The earth doesn't go to asteroids. The asteroids go to earth!

Raju Korti
Imagine this: you are peacefully sipping your morning chai, flipping through the news, and boom. NASA pops up with, “Big rock coming close to Earth!” You blink. Another one? Really? It is as if they have an overactive space alarm clock that goes off every few weeks. Is it for real, or are these folks just a bit too excited about space pebbles?

Yes, NASA actually has a team whose full-time job is to keep an eye on space rocks. Meet the Center for Near-Earth Object Studies (CNEOS). It is based in California, crunching numbers and tracking rocks that get a bit too friendly with Earth’s orbit.

A grab from NASA website. 

They use hi-tech tools with cool names like Sentry and Scout and work with other global sky-gazers like the European Space Agency and some warning network that probably has a WhatsApp group called “Rocks to Watch Out For.” And they are not just staring at the sky. In 2022, they actually banged a spaceship into an asteroid just to see if they could change its course.

Since 2020, NASA has flagged thousands of Near-Earth Objects (NEOs). Of those, around 2,480 were put in the “potentially hazardous” category. Sounds scary? None have booked a one-way trip to Earth as yet.

One especially cheeky one deserves a shoutout. 2020 VT4, a rock the size of a small bus that whizzed just 240 miles above the Pacific. That’s closer than some of our satellites! It showed up uninvited, made a quick pass, and left before anyone noticed. NASA spotted it only after it passed, like someone gatecrashing a party and sneaking out with a samosa.

Most of the other rocks have been farther away than your in-laws in Canada. One called Apophis was hyped as the next big doomsday candidate, but turns out it’ll just wave at us from a safe 20,000 miles. The latest one, 2025 JR, is about the size of a 25-storey building and passing at a comfy 2.8 million miles. That’s like standing in Mumbai and worrying about someone sneezing in Moscow.

So, are we overreacting, or just playing I It safe? Well, a little bit of both. NASA might seem like they are sounding the alarm every other day, but better safe than sorry, right? Asteroids don’t send invites -- they just show up. NASA’s alerts might feel a bit dramatic, but the idea is to spot trouble early and avoid surprises.

They use a rating system called the Torino Scale. If it’s 0, you sleep well. If it’s 10, maybe start praying. Most of these asteroids hover around 0 or 1, and even the drama queen 2024 YR4 that had a 3.8% chance of hitting us cooled down to a near-zero risk after more data. And if a rock ever does take aim, odds are it’ll fall into the ocean. With 71% of Earth covered in water, we have got nature’s own cushion ready.

So yes, NASA may sound the “asteroid alert” bell a bit often. But in all fairness, that’s their job so we can sip our chai in peace. They have turned space rock-watching into a full-time job, complete with data, drama, and the occasional plot that might give Akshay Kumar some outrageous sci-fi ideas. The next time you hear “an asteroid is passing,” don’t panic.

After all, the sky isn’t falling. The NASA will make it sure it doesn’t.

Monsoon before its time: My theory in Climate Physics!

Raju Korti
As a keen follower of Climate Physics (this is my coinage), I often find myself drawn into the fascinating interplay of atmosphere, ocean, and land. What once felt like an abstract science has become an urgent and everyday reality, especially in a country like ours, where a shift in the monsoon's mood can change everything from harvests to headlines. People have an abiding interest in the weather -- whether it's for farming, commuting, or just planning a weekend -- but what lies beneath these patterns is a subject both deeply complex and endlessly captivating. It is this very intersection of curiosity and consequence that compels me to look deeper.

(Pic representational)

The early arrival of the southwest monsoon over Kerala -- nearly a week ahead of schedule and the earliest in the last 35 years -- is more than a meteorological footnote. It is a climate signal, loud and insistent, that deserves close scrutiny. This anomalous onset, swiftly followed by widespread thunderstorm activity across the country and intense rain spells in Mumbai, suggests shifts in regional climate dynamics that are both intriguing and unsettling. As the Bharat Forecast System (BFS) -- a fully indigenous, high-resolution weather forecasting model -- becomes operational, India’s ability to interpret these shifts with greater precision comes not a moment too soon.

From the standpoint of Climate Physics, an early monsoon is often the product of an unusual warming pattern in the Indian Ocean, accelerated atmospheric convection, and a low-pressure zone forming earlier than expected. This year, oceanic temperatures have shown sharp spikes, with the Arabian Sea particularly warm. That’s not just a statistic -- it’s energy. Warm oceans feed moisture into the monsoon system and can trigger both beneficial rains and devastating extremes, depending on how this energy is released. In Mumbai’s case, the city received a taste of that excess with sudden, high-intensity rainfall that waterlogged roads and stalled urban life -- not yet officially in the monsoon period, but already in its shadow.

From a water security perspective, an early monsoon could be a blessing. Dams and reservoirs, especially those supplying drinking water to parched metros like Mumbai, stand to benefit from the extended recharge period. A longer rainy season also holds promise for agriculture -- if the rainfall is well-distributed. That’s the operative phrase. Agriculture thrives not just on quantity but on the timing and spatial spread of rains. A premature deluge followed by dry spells, or unseasonal heavy downpours, could disrupt sowing cycles and destroy young crops. The real danger lies in this erraticism: rains arriving too early or too forcefully upset the delicate rhythm rural India depends on.

Moreover, climate volatility increases the risk of hydrological disasters. Landslides in hilly regions, urban flooding in cities like Mumbai, and a higher likelihood of pre-monsoon cyclones -- these are no longer rare events. The Indian subcontinent, surrounded by two dynamic seas, is increasingly vulnerable to ocean-driven extreme weather events. The onset of the monsoon has often coincided with cyclonic activity, and with warmer seas, cyclones can intensify faster and landfall with greater fury. In this context, the Bharat Forecast System’s rollout could be a turning point. With a six-kilometre resolution, BFS can detect weather changes at sub-block levels, allowing for hyperlocal alerts — critical for evacuation planning, crop insurance schemes, and infrastructure response.

What makes Mumbai’s situation particularly complex is the city’s classic monsoon paradox: its survival depends on the rains, but the rains can also cripple it. The BMC and allied civic bodies have begun their usual pre-monsoon drills -- desilting of major drains, checking of pumping stations, and deployment of flood-response teams -- but history suggests that execution often falters under pressure. If May’s rain is a trailer, the coming weeks demand a heightened level of preparedness, not just protocol. Urban flood resilience, powered by early warnings and swift citizen communication, must become as routine as pothole repairs.

So, what does this early monsoon mean? It means a longer season of hope -- and hazard. It means farmers may gain crucial watering time, but also face a more erratic rainfall pattern. It means cities will fill their reservoirs faster but risk being drowned in the process. Above all, it means India must now treat climate as a live-wire issue -- not distant, not abstract, but immediate and immensely physical. In the age of supercomputers and satellites, the monsoon is still a mystery we must prepare for, not just predict.

