Nature, not sterility, is our real shield!

Raju Korti
From what I gather, there’s something oddly reassuring about the fact that nearly 800 million viruses land on every square meter of this planet’s atmosphere every single day -- and yet, here we are. Breathing, living, thriving. It is not bravado but biology. Our bodies have, over millennia, evolved into magnificent fortresses, constantly engaged in microscopic battles, parrying invisible blows, dodging pathogens, and updating immune intelligence like a well-oiled operating system.

But lately, I find myself asking: are we dumbing down this natural brilliance with our obsession for cleanliness?

(Pic representational)

Think about it. We now flinch at the idea of drinking water that isn’t RO-purified within an inch of its life. Our fruits are scrubbed raw under treated water, our homes sprayed relentlessly with antibacterial mists, and our hands reek of sanitiser even when all we have touched is a doorknob. Our immune systems, once sharp with the regular exercise of exposure to nature -- to mud, rivers, dust-laden winds -- are being coddled into complacency.

One microbiologist once told me that the immune system works like a smartphone -- it needs regular updates. The older ways of life -- walking barefoot on soil, bathing in rivers, or inhaling unsanitised air -- were, in effect, data transfers. The microbes from the earth and water served as teachers, trainers, and sometimes even sparring partners for our bodies.

Today’s ultra-sterile living standards are akin to switching off mobile data. The updates stop. The immune system grows lazy. It forgets how to fight, and worse, it forgets what it is fighting.

This isn’t just romanticising the past. During the COVID-19 pandemic, Europe and the United States bore disproportionate brunt. One striking reason: microbial amnesia. Populations living in pristine, sanitised environments had immune systems that hadn’t been “trained” in years. So, when a new virus arrived, their defences scrambled to even recognise it.

Compare that to rural India, where daily interactions with natural ecosystems continue. A remarkable insight from research into the Ganga river suggests it functions like a living microbial network. When humans bathe in it, they unknowingly upload and download microbial information. In return, the river, with its intelligent bacteriophages, selectively destroys harmful microbes and educates the human immune system. Imagine a spiritual ritual doubling up as immunological training.

It might sound counterintuitive in an age where cleanliness is equated with health. But perhaps we have taken it too far. Not all dirt is danger. Not all microbes are villains. In our race to isolate ourselves from nature under the guise of protection, we have forgotten that resilience isn’t built in laboratories alone.

The real path forward is not to wrap ourselves in sterilised bubbles. It’s to reconnect -- with soil, with rivers, with microbes. With that which once made us strong. Let’s not outsource all immunity to vaccines and chemical sanitisers. The real antidote to future pandemics might just lie beneath our feet, in our rivers, and in the air we have grown afraid to breathe.

From Headlines to Herons: The man behind the lens!

Raju Korti
There are journalists, and then there is Dr Moiz Mannan Haque -- a man whose words once danced crisply across the columns of newspapers, and whose camera now coaxes poetry from the wild. From the clang of newsrooms to the hush of forests, Moiz has made an extraordinary journey -- one that reads like a slow-simmered novel rather than a hurried headline. Former Head of the Department of Mass Communication at RTM Nagpur University, erstwhile Assistant Professor at NYSS Institute of Management and Research, and before that a redoubtable name in the world of reportage -- with stints as News Editor at The Peninsula, Qatar and Senior Reporter at both The Indian Express and The Hitavada --Moiz has worn many hats, and worn them well.

Moiz with his muse -- Nature

I have had the privilege of being his contemporary and witnessing firsthand how he filed immaculate copies that could glide past even the flintiest-eyed editors without the need for a red pen -- stories so airtight, they needed no patchwork. But what’s remarkable is not just his mastery in spinning a crisp copy – it is his seamless metamorphosis into a visual raconteur, a chronicler of the untamed, whose photographs now belong more to the domain of galleries and museums than mere social media scrolls. His frames breathe. They pause. They speak. Each one, a whisper from the wilderness.

And if you think that’s the end of the story, think again. Moiz is nothing if not a chameleon of talent. A beloved professor, adored -- nay, hero-worshipped -- by his students for his rigour and humour alike, he has also ventured into the world of fringe theatre. In a production titled Adieu, staged in the unorthodox format of a "Shot Play" -- a performance recorded in one fluid take without retakes or audience -- he dived into the role of a dying father. The lines were simple, the emotion anything but. In his own words, “It was a lot of fun… a new format and challenging.” True to form, he aced it with aplomb.

