would it finally move past its obsession with Kashmir and hostility toward India?

Realistically, the Kashmir issue runs deep in Pakistan’s national psyche, woven into its very identity since 1947. However, a government unshackled from the army's hyper-nationalist agenda could recalibrate the narrative. Without the military’s vested interest in maintaining a permanent state of tension, there is room for a quieter, more pragmatic approach -- one that focuses on economic recovery, international partnerships, and social stability rather than chest-thumping over Kashmir. Reducing the war rhetoric would not just benefit Pakistan’s standing in the world; it would also directly serve its own people's yearning for peace and prosperity.

Sultan’s post reminds us of a simple truth: real change rarely begins with armies or politicians; it begins with people refusing to accept the status quo. Pakistan’s path to reclaiming its destiny will be long and painful -- but the first step, as always, is daring to imagine that a different future is possible.

A new deal in the shadow of blast & fire!

Raju Korti
As I watched the plumes of smoke rise from Shahid Rajaee port near Bandar Abbas, the gravity of the moment settled heavily. Just as US-Iran nuclear talks resumed after years of distrust and dangerous brinkmanship, the blast is a stark reminder of how fragile diplomacy can be in the Middle East. It is against this turbulent backdrop that Iran and the United States are attempting to stitch together a new understanding on one of the most contentious issues of our time: Iran’s nuclear programme.

At its core, the US-Iran nuclear deal seeks to strike a simple, yet profoundly delicate, balance: Iran curbs its nuclear ambitions in return for relief from crippling economic sanctions. The goal is to prevent Tehran from acquiring a nuclear weapon while allowing it to pursue peaceful nuclear energy under strict international monitoring.

The 2015 Joint Comprehensive Plan of Action (JCPOA) initially achieved this to some extent. Iran agreed to limit its uranium enrichment to 3.67%, dismantle much of its nuclear infrastructure, and submit to rigorous inspections by the International Atomic Energy Agency (IAEA). In return, it gained access to global markets and billions in frozen assets.

However, the benefits of the deal, as also its flaws. became evident over time. For the United States and its allies, the JCPOA delayed Iran’s "breakout time" to a bomb but did not dismantle Iran’s nuclear knowledge or its regional ambitions. Critics, including then-candidate Donald Trump, argued that the deal sunset clauses would allow Iran to resume enrichment activities within a decade, and that it failed to address Iran’s ballistic missile program and regional interventions through proxies like Hezbollah and the Houthis.

From Iran’s perspective, the deal was supposed to bring economic revival. But with Trump’s unilateral withdrawal from the agreement in 2018 and the reimposition of "maximum pressure" sanctions, Iran’s economy was again strangled, leading to rising domestic discontent and a return to higher levels of uranium enrichment — reportedly close to weapons-grade today.

My gut feeling is the current negotiations, mediated cautiously by Oman and staged in Rome and Muscat, are a fragile attempt to rebuild what was lost. Iranian Foreign Minister Abbas Araqchi’s caution is understandable. Trust, once shattered, is not easily restored. And Trump, in typical form, remains bullish -- voicing optimism in the talks while simultaneously warning that "military options are on the table.

The stakes are monumental. A successful deal could bring much-needed stability to a region perpetually on the brink of conflict. It could ease global oil prices, restore Iran’s access to international markets, and -- perhaps most critically -- avert the nightmare of a nuclear-armed Iran. Conversely, failure could trigger a new arms race in the Middle East, embolden hardliners on all sides, and push the US and Iran closer to open confrontation.

Internationally, a renewed deal would signal a shift back to diplomacy over coercion, reviving multilateralism that took a backseat during the "America First" years. It could also reshape alliances: European powers, weary of the US’s erratic policy swings, are closely watching. Russia and China, already cozying up to Iran through trade and military agreements, could exploit any gaps if negotiations falter.