Why Bangladesh risks becoming the next Lebanon or Syria!

Raju Korti
I have been watching Bangladesh with growing unease. The country, always simmering with tension, now seems frighteningly close to boiling over. What is unfolding there has all the makings of a prolonged crisis -- one that threatens to push the nation into the kind of protracted instability we've seen in Lebanon or Syria. The parallels are uncomfortable, and the consequences, especially for India, are potentially grave.

At the centre of this political maelstrom is Muhammad Yunus, the interim chief tasked with guiding the country through its transition. I don’t envy his position. He is a Nobel laureate, a symbol of integrity, but that hardly shields him from the storm he is caught in. In fact, I am told that not too long ago, he came close to resigning -- overwhelmed by opposition pressures, growing distrust, and the creeping dominance of the military. That moment of hesitation spoke volumes about the fragility of the current setup.

Muhammad Yunus Wikipedia grab

It is not just about Yunus’s personal struggle. It is about the ground shifting beneath him. The army, led by General Waker-uz-Zaman, has taken on a more assertive, if not controlling, role. His recent “Darbar” with top commanders wasn’t just a routine briefing. By all accounts, it was a signal that the military is no longer content staying behind the scenes. The general’s blunt warnings against foreign interference and his refusal to entertain proposals like a humanitarian corridor through Myanmar’s Rakhine state speak to a deeper suspicion of external agendas. When the foreign secretary was abruptly shown the door with no explanation, many saw it as the military tightening its grip -- and Yunus being edged out of key decisions.

Meanwhile, the streets are barely holding it together. The mass protests that ousted Sheikh Hasina in July last year have splintered and hardened. What began as a democratic outcry now threatens to spiral into street anarchy. Groups aligned with Yunus, including the National Citizen Party, are still pushing back, promising to “fight on all fronts.” But that rhetoric carries its own risks. It stirs memories of the violent mob that overran Dhanmondi 32. Once mobs are emboldened, control becomes an illusion.

The opposition is not easing up either. The Bangladesh Nationalist Party (BNP) accuses Yunus of dragging his feet on elections. They want polls by December. His camp, on the other hand, floats June 2026 -- a timeline that’s already clashing with General Waker’s demands for swift elections. Every decision now feels like a potential trigger. It is not a question of if something will snap -- but when.

From India’s standpoint, this is not a fire it can afford to ignore. A destabilized Bangladesh could send refugee flows spilling across the border, rattle trade routes, and offer an opening for regional powers with their own agendas. Sheikh Hasina’s banned Awami League may be out of official politics, but her loyalists still have networks, and they could easily stir unrest if they sense India’s hand in propping up the current setup. General Waker’s defiant stand against the Myanmar corridor is not just about logistics. It is a warning against any perceived meddling.

Yunus, to his credit, has momentarily shelved his resignation. It appears he is clinging to the belief that dialogue can still calm the storm, but time is running out. The uneasy peace is already threadbare.

What’s at stake is not just Bangladesh’s democratic future. It is the very structure of its society. A nation where mobs and the military become the final arbiters of power is one teetering on the edge of state failure. And for India, a neighbour hurtling towards chaos isn’t just bad news. It is a ticking time bomb.

Operation Lexicon: Tharoor’s war on terror with words!

Raju Korti
Congress MP Shashi Tharoor is both a rebel without a pause and a rebel with a cause. I will leave the pauses and the causes to the reader’s wisdom and grammatical grasp. What is undeniable is that Tharoor, armed with his signature vocabulary that can leave both Merriam-Webster and the Oxford Dictionary nervously flipping through their own pages, is now heading into global diplomatic territory that might need more than just security briefings. It may also need subtitles.

As part of India’s “Operation Sindoor,” the government has announced a 59-member, all-party delegation blitz across 32 countries to push New Delhi’s zero-tolerance stance on terrorism. Tharoor, who has of late taken to toeing a somewhat anti-Congress line with Shakespearean flair, finds himself one of the chosen few to tell the world why the Pahalgam terror attack is not just an Indian tragedy, but a global warning shot.

Of course, any journalist worth his/her semicolon knows that Tharoor on foreign policy is a recipe for two things: copy that writes itself, and audiences that might need a stiff drink and a dictionary afterward. Or vice versa depending on your condition.

Let us imagine the spectacle: Tharoor stands at a polished wooden lectern in Brussels, flanked by flags and flummoxed functionaries. He begins:
“Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to unequivocally articulate India’s irrefutable repudiation of insidious terroristic proclivities and our concomitant commitment to constructing a pluralistic prophylaxis against the metastasis of extremist ideologies.”

At this point, half the delegation reaches for their translator earpieces, while the rest begin to wonder if what they heard was right.

Unfazed, Tharoor barrels on:
“We are not merely anathematising the nefarious perpetrators of perfidious violence, but are also enunciating an epistemological framework of global peace, predicated upon the principles of intersectional sovereignty and post-colonial pluralism.

”By now, a Danish diplomat is discreetly checking if “anathematise” is a form of diplomatic expulsion. A Turkish envoy stares wistfully at his espresso. And a Swedish representative, clearly bilingual, is heard whispering, “I think he just declared war on punctuation.

”Tharoor delivers the climax with the gravitas of a man who has read the UN Charter, the Bhagavad Gita, and all of Proust -- in one sitting:
“Let us coalesce to catalyse a convocation against carnage!

”There is stunned silence. It might be admiration. It might be confusion. A few brave souls clap cautiously, like they are unsure whether they have just heard a plea for global peace or a recipe for existential despair.

This, in essence, is the curious genius of Shashi Tharoor. While other members of the Indian delegation might arrive armed with policy papers, statistics, and PowerPoint presentations, Tharoor comes ready to bombard the world with lexical cannon fire. For the countries on his itinerary, this mission may become less about counterterrorism and more about countering vocabulary fatigue.

But maybe, just maybe, that’s the point. After all, in an age where attention spans are dwindling and diplomacy is increasingly conducted in emojis and hashtags, Tharoor represents a stubborn -- and strangely poetic -- reminder that words still matter. Even if you need a thesaurus and a nightcap to understand them.

So, as India sends out its message of strength and solidarity to the world, it is reassuring to know that among the arsenal is a man who can single-handedly out-talk a UN translator. Whether it’s a verbal surgical strike or a collateral explosion of adjectives, Tharoor’s global tour promises one thing: it won’t be boring.

Whether the mission succeeds diplomatically is up to the diplomats. Whether it succeeds semantically -- well, that depends on whether the world is ready to Google "epistemological pluralism.

Now for a serious epilogue for a lighter prologue.