Perhaps what makes his photographic artistry irresistible is this: if the images are lush slices of sponge cake, the captions he pens are the glistening, whip-smart icing on top. Wry, wise, wistful -- always pitch perfect.

What follows is a freewheeling exchange with Moiz -- who has now traded news desks for nesting birds, deadlines for dew-dropped mornings, and the clickety-clack of typewriters for the meditative click of a camera shutter.

Let’s step into his world, frame by frame.

(Both collages courtesy Pragati Korti)

Photography for Moiz began in black and white -- quite literally. As a curious teenager on a tour of South India, armed with his uncle’s borrowed camera and eyes wide open to the marvels of heritage architecture, his first brush with image-making was more than just recreational. It was instinctive, almost ritualistic. A humble plastic-bodied HotShot 110 camera became his first personal tool -- rudimentary, even toy-like -- yet it offered him a window into landscapes, especially during a formative tour of Kashmir. Long before he fully understood aperture or exposure, the language of visuals had already begun whispering to him.

His photographic journey took a historic turn during his journalism training in West Berlin in 1990. Out of his modest scholarship, he bought his first SLR film camera -- the iconic Pentax K1000. That camera would bear witness to one of the defining moments of the 20th century. As the Berlin Wall crumbled and the merger of East and West Germany unfolded before his eyes, Moiz was there -- not just as a student of journalism, but as a chronicler of history. Some of the images he captured during that euphoric moment found their way to publication, affirming his instinct that storytelling through the lens was a calling, not a coincidence.

Growing up in Nagpur in a family where weekends meant picnics by lakes, rivers, and forests, Moiz was steeped in nature without even realizing it. Though his early professional life was anchored in journalism -- covering elections, capturing newsmakers, writing headlines -- the love for imagery simmered in the background. But it wasn’t until he could afford a decent camera that he began framing the world not just in his mind, but on film. The shift from hard news to herons wasn’t abrupt -- it was a gentle, organic evolution. He often quips, “It was a ‘natural’ progression.

”He describes himself as a photographer guided more by instinct than by rigorous training. The photographic eye -- that elusive gift of knowing a good frame even without a camera -- seemed to develop with time. “Practice may teach you the buttons, but instinct guides the frame,” he says, summarizing his belief in spontaneous vision over mechanical mastery.

Moiz’s transition from journalist to nature photographer was not an escape, but an extension. Visual storytelling was always in his DNA. In newsrooms in India and abroad, he shared a deep rapport with photojournalists, and later taught photojournalism himself, often urging students to find the “intro” -- journalism’s sacred first paragraph -- within every image. That same instinct shapes his wildlife photography today. He doesn’t aim merely for beauty, but for narrative. “My photos are not meant to be pretty postcards. They must speak.

”If journalism taught him to chase stories, nature photography taught him to wait for them. “It’s a form of meditation,” he reflects, “not about losing oneself, but becoming so aware of nature that you almost vanish into it.” Unlike reporting, where deadlines and readers dominate the rewards, nature photography is deeply personal. “The satisfaction is inward,” he says, “and the patience you build is the dividend.

”Despite living in an age of AI filters and superficial beauty, Moiz is unshaken in his core belief -- that composition is the soul of photography. “Fifty per cent of photography is where you stand,” he states. Good photos are born in the mind, not the camera. Whether it’s trimming excess in a news report or excluding non-essentials in a photograph, the parallels between editing words and composing images remain vivid to him.

His most dramatic moment in the wild? Undoubtedly the heart-racing encounter in Tadoba in 2019, when the young tiger Chhota Matkasur launched an ambush on a herd of Indian gaurs -- with Moiz and his team caught smack in the middle. The tension, the chase, the blur of hooves and paws -- and amidst all that chaos, he managed to click a few electrifying shots. One even made it to the front page of a prominent daily. But perhaps more unforgettable was a childhood memory -- barely six or seven years old, tumbling off an elephant’s back during a safari in Kanha, only to find himself face-to-face with a tigress and her cubs. Miraculously unharmed, the memory still carries the scent of forest and a quiet awe.