Now where does India figure in this? New Delhi, which maintains historic ties with Tehran while valuing its strategic partnership with Washington, has a delicate balance to maintain. A successful deal would allow India to resume vital oil imports from Iran, which had been slashed under US sanctions, thereby diversifying its energy sources at a time when the global oil market is turbulent. It would also rejuvenate stalled infrastructure projects like the Chabahar Port, which is critical for India’s connectivity to Afghanistan and Central Asia, bypassing Pakistan. Moreover, a stable Iran could contribute to regional security in the Gulf -- home to millions of Indian expatriates and a major source of remittances.

However, if talks collapse, India could find itself navigating an even tighter geopolitical squeeze -- forced to choose between US strategic interests and its own economic and regional imperatives.

The explosion at Shahid Rajaee port is a grim reminder that diplomacy does not happen in a vacuum. As Iran and the US prepare for another round of talks next week, the world watches with bated breath. There is an urgency now that wasn't as palpable before: the urgency of preventing a new war, of avoiding another nuclear-armed flashpoint.

In moments like these, history hinges on patience, persistence, and an extraordinary amount of good faith -- all of which I feel are in perilously short supply today.

When the truth slips out: Pakistan’s terror ties!

Raju Korti
There are moments in geopolitics when the mask slips. When an offhand remark – made perhaps in haste, or under pressure – ends up confirming what the world has long suspected but diplomatically chosen not to state outright. Pakistan’s Defence Minister, Khawaja Muhammad Asif, has just delivered one such moment.

In an interview to Sky News, Asif made a stunning admission: that Pakistan had been doing the West’s “dirty work” for the past three decades – training, funding, and backing terrorist organisations. When asked directly about Pakistan’s history of backing such groups, he did not deny it. Instead, he said, “We have been doing this dirty work for the US for the past three decades, including the West and the United Kingdom.” He tried to soften the blow by calling it a “mistake,” claiming Pakistan had “suffered” because of it, and suggesting that had Islamabad not joined the West in its Cold War and post-9/11 escapades, its track record would have been “unimpeachable.”

But the damage was done.

One could argue this was a classic case of political candour gone wrong. Perhaps Mr. Asif was rattled. Perhaps he was speaking in the heat of the moment. Or perhaps – and this is more likely – he simply underestimated the weight of his words, unaware that his candid confession would ignite diplomatic firestorms, especially in Washington and London. For the first time, a senior sitting member of the Pakistani government admitted – on record – what the world has long known: that Pakistan’s so-called “non-state actors” were in fact state-nurtured assets, wielded at will to serve both domestic and foreign policy objectives.

For decades, Pakistan has perfected the art of plausible deniability. Every time a terror attack occurred – whether in India, Afghanistan, Balochistan or elsewhere – Islamabad would run through its now-familiar playbook. First, deny any involvement. Then, ask for "credible proof." Once the proof is produced, deny its validity. And if cornered, invoke the fig leaf of “non-state actors,” suggesting that while outfits like Lashkar-e-Taiba or Jaish-e-Mohammad might operate from Pakistani soil, they did so without official sanction.

It was a diplomatic dance performed with a straight face, despite mountains of evidence and testimonies from defectors, intelligence intercepts, and the very geography of terror training camps pointing squarely at state complicity. Yet most nations – tied up in their own strategic compulsions – chose to treat Pakistan as both problem and partner, hoping that constructive engagement might one day yield a shift in behaviour. It never did.

Khawaja Asif, Wikipedia grab

What Mr. Asif has done – unwittingly – is to blow apart that charade. By admitting Pakistan’s role in doing the West’s "dirty work," he has let the cat out of the bag. This was never just about rogue elements or uncontrolled militias. The Pakistani state – through its military-intelligence establishment – was an active participant in the creation and management of the very groups it now disowns.

To be clear, this is not new information. The US State Department, countless global think tanks, and intelligence agencies have all hinted, if not outright declared, Pakistan’s role in fostering terrorism. But for a country’s own defence minister to state it publicly – even as an attempted deflection or justification – changes the tone entirely. It provides irrefutable confirmation, from the horse’s mouth.