This is what I wrote on September 1, 2020 after going through Tharoor’s book “Tharoorosaurus”: Much is being made of Tharoor's propensity to charm and sweep women off their feet but that's not being fair to his decrepitude for words that have become harem to his imagination. Tharoorosaurus as we predictably realize is a word play of his name mixed with the word Thesaurus and it ostensibly seeks to find synonyms for words. Published by the Penguin Random House India, it is a veritable inventory of 53 words, one for each letter of the alphabet. Dubbed the Wizard of Words, he shares these examples from his parallel vocabulary -- unusual words that are more Latin and Greek than Latin and Greek actually are -- from every letter of the alphabets. All of five vowels and 21 consonants. You do not have to be a linguaphile to partake of their novelty, you just have to souse in how he marinates them. Perilously disposed as I am to my perennially penurious condition, I cannot even nurse the chance finding Rs 373 that the book costs but I can indulge fair guess work to know what the book subsumes in its denouement.

Those who know me even peripherally, will bear me out. I have sweated in litres browsing and studying Thesaurus and the Dictionary for ever since I can remember. The words, their substitutes, homologues, equivalents, usages, figures of speech, idioms, synonyms, antonyms, homonyms and what else have you of from the labyrinthine macrocosm of Wren & Martin. Like Tharoor, I have jealously and steadfastly guarded my paintbrush while celebrating words and treating them like clay. It amuses me no end that the permutation and combination of 26 alphabets spin a complex ecosystem of words that can be moulded, shaped, chiselled, crystallized, kneaded, polished, carved, built, embodied, minted, modeled, framed, forged, fashioned, cast, sketched, whittled, roughened and fabricated in becoming the edifice of Literature.

People who are lesser endowed with words than I am -- and I don't say this in my self-arrogated wisdom -- grudgingly tell me all the time that I am too overbearing with them. Their refrain: Do you have to be so extravagant and grandiose with mentally taxing words when simple words could have got your point through. My riposte is as simple as it can get. Why not make the dish more appetizing by garnishing it well! Words don't drill holes in your pockets. Kortictionary will be my tribute to Tharoor’s Tharoorosaurus. Since it incorporates my name, my copyright is guaranteed by default. What Tharoor is to Thesaurus, Korti will be to a Dictionary. Hope you get the essential drift here. The similarity between Tharoor and Korti ends here. I do not possess the other talents which Tharoor is generously accredited with.

Some day, I plan to write Vocabulary Chalisa. It will take you on an unending game called Word Play. 

Afghanistan as an unexpected ally in a shifting South Asian chessboard

Raju Korti
It feels almost surreal. A moment I couldn’t have imagined two decades ago when wrote on the IC-814 hijacking saga, watching India buckle under pressure as Taliban gunmen loomed large over Kandahar airport. Back then, New Delhi and Kabul were forced into a brittle, reluctant conversation. Fast forward to today, and the script has flipped. The Taliban’s own foreign minister is now dialling up New Delhi to condemn terrorism, extend support, and -- perhaps most significantly -- call out Pakistan’s lies. Geopolitics, truly, has a twisted sense of irony.

Since the chaotic withdrawal of the US from Afghanistan and the Taliban’s return to power, India has navigated this complex terrain with a quiet pragmatism. No dramatic photo-ops, no grandstanding. Just cautious engagement, a revived humanitarian presence, and critical backchannel diplomacy. And now, in the aftermath of India's robust response to the Pahalgam terror strike, even the Taliban-led Kabul has spoken in India’s favour. This is not just a diplomatic win; it's a strategic repositioning in South Asia.

Make no mistake. Afghanistan’s overt support is a calculated snub to Pakistan. Islamabad, long used to calling the shots in Kabul, now finds its influence eroding. It had once shaped Afghan policy, harboured militant networks, and used Afghan territory to its advantage in the Kashmir playbook. That script is fraying, and New Delhi is penning the sequel.

The Taliban, despite its ideological rigidity, is no longer a monolith dancing to Pakistan's tune. Afghanistan’s own experience with terror groups has taught it the price of strategic depth gone rogue. Add to that the Taliban’s search for international legitimacy, economic assistance, and infrastructural support -- all areas where India has historical goodwill and leverage. From roads and dams to wheat and vaccines, India’s quiet investments in Afghan society have yielded long-term dividends.

More urgently, Afghanistan today faces a restive east, but a simmering west. Balochistan. Pakistan’s Achilles’ heel. India doesn’t need to overtly stir the pot; the alignment of Afghan sympathy with Baloch yearning for autonomy could become a natural extension of anti-Pakistani sentiment in the region. If Kabul and the Baloch nationalists begin seeing common cause -- not in ideology, but in resistance to Pakistani overreach -- it could redraw South Asia’s conflict contours.

A New Delhi-Kabul understanding, even if informal, opens up a second front for Islamabad to worry about -- not in terms of direct conflict, but in intelligence, optics, and diplomatic pressure. Afghanistan’s endorsement of India’s anti-terror narrative undermines Pakistan’s “victimhood” strategy at global forums. It gives India a voice in Kabul without boots on the ground. It creates space for cooperation in counterterrorism, intelligence sharing, and regional security.

For India, this is the moment to play long. Engage Kabul with development aid, build educational and healthcare bridges, offer technical support -- all while keeping diplomatic contact lines open, even with a Taliban regime. Afghanistan, desperate to diversify its alliances and escape Pakistan’s economic chokehold, could find in India not just a benefactor, but a balancing partner.

If India continues to build strategic empathy in Afghanistan while amplifying Baloch voices in multilateral forums, the region’s centre of gravity could shift. The idea of an Afghanistan-Balochistan axis -- loosely aligned by a shared resistance to Pakistani domination -- might sound ambitious, but it’s not implausible. Political geography is often shaped by emotional cartography.

And as Pakistan reels under internal instability, international distrust, and economic meltdown, New Delhi’s quiet, confident diplomacy is scripting a new regional narrative. One in which Afghanistan, once a liability, may emerge as India’s most unexpected -- and perhaps most potent -- strategic lever.

History rarely offers second chances. But when it does, India must play not just with restraint, but with foresight. Because this time, Kabul is listening. And Islamabad is watching.

Inside the fallout: Pak’s nuke leak and what it means for South Asia

Raju Korti
By all accounts, it was meant to be a sharp, swift deterrent. A tactical punch delivered after Pakistan’s grave provocation. On the night of May 10, Islamabad crossed an unspoken Rubicon when it launched a Fateh tactical ballistic missile towards New Delhi. Indian air defences intercepted it near Sirsa in Haryana, a moment that could have triggered nuclear escalation had the warhead been armed with more than conventional explosives. India’s calibrated, restrained yet precise retaliation was surgical: BrahMos cruise missiles struck key Pakistani nuclear storage tunnels in Sargodha, Chaklala, and the sensitive Chagai Hills region.