Though tigers draw attention -- and rightly so -- they aren’t his singular fascination. For Moiz, nature’s drama plays out equally in humble corners. A spider trapping a moth at home, a Shikra diving for a dove, a water snake lunging at a fish -- all equally riveting. He believes that even the most overlooked creatures -- the ants and grasshoppers -- deserve the reverence we reserve for tigers and leopards. “Nature has no hierarchy,” he says. “Every character in her theatre matters.

”While he does not proclaim to be an ornithologist, his love for birds – whom he calls as nature’s beautiful creations -- is visible in every frame. Common sparrows or rare eagles -- he sees himself as a storyteller, not a scientist. The goal is not taxonomy, but empathy.

Ask him whether nature photography is more cathartic than journalism and his answer is gentle but firm: “Reporting was for others; this is for myself.” The newsroom was often a race; the forest is a sanctuary. There are no deadlines, only dawns and dusks, no editors -- only instincts.

On how the media can better handle environmental issues, his suggestion is insightful: stop preaching, start showing. “Rather than quoting experts, showcase successful community actions,” he urges. “Don’t tell people what to do -- show them how it’s done.

”What next, then? A rare snow leopard? A volcanic eruption? A glacier collapsing? “Actually, I’m leaning toward street photography,” he says with a quiet smile. “There are so many untold stories around us -- stories of people, markets, alleys, and moments that flicker past in a second.” With more time on his hands and no formal job constraints, Moiz is ready to rediscover the world with the same lens, this time tilted toward humanity again -- as always, in search of stories.

(Sample pics have been selected from Moiz's vast repertoire).   

When “Auto” goes rogue: A comedy of corrections

Raju Korti
The other day, Karnataka Chief Minister Siddaramaiah had the unenviable misfortune of reading his own obituary -- courtesy of Meta’s Kannada-to-English auto-translation tool. What was meant as a solemn condolence for the late actress B. Saroja Devi became a digital death sentence for the CM himself. One can only imagine his expression upon reading: “Chief Minister Siddaramaiah passed away yesterday…” No wonder he had to clarify that he’s very much alive -- and presumably not browsing tributes to himself over morning "philter kaapi. It is not for nothing that in the Indian context, one who has been mistakenly declared dead, is wished a longer life. Maybe an auto-correction!

This, ladies and gentlemen, is the dark comedy of the “auto” world where your words go on unsanctioned adventures. A friend once tried to text, “You have my full condolences,” and it turned into “You have my full condoms.” If you have ever tried explaining that typo at a funeral, you’ll know why autocorrect can be a career hazard in emotional situations. Another typed “I stand corrected” which, through the cruel whims of predictive text, came out as “I stand erected.” Not the kind of standing ovation anyone asked for.

Inadvertent humour!

Then there is the unforgettable edit of “The buck stops here” that auto-morphed into “The fucks stop here” -- which, to be fair, did make for a more dramatic political slogan. I once typed “Let’s do it at your convenience,” which became “Let’s do it at your convent niece” --raising enough eyebrows to merit a family meeting.

The word auto, which proudly means self, often hijacks the self and delivers it to a land unknown. It’s like your phone believes it knows you better than your own soul. You say Namaste, it types Nastiness. You want to say Mahabharat, it gives you Mahesh Bhatt. You type voting is sacred, it turns into vomiting is scared. Maybe all this automation needs an exorcism, not an update.

By the way, when a phone autocorrects without consent, does it technically become an automobile? Let’s face it: what started as a harmless spell-check genie has become a chaos factory. Autocorrect doesn’t just fix typos. It rewrites your fate. Somewhere between "send nudes" and "send notes," entire friendships have been destroyed, marriages questioned, and in Siddaramaiah’s case, a life prematurely declared over.

Moral of the story? Always check before you hit “send.” Or better still, switch off “auto” and take the wheel yourself before you are misquoted into martyrdom.

When light stands still: A quantum leap!

Raju Korti
I have followed the abstract mysteries of quantum physics for nearly five decades now, watching it evolve from an esoteric field into one that shapes our most cutting-edge technologies. Over the years, I have seen breakthroughs that changed the way we look at reality -- wave-particle duality, quantum entanglement, tunneling. But the recent success of scientists in freezing light may well be one of the most extraordinary advances in this space. It is a moment that makes you pause and rethink what you thought was unchangeable in nature.

To freeze light -- something that travels at 3 lakh kilometers per second and forms the very basis of time and speed in our universe -- is nothing short of astonishing. Light has always been the fastest entity known to science. Einstein built the entire theory of relativity around its constant speed. So the idea that we can slow it down, or even stop it in its tracks, sounds like science fiction. And yet, we are now at a point where this fiction is fast becoming fact.