Pakistan’s entanglement with terror has roots in the 1980s, when it became a frontline ally of the United States in the Soviet-Afghan war. At the time, the objective was to arm and train mujahideen fighters to bleed the Soviets in Afghanistan. Pakistan’s geography and the ISI’s reach made it an ideal proxy. But when the war ended, those militant networks did not dissolve – they mutated. Some turned into the Taliban. Others joined or formed outfits that operated with near-impunity across South Asia. The distinction between state and non-state actors blurred further with each passing decade.

For the record, international relations have long acknowledged the power of non-state actors – from civil society groups and multinationals to religious networks and terrorist outfits. They lack formal sovereignty but can wield tremendous influence, often shaping global narratives and outcomes. But when non-state actors are armed, trained, funded, and strategically deployed by state actors, the lines of accountability become inescapably clear.

Mr. Asif’s remarks strip away those lines of obfuscation. By calling it a “mistake,” he attempts to reframe Pakistan as a victim of its own misjudged alliances. But the consequences of that “mistake” have been too vast, too violent, and too enduring to be brushed aside. From Mumbai to Pulwama, from Kabul to Kashmir, the footprints of terror have too often led back to Islamabad.

The real question now is: what will the international community do with this admission? Will it finally recalibrate its dealings with Pakistan? Or will it, as before, prioritise short-term geopolitical expediency over long-term accountability?

One thing is certain: no amount of posturing or backpedaling can undo what Khawaja Asif has inadvertently confirmed. In a moment of unintended honesty, he has told the world what it already knew – but could never get Pakistan to admit.

Now that the mask is off, will the world finally stop pretending?

Pakistan’s Generals and the empire of radical wealth!

Raju Korti
The most thriving and secure profession in Pakistan isn’t medicine, law, or even politics – it is being a military officer. More specifically, being the Chief of Army Staff. It is the only role in the country that almost guarantees immense wealth, complete impunity, and a gilded lifestyle beyond the dreams of ordinary citizens. There’s a certain Arabian Nights-like quality to the stories surrounding Pakistani generals -- men whose monthly salaries are dwarfed by their weekly “pocket money,” whose families become billionaires in a matter of years, and whose post-retirement lives are often more lavish than their years in uniform.

To make sense of this military-political-financial triad, one must first understand the power algorithm of Pakistan. In a country plagued by political instability and democratic fragility, the army has been the only constant. Political parties exist, contest elections, form governments -- but all under the shadow of the military, which remains the permanent establishment. As the saying goes, while most nations have an army, Pakistan’s army has a nation.

Since independence in 1947, Pakistan’s generals have ruled directly for over 40 years and indirectly for the rest. Starting with General Ayub Khan, who became president after staging Pakistan’s first military coup in 1958, a pattern was set. Ayub handed over power to General Yahya Khan, who presided over the dismemberment of Pakistan in 1971. Then came General Zia-ul-Haq, who ruled with an iron hand, used religion as a political tool, and left behind a legacy of jihadism, drugs, and sectarian violence. General Pervez Musharraf followed, seizing power in 1999 and ruling through a hybrid regime while amassing a fortune reportedly worth billion.

Each general, with minor variations, repeated the same script: ascend to power (usually via a coup or political manipulation), consolidate rule by invoking nationalism or Islam, strike deals with Western powers (especially the United States), make a fortune, and exit either in disgrace or exile -- but always with full military honours.

The economic model of Pakistan’s military elite can be summed up in two words: unaccountable capitalism. For instance, General Qamar Javed Bajwa, who retired in 2022, saw his family’s declared wealth balloon to over Rs 12.7 billion (approx. USD 45 million) during his six-year tenure. This figure does not include undeclared assets or those held under benami names. The public anger over these revelations was not directed at Bajwa, but rather at the journalist who exposed them -- a telling insight into the conditioning of the Pakistani populace.

General Asim Saleem Bajwa, former army spokesperson and CPEC Authority chief, created a business empire while in service. His family owned 133 Papa John’s outlets across four countries -- ironic for a military that routinely burns American flags at protests. Then there’s General Ashfaq Parvez Kayani, under whose watch corruption in defence land deals reached brazen heights, involving his own brothers.