While New Delhi has officially denied targeting Pakistan’s nuclear assets, a more uncomfortable truth has quietly leaked through seismic monitors, radiation detectors, and flight logs of foreign aircraft. The impact of those strikes was far from symbolic. They may have permanently altered the nuclear equation in South Asia -- not just strategically, but environmentally.

A file grab of Nur Khan base

It is now increasingly evident that India’s strikes -- likely designed to target tunnel entrances where air-delivered nuclear weapons were stored -- led to what experts call “radiological cook-offs.” For the uninitiated, this refers to the uncontrolled detonation or fire involving radioactive materials, not necessarily a nuclear explosion, but enough to breach containment and release radiation. The seismic events recorded globally -- measuring 5.7 and 4.5 on the Richter scale -- are consistent with massive underground detonations or structural collapses.

In their aftermath, a low-flying Beechcraft aircraft was observed over Chagai and the Kirana Hills region, gathering radiological data. Within 24 hours, an Egyptian IL-76 aircraft equipped with Boron-10 -- an isotope commonly used to suppress nuclear reactions -- landed at Nur Khan Airbase near Islamabad. The urgency with which Boron-10 was brought in all but confirms an attempt to contain a radiological release.

Radiation does not respect borders. If reports of radioactive release are accurate, large swathes of central Pakistan -- specifically Balochistan, Punjab, and parts of Khyber Pakhtunkhwa -- may now be vulnerable to contamination. Prevailing winds could push radioactive particulates south eastward, impacting both local populations and eventually crossing into Rajasthan and Gujarat, depending on atmospheric conditions.

The Chernobyl disaster on April 26, 1986, offers a chilling historical parallel. A safety test gone wrong led to reactor meltdown and massive radioactive release, the effects of which are still felt in Ukraine and Belarus decades later. The Chernobyl explosion released radioactive isotopes like Iodine-131 and Cesium-137 into the atmosphere, contaminating soil, air, and water sources, and increasing cancer rates and birth defects across Europe.

Pakistan’s radiological crisis, if confirmed, could follow a similar path. The difference? Chernobyl had one reactor breach. Pakistan may be dealing with multiple compromised storage sites, with enriched uranium or plutonium potentially exposed.

The swift arrival of foreign aircraft carrying radiation-suppressing materials hints at either inadequate domestic capability or lack of preparedness. Pakistan has long claimed to have a robust nuclear command and control structure, but its ability to respond to a radiological incident, especially one involving underground facilities, has never been tested at this scale.

There’s little evidence that Pakistan has initiated a comprehensive civilian evacuation or issued radiation advisories. The country’s National Disaster Management Authority (NDMA) has not released any public statements. If any decontamination efforts are underway, they are cloaked in secrecy. Contrast this with Japan’s Fukushima response in 2011, where radiation zones were immediately demarcated and hundreds of thousands evacuated in a matter of hours.

This opacity is dangerous. Unacknowledged radiation exposure will not only raise long-term cancer rates but also erode public trust in institutions. Worse, it leaves bordering countries like India in the dark about possible secondary contamination through water bodies or migratory winds.

India may have neutralized a serious nuclear threat, but it is not insulated from the consequences. Northern India shares a porous geography and airspace with Pakistan. Radiation clouds do not carry passports. Depending on wind patterns, radioactive isotopes could reach Indian airspace, soil, or even food chains through shared rivers and aquifers.

The Indian government has likely activated its own radiological monitoring systems in Rajasthan and Punjab, though no public alert has been issued so far. The Defence Research and Development Organisation (DRDO) and the Bhabha Atomic Research Centre (BARC) have capabilities to track atmospheric radiation and are presumably working silently in the background.

It is telling that while Israel and the United States have long debated the feasibility of neutralizing Iran’s fortified nuclear sites, India has seemingly managed to cripple multiple Pakistani storage sites in one coordinated night. This is both a strategic statement and a diplomatic dilemma. The international community, particularly nuclear watchdogs like the IAEA, will now be forced to reckon with the idea that South Asia is not merely a flashpoint. It is a laboratory of modern tactical deterrence, where doctrines can change in hours.

There are whispers that the US may have raised false nuclear alarms to pressure India into a ceasefire. If true, it reflects Washington’s deeper fear: a nuclear-armed Pakistan, with compromised command and control, may be more dangerous in its desperation than in its power.

As an Indian, I find it hard to cheer what seems like a strategic victory, knowing full well that radiation is a weapon that lingers long after the missiles fall silent. Whether or not Pakistan acknowledges the scale of the incident, the region will live with its consequences.

This moment calls not just for military vigilance, but for scientific transparency, cross-border environmental protocols, and public health preparedness. South Asia has long played with nuclear fire. This time, some of it may have escaped its containment.

Postscript: In the shadow of Chernobyl, Fukushima, and now Chagai, one truth emerges: Nuclear stewardship is not merely about deterrence. It is about responsibility. And it is a responsibility that cannot be dodged behind denials or buried under mountains.

Ceasefire: A word too brittle to mean peace!

Raju Korti
By all counts, "ceasefire" is an exclamatory term, not a resolution. It is a word that momentarily halts the symphony of shells and skirmishes -- but often with the fragility of glass. The recent so-called ceasefire, hurriedly brokered and unilaterally declared by the United States under the theatrics of President Trump, is a stark reminder of this hollowness. For a country like India, which has historically and firmly rejected third-party interventions in its bilateral matters with Pakistan, this declaration was not only presumptuous but an affront to diplomatic protocol.

And yet, Pakistan played along -- only to turn the entire gesture into a farce. While Indian diplomacy maintained composure, avoiding the bait, Pakistan postured like a victor. The delusion ran deep, its military feeding fairytales to its own people while licking wounds inflicted by India’s resolute military response. The theatre of bluster could barely mask the panic in Islamabad. Behind the veneer of defiance, there was a flurry of SOS messages to Washington. Ironically, the same Washington that, for the initial stretch, preferred to be a passive onlooker as Indian forces decisively neutralized terrorist infrastructure in Pak-occupied Kashmir and across the border.

What followed next was predictable. A string of self-proclaimed “strategic analysts” emerged from the woodwork, pontificating about ceasefires, corridors of diplomacy, and regional stability -- as if these terms had intrinsic value amid the wreckage of facts on the ground. The reality was starker. India’s message was simple, direct, and powerful: terrorism is war, and any future attack on Indian soil will be treated as such -- with full-spectrum retaliation.

This wasn't rhetorical grandstanding. It was policy.

After the Pahalgam terror attack that left 26 innocent and unsuspecting civilians dead, the government finally drew its red line in thick, permanent ink. There would be no ambiguity. Every future misadventure by Pakistan would be met with decisive force. Operation Sindoor,

 India’s expansive retaliatory strike on May 7, targeting nine terror sites deep within Pakistan and PoK, marked not just a military maneuver but a strategic declaration: the days of disproportionate restraint are over.

It is worth noting that Pakistan, already teetering on economic collapse, couldn't afford a prolonged escalation. Its desperate need for the $1 billion IMF tranche reportedly became a lever for the US to push for a ceasefire. According to reliable sources, Washington tied the disbursement to Pakistan's acceptance of a halt to hostilities -- an equation that laid bare the leverage of global finance in regional geopolitics. While India stood tall as a sovereign actor, Pakistan was being externally managed like a failing enterprise.

The IMF, meanwhile, has increasingly begun to look less like a multilateral financial institution and more like an enabler of geopolitical coercion. Social media’s rebaptism of the body as the International Mujahideen Fund might be snide, but it echoes a widely shared sentiment in India. A nation that has gone to the IMF 25 times since 1950, borrowed over $48 billion from the World Bank, and now survives at the mercy of China and the Gulf monarchies, has no business masquerading as a peer on the geopolitical chessboard.

India, in contrast, stands in a different league. It is the world's fifth-largest economy, a global tech and services powerhouse, and a growing military-industrial actor. It doesn’t just buy arms -- it builds them. Its macroeconomic resilience and geopolitical maturity allow it to absorb provocations without knee-jerk belligerence. It didn’t lash out at Trump’s meddling pronouncement. It didn't crumble under media pressure or jingoistic frenzy. Instead, it let results speak.

And the results are telling. The Indus Waters Treaty remains suspended, the right to retaliate remains intact, and India’s war on terror continues with unflinching resolve. There has been no let-up in operational preparedness. In fact, the armed forces have made it unequivocally clear: while India will honour the ceasefire understanding, any act of aggression will be met with overwhelming force.

For Pakistan, the writing on the wall is clear. It has lost the war, lost the narrative, and is haemorrhaging what little economic credibility it had left. Its only utility now, to the powers that once propped it up, is as a pawn -- a geopolitical hitman rented for shadowy missions. Its army runs a state within a state, its polity is weak, its institutions corroded. Extremism festers where reform should have taken root. Corruption thrives where competence is needed most. And a tragically disengaged civil society ensures that this cycle of dysfunction remains unbroken.

At this juncture, Pakistan stands at a dangerous crossroads. But to call it a turning point would imply a plausible path forward. I am not convinced it has one. Trapped in its own web of militarism, ideological extremism, and economic bankruptcy, Pakistan is not rising. It is sinking -- fast, and possibly beyond retrieval.

India, meanwhile, must stay the course. Vigilant, composed, and confident -- not because it seeks conflict, but because it has learnt to confront it with clarity and strength. Ceasefires may come and go, but India's security doctrine now rests on one non-negotiable principle: deterrence through dominance.

And if there is a lesson in all this, it is that peace can never be declared by third parties. It has to be earned -- often, through the kind of resolve that doesn’t flinch when provoked, doesn’t pause when tested, and doesn’t break when pressured.

Defence in our own hands: Why indigenisation is India’s most urgent strategic need!

Raju Korti
Six years ago, when General Bipin Rawat helmed the Indian Army, I had penned a detailed article advocating the strategic importance of indigenising our defence production. At the time, the argument rested on long-term foresight -- on the need to be future-ready, to build an industrial-military complex that could match our ambitions as a regional power. Today, that foresight has become an imperative, forced upon us by the intensifying heat of our geography and geopolitics.

With the re-eruption of tensions along the India-Pakistan border, the value of self-reliance in defence is no longer a matter of policy discourse but one of survival and sovereign assertion. In a region riddled with hostility, where even moments of calm are only uneasy truces, relying on foreign markets to equip our forces is a vulnerability we can ill afford.

India is the fifth largest military spender in the world -- a statistic that should ideally align with technological self-sufficiency. Yet, close to 60% of our weapons systems continue to be imported. This isn't just a fiscal drain; it leaves critical gaps in our response mechanism during crises. Foreign suppliers are vulnerable to geopolitical pressures, logistical delays, and at times, even implicit bias. An indigenised defence infrastructure doesn’t merely speak of nationalism -- it signals autonomy, preparedness, and resilience.

To be fair, the Ministry of Defence has been steering policy and investment towards this goal. The emphasis on the Make in India initiative within the defence sector has begun yielding some tangible results. But the road ahead is long and urgent. The three branches of our armed forces -- Army, Navy, and Air Force -- each offer examples of both progress and potential.

The Indian Army’s past dependence on foreign-manufactured assault rifles, particularly the INSAS series, often meant logistical bottlenecks and inter-operability issues. The recent initiative to co-produce the AK-203 rifles in Amethi -- under a joint venture between India and Russia -- is a significant move toward domestic capability. With technology transfer in place, it marks not just a manufacturing shift but a technological one. These rifles are slated to be the backbone of infantry operations in hostile terrains like Kashmir and along the LOC, ensuring frontline soldiers aren’t short-changed on reliability or firepower.

Less conspicuous but immensely consequential is the indigenisation underway in the Indian Navy. Over 60% of its equipment is now built in India. The commissioning of INS Vikrant, India's first indigenously built aircraft carrier, is both a technological and symbolic milestone. So are the Scorpene-class submarines constructed at Mazagon Dock and the range of indigenous warships under Project 15B and Project 17A. Given China's aggressive naval posturing in the Indian Ocean, a self-reliant Navy becomes not just a regional stabilizer but a deterrent force.

The Defence Research and Development Organization (DRDO), often maligned for delays, deserves credit for turning a corner. The Akash surface-to-air missile system, a completely indigenised product, is already operational with the Army and Air Force. The missile has performed reliably in various conditions and adds a credible layer to India’s multi-tiered air defence architecture.

The Light Combat Aircraft (LCA) Tejas, after years of development, is finally gaining traction with the Indian Air Force. It may not yet rival imported platforms in every parameter, but it provides a base upon which India can iterate, improve, and industrialise. Meanwhile, DRDO’s Astra missile, an indigenously developed air-to-air missile, has added teeth to our fighter fleet.

India’s defence research institutions are also working on frontier technologies -- artificial intelligence, unmanned aerial systems, and electronic warfare tools -- that promise to multiply the effectiveness of existing platforms. These initiatives are critical in giving our Air Force the edge in a fast-evolving battlefield where cyber and space dimensions are becoming as important as land and air.

Indigenisation isn’t just about producing a piece of hardware within national borders. It’s about creating ecosystems -- of innovation, of employment, of industrial resilience. It’s about reducing our fiscal deficit by cutting expensive imports. But more critically, it is about gaining strategic autonomy in a world increasingly driven by unpredictable alliances and polarised supply chains.

In 2025, the stakes are far higher than they were when I first wrote on this subject. With hostile neighbours who are both nuclear-armed and unpredictable, India cannot risk a situation where a crucial defence system is caught in customs or locked behind a diplomatic stalemate. The old adage in military doctrine holds true: Amateurs discuss strategy; professionals talk logistics.