According to the latest estimates, the Pakistan military’s commercial empire, operated under entities like the Fauji Foundation and Army Welfare Trust, is worth over USD 39.8 billion. This includes everything from cement and cereals to banking, insurance, and sprawling real estate empires -- many on illegally acquired or underpriced land.

Gen Asim Munir (Wikipedia grab)

The current Chief of Army Staff, General Asim Munir, is no exception. Though the full extent of his assets remains shrouded in mystery -- as is typical with Pakistan’s military elite -- credible intelligence sources and investigative whispers estimate that Munir’s net family wealth already exceeds USD 25 million, with significant stakes in real estate and overseas holdings. Unlike his predecessor, Munir prefers ideological signalling -- promoting the “two-nation theory,” invoking “civilizational war” rhetoric, and presenting himself as a moralist saviour. But beneath this veneer lies a pattern that’s all too familiar.

Munir has already been accused by intelligence experts like Michael Rubin of the Pentagon of being the mastermind behind terror-linked narratives such as the Pahalgam attack in Kashmir, allegedly to provoke regional instability for political leverage. His speeches to the Pakistani diaspora are strategically calibrated to attract remittances and investments, cleverly marketed as patriotism.

What makes Pakistan’s generals virtually untouchable is their deification. Unlike their Indian counterparts, who remain firmly under civilian command, Pakistani generals are often seen as “mujahids” or “Ghazis” -- divine warriors, above reproach. Even today, many generals do not possess a National Tax Number (NTN), akin to India’s PAN, and those who do rarely declare actual income. “Sadiq” (truthful) and “Ameen” (honest) are words constitutionally reserved for politicians but ironically seldom applied to military men in the public discourse.

And when these generals retire, they don’t fade away. They become heads of institutions, CEOs of state-linked companies, members of think tanks, or advisers on CPEC projects -- each role offering new opportunities for patronage, kickbacks, and offshore windfalls.

Despite their riches, most Pakistani generals exit with ignominy, often as architects of national crises. Ayub Khan left amid protests and a lost war. Yahya Khan died a recluse after presiding over the greatest military surrender since World War II. Zia-ul-Haq perished in a suspicious air crash after sowing the seeds of jihadist radicalism. Musharraf died in exile, having been convicted of treason and indicted for Benazir Bhutto’s murder.

Will Asim Munir break this loop? Unlikely. His conservative doctrine, media clampdowns, and militarisation of politics already hint at an authoritarian script in progress. But like those before him, he too may find that empires built on borrowed legitimacy and bloated egos seldom last.

Pakistan’s tragedy isn’t just the greed of its generals – it is the nation’s willingness to forgive it. A large section of its population believes that military men are above corruption, ordained by God to protect the “Land of the Pure.” But as the country teeters on the edge of economic collapse, dependent on international bailouts and remittances, the army's insatiable appetite for wealth remains unchecked.

Pakistan’s generals have not only ruled the country -- they’ve commodified its soul. And history, as we’ve seen time and again, remembers them not for their medals or speeches -- but for the disgrace that eventually catches up with them.

Water as strategic weapon! Wait, there's Farakka too!

Raju Korti
The recent terror attack in Pahalgam, Jammu and Kashmir, which claimed the lives of 26 innocent Indian tourists, has once again pushed India to re-evaluate its strategic and diplomatic calculus vis-à-vis Pakistan. But this time, the Indian government has gone beyond the usual diplomatic demarches or symbolic downgrades. It has struck at the heart of Pakistan’s most vital vulnerability – water -- by suspending the Indus Waters Treaty (IWT), a move as momentous as it is deliberate.

I have followed the intricacies of this treaty and its larger geopolitical implications for years, and I can say with certainty that few other steps could rattle Islamabad more. The IWT, signed in 1960 and brokered by the World Bank, is often held up as one of the world’s most enduring water-sharing arrangements. It governs the distribution of six rivers in the Indus Basin: the Ravi, Beas, and Sutlej (Eastern rivers), and the Indus, Jhelum, and Chenab (Western rivers).The division was clear -- India retained control of the Eastern rivers and Pakistan got rights over the Western ones. India received just 20% of the total water from the system -- about 33 million acre-feet (MAF) -- while Pakistan got 80%, a staggering 135 MAF annually. India was allowed limited use of the Western rivers strictly for non-consumptive purposes like hydropower, but it could not block or significantly alter flows.