The future of our security lies not just on the battlefield, but in our factories, laboratories, and design bureaus. If war is the final test of a nation's sovereignty, then indigenisation is the syllabus we must master before the exam arrives.

In social media we trust (even for airstrikes)!

Raju Korti
Once upon a saner time, wars were confirmed by radar blips and intelligence briefings. Once in a while by the Red Cross activity and reports from war correspondents. Now, we seem to be living in an age where geopolitical victories are measured in likes, retweets, and forwarded WhatsApp messages.

Take the case of Khwaja Asif, a senior Pakistani politician, who recently declared -- with a straight face -- that Pakistan had shot down five Indian jets. When asked for proof, one might expect satellite imagery, radar logs, or at least a shaky video with breathless commentary. Instead, he offered the unimpeachable source of truth: “It’s all over the social media...on Indian social media.

”Yes, sir. Nothing says “military credibility” quite like a grainy meme with Comic Sans font and a watermark that says Indian_Army_Real_Factz_007.This isn’t an isolated incident. Social media has become the new courtroom of public opinion, where a viral video outweighs verified news, and a trending hashtag can practically trigger a United Nations debate. Politicians now check Twitter trends before drafting policy, and influencers can sometimes topple the credibility of journalists armed with facts. Even courtroom verdicts seem subject to what the internet "feels" about the accused.

Remember when a Bollywood celebrity's dog barked oddly and #HauntedPoodle was trending? There were conspiracy theories, fan wars, and even pet psychics weighing in -- all before anyone bothered to check if the dog was just hiccupping.

This is the era of the screenshot gospel. If it is on Instagram, it must be true. If it is not on TikTok, it didn’t happen. And if someone says they shot down five jets but can’t produce a single image or official statement -- well, surely a 13-year-old on Telegram will leak something soon enough.

So the next time you want to declare victory -- in war, love, or even a neighbourly cricket match -- don’t call a press conference. Just post a blurry image, add a crying-laughing emoji, and wait for the algorithm to do its job. After all, in the grand court of social media, viral beats verifiable. Every single time.

The social media validation is already making the mainstream media look like a disruptive technology!

“Mr Pub Ji Najam Sethi” and his ideas of diplomatic charm!

Raju Korti
(By now a baffled, bemused, and barely sober observer of subcontinental absurdities!)

It’s not every day that one hears of diplomacy being reduced to glamourised charm offensives in pubs -- but then, Najam Sethi is no ordinary man. Over the years, he has been a journalist, a cricket board chief, a political whisperer, a talk show regular, and now, apparently, an unpaid scriptwriter for a satirical Netflix series that merges House of Cards with Sex and the City -- set in Islamabad.

I have watched the video thrice now, each time hoping he might wink at the camera to indicate he was joking. But no, there it was, delivered with all the gravitas of a man who once decided that selecting a cricket captain was his true calling. Now, diplomacy too must bear the brunt of his benevolent brainstorming.

Let me summarize: in response to India’s growing influence in Washington, Mr. Sethi, in his infinite wisdom, has proposed that Pakistan send “attractive women” to charm American think tanks, instead of relying on its allegedly “timid bureaucrats.” For someone who has worn many hats, Sethi appears to have now misplaced the one marked “dignity.”

Sethi insists this is how diplomacy works: not with policy papers, hard data, or well-reasoned arguments -- but with park strolls, pub chats, and a hint of flirtatious finesse. I don’t know if this eureka moment struck him during “happy hours” in Lahore but it certainly qualifies as a low point in the already unceremonious pile of foreign policy advice Pakistan has seen.

What next? Trade agreements negotiated over candlelit dinners? UN resolutions rewritten as sonnets?Mind you, this is a country facing global scrutiny over terrorism, and its “senior intellectuals” are mulling whether dim lighting and a dazzling smile might succeed where policy and principle have failed.

The best part is Sethi's contempt for bureaucrats -- those poor souls trying to uphold what’s left of Pakistan’s diplomatic structure. According to him, they’re just not “pub people.” Really, now. Imagine calling your nation’s foreign service timid because they prefer formal memos to bar banter. What are they supposed to do -- practice diplomacy over karaoke?

One wonders, has Najam Sethi ever met an actual think tanker? These are people who yak about use of nuclear weapons during breakfast, lunch and dinner. Sending in “charmers” to debate sanctions and regional instability is like hiring stand-up comedians to negotiate ceasefires.

In one fell swoop, Sethi has also managed to insult the intelligence community -- not the spies, but the policy wonks in Washington, who actually run the think tanks. Apparently, they are so easily swayed that all it takes is a knowing smile and a clever pun about Kashmir to win them over. I am sure they are blushing beetroot red.

Pakistan’s women, quite rightly, erupted in anger. Activists condemned the comments as not just sexist but staggeringly stupid. And I dare say the men didn’t fare much better -- reduced to caricatures of incompetence in Sethi’s telling of the tale.

If Najam Sethi is serious -- and I dread the possibility -- then it is time he rewrote the textbook on diplomacy. Suggested title: High Heels, Low Policy: Soft Power the Sethi Way. Available soon at every bar counter and foreign ministry waiting room near you.

Until then, I suggest we all take a long stroll – preferably with headphones in place -- because the next time Mr. Sethi decides to “think aloud,” we might just find ourselves discussing strategic deterrence over speed dating.

God, Destiny, Providence.. A multi-order differential equation!

Raju Korti
The debate between God and Destiny is as old as human thought itself. Are they two sides of the same coin, or is one merely a human interpretation of the other? Philosophers, theologians, and sceptics have wrestled with this question for centuries, only to end up at the same paradox: if everything is preordained, then what role does God play beyond being an observer? And if God is the grand orchestrator, does free will have any meaning at all?

Destiny, at its core, is the belief that things unfold as they are meant to. It is the cosmic script, indifferent to individual prayers or human intervention. The Greeks called it Moira, the Vedantic tradition speaks of Karma, and modern science may as well call it Determinism. Destiny does not argue, does not plead, and certainly does not negotiate. It moves, unbothered by our aspirations, much like a river flowing inevitably toward the ocean. Even Einstein, who was sceptical of a personal God, believed in an orderly universe governed by laws that left little room for randomness. “God does not play dice with the universe,” he famously said -- though destiny, it seems, might.

God, on the other hand, is often seen as the conscious force behind this script. Depending on whom you ask, God either writes destiny, alters it, or watches it unfold with mild amusement. Some say God is personal, intervening when prayers are sincere enough. Others argue that God is simply an idea, a construct of the human need to find meaning in an indifferent cosmos. If destiny is the path, then God is either the architect or a silent witness -- depending on how much faith one chooses to have.

The real question, then, is whom to trust -- God or destiny? If one believes in destiny, trust is unnecessary; what must happen will happen, regardless of human expectation. If one believes in God, trust is an act of faith, a submission to a higher order that may or may not reveal itself. The paradox is inescapable: those who trust destiny need not pray, and those who trust God must accept that His ways are mysterious.