For over six decades, this asymmetric arrangement held, even through wars and cross-border tensions. But the terror strike at Pahalgam has triggered a tectonic shift. The Indus system is not just important to Pakistan -- it is existential. Nearly 80% of its cultivated land -- some 16 million hectares --is watered by the Indus and its tributaries. An astounding 93% of that water is used for agriculture, powering the crops that form the backbone of Pakistan’s economy -- wheat, rice, sugarcane, and cotton.

Urban centers such as Lahore, Karachi, and Multan draw their drinking water directly from the basin. Pakistan’s major hydropower plants like Tarbela and Mangla depend on the uninterrupted flows of these rivers. The system supports over 237 million people, with 61% of the Indus Basin population residing in Pakistan. To tamper with this water flow is to tamper with Pakistan’s very ability to feed, hydrate, and power itself.

India, as the upper riparian (the waters flow downstream), has always had options, but the treaty tied its hands on critical issues such as dam design, storage, flood data sharing, and reservoir operations. Pakistan has historically objected to almost every Indian hydropower project -- Salal, Baglihar, Kishanganga, Ratle, and more -- forcing lengthy legal and diplomatic battles. But with the IWT now in abeyance, those objections lose their binding force.

India no longer needs to consult or accommodate Pakistan’s concerns over new or existing infrastructure. Projects stalled or slowed by treaty restrictions can now proceed at India’s discretion. Furthermore, India is now under no obligation to limit when and how it flushes or fills its reservoirs. Take Kishanganga, for instance. Desilting and reservoir flushing, essential for dam efficiency, were previously hamstrung by treaty rules. Now, India can carry out these exercises even when they are most inconvenient for Pakistan -- say, during sowing seasons when water scarcity could hit farmers hardest.

The ability to unilaterally time reservoir operations grants India a potent lever, especially given that much of Pakistan’s Punjab province depends on predictable water release patterns from the Jhelum and Chenab. India can also halt the provision of flood data to Pakistan -- critical during monsoon surges -- potentially exposing Pakistan to unpredictable flood risks. This decision also means India can now explore storing water from the Western rivers, a right it has never exercised meaningfully due to treaty constraints.

Storage capacity can be built for hydropower, flood control, and even agriculture, effectively giving India the ability to moderate or delay flows downstream. Legally, while the treaty lacks a clear exit clause, international law does allow room for suspension under Article 62 of the Vienna Convention on the Law of Treaties, especially when a fundamental change of circumstances occurs -- as with persistent terrorism emanating from Pakistan. This is, in every sense, a paradigm shift in India’s approach. It is a recalibration from caution to assertiveness.

While Pakistan has yet to respond formally, the implications are grave. In a country already teetering on the brink of water scarcity -- with per capita availability declining every year -- the disruption of flows from India could be catastrophic. Agriculture could collapse in key belts, urban water shortages could ignite civil unrest, hydropower shortfalls could cripple industry, and large-scale rural migration could begin. This is water turning into a weapon -- not by flooding or drought, but by deliberate statecraft.

One may argue that this is not without precedent. Consider India’s own strategic management of the Farakka Barrage. Under the 1996 Ganges Water Treaty, India can withdraw up to 40,000 cusecs of water during the lean season. When the flow is between 70,000 and 75,000 cusecs, Bangladesh gets 35,000 and India the rest. Only below 70,000 is the water equally shared.

Here, India enjoys a clear upstream advantage without antagonism -- because Dhaka, unlike Islamabad, has not chosen terror over talks. The contrast is telling. The lesson is this: hydrology cannot be separated from geopolitics. When diplomacy fails and terror persists, water -- a source of life -- can become the ultimate bargaining chip. Suspending the Indus Waters Treaty is not merely about sending a message. It is about resetting the rules. And this time, India holds the tap.