Perhaps the only reasonable conclusion is that both are merely perspectives of the same grand uncertainty. God is the name we give when we seek comfort; destiny is the explanation we accept when things do not go our way. The wise, it seems, place their faith in neither and instead trust only in the moment—where the past and the future collapse into a single point, unburdened by either God’s plan or destiny’s indifference. And maybe, just maybe, that is where true freedom lies.

Living ghosts in no man's land!

Raju Korti
I can visualize the Attari-Wagah border, a no-man’s-land where the air is thick with tension and uncertainty. I see a group of Pakistani nationals huddle under the scorching sun, their faces etched with despair. They were deported by India in the wake of the April 22, 2025, Pahalgam massacre, a brutal attack that claimed 28 lives and reignited the smouldering enmity between these nuclear-armed neighbours. But Pakistan has slammed its gates shut, refusing to accept its own citizens. Stranded between two nations that reject them, these individuals are caught in a legal and humanitarian purgatory. What happens to them? What is their status when neither country claims them? And has this happened before?

As a witness to this unfolding crisis, I see the human cost of geopolitical brinkmanship. These deportees -- men, women, some with children clutching their hands -- are not just collateral damage in a diplomatic standoff; they are lives suspended in limbo. India, citing security concerns after the massacre, revoked visas and ordered all Pakistani nationals to leave by April 27, 2025. Pakistan, denying involvement in the attack and accusing India of overreach, has refused to open its border, leaving many stranded. The Attari-Wagah crossing, once a symbol of cautious connectivity, is now a closed gate, guarded by soldiers on both sides.

Their legal status is a bureaucratic nightmare. International law, including the principle of non-refoulement, mandates that a country must accept its nationals if they are deported. Yet Pakistan’s refusal defies this norm, and India, unwilling to harbour them, cannot forcibly send them across a sealed border. This leaves the deportees in a stateless-like condition -- not stateless in the legal sense, as they are still Pakistani citizens, but effectively without a country to claim them. India may detain them in camps or jails, as suggested by some observers, while diplomatic wrangling continues. But detention is a stopgap, not a solution. Without legal status to remain in India or a path back to Pakistan, they exist in a gray zone, vulnerable to exploitation, deprivation, and loss of dignity.

The immediate future is grim. India could set up temporary holding facilities, as it has done for other undocumented migrants, but resources are strained, and public sentiment, inflamed by the massacre, is hostile. Some deportees, like Suraj Kumar, who came to India for a pilgrimage, plead for mercy, their visas cancelled through no fault of their own. Others, like Maria Masih, a Pakistani woman married to an Indian, face the agony of potential family separation. Pakistan’s stance, meanwhile, seems driven by a mix of defiance and internal political pressures, with its leadership wary of appearing weak amid accusations of supporting terrorism. A diplomatic resolution could take weeks, months, or longer, leaving these individuals to languish.

If I remember correctly, this is not the first time people have been trapped between nations. History offers chilling parallels. In 1971, after the Bangladesh Liberation War, thousands of Bihari Muslims, considered Pakistani loyalists, were stranded in Bangladesh. Pakistan initially refused to repatriate them, fearing ethnic tensions, while Bangladesh viewed them as outsiders. Many lived in squalid camps, like Geneva Camp in Dhaka, for decades, stateless and forgotten until partial repatriation began in the 1980s. Similarly, in the 1990s, Bhutan expelled ethnic Nepalis, many of whom ended up in refugee camps in Nepal. Bhutan refused their return, and Nepal, unable to absorb them, left them in limbo for years until third countries like the US offered resettlement.

Closer to the present, the 2019 India-Pakistan standoff after the Pulwama attack saw similar border tensions. While not as severe as today’s crisis, cross-border movement froze, and some Pakistani nationals in India faced deportation orders. Most were eventually repatriated after backchannel talks, but the process was slow, and some endured detention. These cases show that resolution often hinges on political will. When governments prioritize posturing over pragmatism, the human toll mounts. Third-party mediation, like the UN or neutral countries, sometimes helps, but Pakistan’s call for a “neutral probe” into the Pahalgam attack has gained little traction, with only China offering tepid support.

What can be done? I watch the picture of a child among the deportees clinging to a tattered bag, her eyes scanning the horizon for hope. Should India provide short-term humanitarian aid -- food, shelter, medical care -- to prevent a crisis from becoming a tragedy? Long-term, both nations need to negotiate, perhaps through backchannels, to resolve the repatriation deadlock. The UN or a neutral body could mediate, though pride and mistrust make this unlikely. The deportees, meanwhile, are pawns in a larger game, their fate tied to the whims of two governments locked in a cycle of retribution.

As the sun dips below the border, casting long shadows over the stranded, I am struck by the absurdity of their plight. They are citizens of a nation that disowns them, guests in a country that expels them. Their story is a stark reminder that when borders become battlelines, it is the vulnerable who pay the price. History tells us this can end -- through diplomacy, pressure, or time -- but until then, these souls remain ghosts in a divided land.

Living ghosts in no man's land!

Raju Korti
I can visualize the Attari-Wagah border, a no-man’s-land where the air is thick with tension and uncertainty. I see a group of Pakistani nationals huddle under the scorching sun, their faces etched with despair. They were deported by India in the wake of the April 22, 2025, Pahalgam massacre, a brutal attack that claimed 28 lives and reignited the smouldering enmity between these nuclear-armed neighbours. But Pakistan has slammed its gates shut, refusing to accept its own citizens. Stranded between two nations that reject them, these individuals are caught in a legal and humanitarian purgatory. What happens to them? What is their status when neither country claims them? And has this happened before?

As a witness to this unfolding crisis, I see the human cost of geopolitical brinkmanship. These deportees -- men, women, some with children clutching their hands -- are not just collateral damage in a diplomatic standoff; they are lives suspended in limbo. India, citing security concerns after the massacre, revoked visas and ordered all Pakistani nationals to leave by April 27, 2025. Pakistan, denying involvement in the attack and accusing India of overreach, has refused to open its border, leaving many stranded. The Attari-Wagah crossing, once a symbol of cautious connectivity, is now a closed gate, guarded by soldiers on both sides.

The Attari-Wagah border

Their legal status is a bureaucratic nightmare. International law, including the principle of non-refoulement, mandates that a country must accept its nationals if they are deported. Yet Pakistan’s refusal defies this norm, and India, unwilling to harbour them, cannot forcibly send them across a sealed border. This leaves the deportees in a stateless-like condition -- not stateless in the legal sense, as they are still Pakistani citizens, but effectively without a country to claim them. India may detain them in camps or jails, as suggested by some observers, while diplomatic wrangling continues. But detention is a stopgap, not a solution. Without legal status to remain in India or a path back to Pakistan, they exist in a gray zone, vulnerable to exploitation, deprivation, and loss of dignity.