Water is life. And when it becomes a strategic tool, it can be as powerful as any weapon. By suspending the Indus Waters Treaty, India has not only responded with moral clarity but with maximum strategic effect. This move won’t destroy Pakistan overnight. But it could choke its rivers, collapse its crops, dim its cities, and break the illusion that hostility can go unchecked. If diplomacy fails, hydrology will prevail. This could well be a watershed moment—literally and figuratively.

Clash of the uncivilized. Disunity in diversity!

Raju Korti
In India, the dal-chawal of daily life -- food, language, clothing -- is no longer just sustenance, communication, or style; it’s a battlefield where civilizations collide. American political scientist and academician Samuel Huntington’s Clash of Civilizations comes to my mind. Huntington argued that global conflicts would pivot on cultural identities, not ideologies or economies. In India, disputes over non-vegetarian food in Ghatkopar’s housing societies, the imposition of Hindi or Marathi, and bans on traditional attire are not petty squabbles; they are fractures in the mosaic of Indian society, more dangerous than wars fought with guns. These cultural flashpoints, rooted in regional and religious identities, are dismantling the textbook ideal of a harmonious, India, fragmenting it into warring tribes.

Food, the heart of Indian homes, has become a cultural landmine. In one Mumbai society a Gujarati resident allegedly called a Marathi family “dirty” for eating fish and mutton, sparking a Marathi-Gujarati row. With only four Marathi families in a Gujarati-dominated complex, the Maharashtra Navnirman Sena (MNS) intervened, warning against “insulting Marathi food habits”. The society denied formal bans on non-vegetarian food, but the incident reflects a deeper trend: vegetarianism, often tied to Jain and upper-caste Hindu identities, is wielded to marginalize meat-eating communities. There are, of course instances of Gujarati bashing as well. Across India, housing societies quietly exclude non-vegetarians, citing “purity.” This aligns with Huntington’s thesis: food is no longer nourishment but a marker of civilizational identity -- vegetarian “us” versus non-vegetarian “them.” These disputes, unlike tank battles, fester in kitchens and corridors, turning neighbours into enemies.

Pic representational

Language, meant to unite, is a tool of division. Tensions flared when a prominent leader called Ghatkopar as a Gujarati-speaking area, igniting Marathi backlash. The MNS, claiming to champion Marathi pride, has long protested Hindi or Gujarati “impositions” in Maharashtra. Nationally, the push for Hindi in non-Hindi states like Tamil Nadu fuels Dravidian resentment, with 2024 protests in Chennai decrying it as cultural hegemony. Language, a bridge in textbooks, is a wall in reality, with Marathi, Gujarati, or Tamil pride trumping communication. Huntington’s lens reveals this as civilizational assertion -- regional identities resisting a homogenized “Indian” narrative. These linguistic wars fragment workplaces, schools, and politics, eroding the idea of a cohesive nation.

Clothing, a canvas of identity, is a cultural flashpoint. In Karnataka, the 2022 hijab ban in colleges sparked protests, pitting Muslim students against Hindu nationalist calls for “uniformity.” These are not fashion debates but civilizational clashes, as Huntington predicted, where symbols -- saffron shawls versus green hijabs -- define battle lines. Sitcom fights over attire banish the textbook vision of India as a tapestry of cultures, replacing it with suspicion and segregation.

Unlike the Kargil War, with its defined borders and ceasefires, cultural disputes are insidious, permeating homes and hearts. The clash, where an MNS leader warned, “No one can dictate what Marathis eat,” mirrors countless micro-conflicts -- over biryani in Hyderabad or beef in Uttar Pradesh. These are not resolved with understanding but linger, breeding distrust. Social media amplifies this, with X posts in 2025 fueling #MarathiPride and #GujaratiDominance, turning local spats into national vendettas. Huntington’s warning rings true: cultural conflicts, rooted in identity, are intractable, making them deadlier than military wars.