The immediate future is grim. India could set up temporary holding facilities, as it has done for other undocumented migrants, but resources are strained, and public sentiment, inflamed by the massacre, is hostile. Some deportees, like Suraj Kumar, who came to India for a pilgrimage, plead for mercy, their visas cancelled through no fault of their own. Others, like Maria Masih, a Pakistani woman married to an Indian, face the agony of potential family separation. Pakistan’s stance, meanwhile, seems driven by a mix of defiance and internal political pressures, with its leadership wary of appearing weak amid accusations of supporting terrorism. A diplomatic resolution could take weeks, months, or longer, leaving these individuals to languish.

If I remember correctly, this is not the first time people have been trapped between nations. History offers chilling parallels. In 1971, after the Bangladesh Liberation War, thousands of Bihari Muslims, considered Pakistani loyalists, were stranded in Bangladesh. Pakistan initially refused to repatriate them, fearing ethnic tensions, while Bangladesh viewed them as outsiders. Many lived in squalid camps, like Geneva Camp in Dhaka, for decades, stateless and forgotten until partial repatriation began in the 1980s. Similarly, in the 1990s, Bhutan expelled ethnic Nepalis, many of whom ended up in refugee camps in Nepal. Bhutan refused their return, and Nepal, unable to absorb them, left them in limbo for years until third countries like the US offered resettlement.

Closer to the present, the 2019 India-Pakistan standoff after the Pulwama attack saw similar border tensions. While not as severe as today’s crisis, cross-border movement froze, and some Pakistani nationals in India faced deportation orders. Most were eventually repatriated after backchannel talks, but the process was slow, and some endured detention. These cases show that resolution often hinges on political will. When governments prioritize posturing over pragmatism, the human toll mounts. Third-party mediation, like the UN or neutral countries, sometimes helps, but Pakistan’s call for a “neutral probe” into the Pahalgam attack has gained little traction, with only China offering tepid support.

What can be done? I watch the picture of a child among the deportees clinging to a tattered bag, her eyes scanning the horizon for hope. Should India provide short-term humanitarian aid -- food, shelter, medical care -- to prevent a crisis from becoming a tragedy? Long-term, both nations need to negotiate, perhaps through backchannels, to resolve the repatriation deadlock. The UN or a neutral body could mediate, though pride and mistrust make this unlikely. The deportees, meanwhile, are pawns in a larger game, their fate tied to the whims of two governments locked in a cycle of retribution.

As the sun dips below the border, casting long shadows over the stranded, I am struck by the absurdity of their plight. They are citizens of a nation that disowns them, guests in a country that expels them. Their story is a stark reminder that when borders become battle lines, it is the vulnerable who pay the price. History tells us this can end -- through diplomacy, pressure, or time -- but until then, these souls remain ghosts in a divided land.

Pak’s nuclear brinkmanship: The time to act Is now!

Raju Korti
The ink had barely dried on condemnations of the latest terrorist strike in Pahalgam when Pakistan’s habitual nuclear sabre-rattling reared its head again. Defence minister Khawaja Asif reminded the world that Pakistan would not hesitate to use nuclear weapons if its "existence" were threatened. Another leader, Hanif Abbasi, upped the ante, warning that 130 warheads, including the Shaheen and Ghaznavi missiles, were already "arranged" for India. As if these threats were some form of diplomatic punctuation.

As an observer of the subcontinent’s precarious geopolitics, I no longer find these threats shocking. I find them deeply, institutionally disturbing.

Pakistan’s casual invocation of nuclear weapons has become more of a pattern than a provocation. It reflects a chronic militaristic impulse rooted not just in fringe elements like the Hafiz Saeeds and Masood Azhars of the world, but worryingly, within Pakistan’s mainstream military and political establishment. The line that separates the state from its so-called non-state actors has long been blurry, perhaps deliberately so.

What we are witnessing today is not the isolated ranting of a rogue minister, but the echo of a state that uses its nuclear arsenal not as a deterrent, but as a diplomatic crutch. The danger is not just in the rhetoric --it’s in the systemic fragility of a nuclear-armed state with a soft underbelly vulnerable to chaos, radicalism, and potential implosion.

Let’s be blunt. A nuclear state that has harboured Osama bin Laden in plain sight, empowered extremist ideologies, and repeatedly collapsed into political instability is not just a regional problem -- it is a global nightmare waiting to unfold.

The United States has long feared the possibility of Pakistan’s nuclear weapons falling into the wrong hands. As far back as 2011, NBC News reported on America’s "snatch-and-grab" contingency plans -- military operations designed to secure Pakistan’s nukes if they were ever at risk of being compromised. That was over a decade ago. Since then, Pakistan has added to its arsenal, expanded its delivery capabilities, and -- according to a senior US official -- may soon have long-range missiles that can reach beyond South Asia.

The fact that such a country is still treated with diplomatic caution—rather than urgent international intervention -- baffles me.

Yes, the "snatch-and-grab" idea has its detractors. Former Pakistani president Pervez Musharraf warned it would trigger "total confrontation." Nuclear physicist Pervez Hoodbhoy has rightly pointed out that Pakistan’s warheads are deeply embedded across tunnels, cities, and military bases. A military intervention could backfire catastrophically.

And yet, doing nothing is even more dangerous.

The world cannot afford to wait for the moment when internal strife, a terrorist breach, or an ideological takeover in Pakistan opens the floodgates to its nuclear arsenal. The scenarios once dismissed as far-fetched are now unsettlingly plausible.First, a credible international coalition -- including the US, India, and other nuclear powers -- must quietly but decisively enhance surveillance, intelligence sharing, and contingency planning specific to Pakistan’s nuclear assets. Second, pressure must be ramped up on Pakistan’s military and intelligence complex -- not just through sanctions, but through isolating key actors involved in nuclear brinkmanship and terror sponsorship.

Third, it is time to end the indulgent fallacy that separates Pakistan’s so-called ‘deep state’ from its elected state. When ministers openly talk of nuclear retaliation, and when radical groups enjoy protective patronage, the distinction is both meaningless and dangerous.

The doctrine of deterrence presumes rational actors. But rationality cannot be assumed in a state where political chaos and radicalism routinely eclipse reason. Unlike India’s declared no-first-use policy, Pakistan’s nuclear posture is alarmingly ambiguous, and its internal volatility makes it even more hazardous.

The time to secure Pakistan’s nukes -- diplomatically, strategically, and if necessary, operationally -- is not after catastrophe strikes. It is before.

The nuclear shadow over South Asia isn’t a Cold War relic. It is a living, breathing, unpredictable threat. And the next time a Pakistani minister waves the nuclear card, the world must stop brushing it off as rhetoric.

It may not be a bluff forever.