The textbook India -- a thali of diverse flavours, languages, and traditions -- is cracking. Across India, caste, religion, and region pit communities against each other, from Dalit meat-eaters shunned in IIT messes to communities denied rentals. These micro-aggressions, unlike wars, have no endgame, dismantling the social contract. Huntington’s clash is not just Hindu-Muslim but Marathi-Gujarati, Tamil-Hindi, urban-rural – and what have you -- fragmenting India’s soul.

India’s cultural disputes -- over fish curry in Ghatkopar, Hindi in Chennai, or hijabs in Bengaluru -- are not trivial. They are Huntington’s clash writ small, where samosas and saris become weapons. These conflicts, more pervasive than Siachen’s gunfire, threaten India’s whose pluralistic nature cannot be just wished away. Even as I write this, an FIR has been filed against film-maker Anurag Kashyap for his statement that “he would urinate on Brahmins.” If identities are “dirty,” the textbook dream of unity is defeated, not by invaders, but by our own hands.

A disclaimer would be in place here. I am not being judgemental. Just stating facts as they are.

Is death really the end? Quantum Physics and the question of forever

Raju Korti
For most of us, death marks the ultimate end -- the final full stop in the sentence of life. It is what we fear, what we grieve, and what we spend our lives trying to make peace with. When someone close to us dies, it feels like a rupture -- a severing of connection, presence, and continuity. The absence is real, heavy, and often unbearable.

But what if death, as we know it, is not the end at all? What if it's not even real in the way we think it is?

This isn’t just spiritual musing or religious belief -- it’s also a serious question being asked by some physicists and thinkers, drawing from Quantum Physics and a theory called biocentrism.

Dr. Robert Lanza, a respected scientist, has proposed the theory of biocentrism, which suggests that life and consciousness are not by-products of the universe -- they are central to it. According to this view, the universe doesn’t create life; life creates the universe. That’s a radical reversal of how we have traditionally understood things.

In biocentrism, time and space are not fixed. They’re not rigid highways on which reality runs. Instead, they are tools our minds use to organize and interpret what we call “the world.” If that’s true, then death -- which we define as a time-bound biological event -- may not be what we think it is.

(Pic representational)

Quantum Physics adds another layer to this intriguing puzzle. One of its stranger principles is that the observer influences reality. The simple act of observation alters what is being observed. This implies that reality itself is not entirely objective -- it depends, at least in part, on the observer.

That opens up astonishing possibilities. If reality is shaped by consciousness, could death -- a state we never actually observe ourselves experiencing -- also be shaped by perception?

Enter the many-worlds interpretation of Quantum Mechanics, which proposes that every possible outcome of a situation occurs in its own parallel universe. In this view, when a person dies in one version of reality, another version of them may continue to live in a different branch of the multiverse. Death in this model isn’t a wall -- it’s a door to another room.

Despite these bold theories, the lived experience of death is deeply human and emotional. It brings grief, longing, fear, and sometimes, peace. We mourn not just the loss of the person but also the shared history, the unfinished conversations, and the familiar rhythms of daily life. Death defines the edges of our human story, gives meaning to time, and often urges us to live more fully.

Yet, many cultures and philosophies have long held that death is not an end but a transformation. Whether through ideas of rebirth, the afterlife, or ancestral continuity, the instinct that something of us carries on has always existed. What science is now tentatively exploring is perhaps what ancient wisdoms intuitively sensed.

If theories like biocentrism and many-worlds interpretations are correct — or even partially so -- they invite a seismic shift in how we view not just death, but life itself. Consciousness may not be a side effect of the universe, but its foundation. In that case, our individual identities may be threads in a far larger fabric of reality, woven across multiple dimensions we barely understand.

Of course, these ideas are still speculative and far from being scientific consensus. But they do offer a new way to think about existence. Not as a single line with a definite endpoint, but as a complex, multi-layered pattern in which life and awareness are never truly lost — just reframed.

Ultimately, death may remain one of life’s greatest mysteries. But as science opens new windows into the universe -- and into the nature of consciousness -- we might begin to see death not as the end of the story, but as part of a much larger narrative, one we are only beginning to glimpse.