Frozen light experiment

What does freezing light even mean? In simple terms, it means halting a beam of light mid-air, making it stay still, without losing its information or energy. This is usually done by passing light through ultra-cold gases -- like Bose-Einstein condensates -- where it interacts with atoms in such a way that it becomes 'stored' temporarily. Think of it like pressing the pause button on a running video -- except the video is made of photons. The implications are massive.

For one, this breakthrough opens new doors in quantum computing and ultra-secure communications. If we can store light -- and therefore information encoded in light -- we can build quantum memory devices that store data in entirely new ways. It could revolutionize how data is transmitted, making it faster, safer, and more compact. It also helps in creating more accurate atomic clocks, which are used in GPS systems, financial trading, and satellite technologies.

What excites me most is how this upends our assumptions. Science often proceeds by asking, “What if the impossible were possible?” Freezing light was once thought to be beyond reach. But this shows that our understanding of fundamental physics is still evolving -- and that nature, when pushed gently in the right direction, can be made to behave in surprising ways. It reminds us that laws of nature are not always limits -- they can be doorways.

As someone who has observed the long arc of quantum research, this moment feels both humbling and thrilling. We are not just decoding the universe anymore. We are beginning to negotiate with it. And with every such negotiation, we inch closer to technologies that were once only imagined in dreams.

When a book becomes a mirror: My journey with "Companions"

Raju Korti
Some books don't just speak to you. They whisper into your soul, stir your silences, and leave you changed. Sobati, written in Marathi by my long-time friend of over three decades, Chandrashekhar Welankar, is one such book. Its English avatar, Companions, which I had the privilege of translating, wasn't merely a linguistic exercise. It was a journey into the deep crevices of pain, dignity, detachment, and silent caregiving -- themes that had once scarred my own life in ways I hadn’t fully processed until I encountered this manuscript.

The emotional tumult began the day I received Sobati. As I turned its pages, I felt a strange stirring -- a pull so visceral that I had to pause often, my eyes clouding over, my chest tightening with memories I had tried to archive. I could not have anticipated how closely this book would echo my own life. The stories of terminal patients and the companions who stood by them -- quietly, faithfully -- weren’t just narratives. They were relived experiences.

In March 1982, my life took a cruel, irreversible turn. My father, a proud, fiercely independent man, suddenly became paralyzed waist-down due to spinal compression. He underwent emergency surgery, but it was too late. His nerves had degenerated beyond repair. What followed was an eight-year-long stretch of slow, excruciating decay. A man who once took pride in being self-sufficient now had to rely entirely on me, his youngest son, to pass urine and stools, shave, bathe, and be fed. He never accepted it emotionally -- and his sense of helplessness weighed heavier than his physical agony. His pain became mine. While the world saw me performing media duties on odd shifts with a steady face, only my nights knew the pillow soaked in silent tears. No one -- no agency, no individual -- was willing to offer the kind of committed care he required, even for exorbitant sums. Finally, I took it upon myself to be his sole caregiver. I became his Companion. I remained one until he died in my arms on a quiet March morning in 1990. After that, I felt as if someone had unplugged the meaning from my life. Unemployed, emotionally battered, and hollowed out, I struggled to find anchorage.

It was Sobati that gave me that anchor years later. Translating it became my way of honouring not just my father but the thousands of invisible caregivers who walk the thin line between hope and heartbreak every day. The stories -- delicate, sensitive, non-sentimental yet deeply moving -- illuminate the world of Companions who, though not biologically connected, choose to stand by someone on their final stretch of life. As I wrote in the Translator’s Note, “Somewhere in the narratives, I found myself returning to my father’s bedside, holding his frail hand, whispering courage into his tired ears.”

Companions isn’t just a book -- it is a call. A call to become that quiet, steady presence in someone’s time of darkness. It tries to build empathy around caregiving -- an act often unnoticed, uncelebrated, and emotionally draining. It isn’t about heroic sacrifice. It is about dignifying the last lap of someone’s journey with love, patience, and presence. This book, in its humble way, asks society to not look away from the terminally ill -- and from those who walk with them, one slow step at a time.

And none of this would have been possible without Shekhar Bhau -- as I fondly call Chandrashekhar Welankar -- whose resilience, sensitivity and vision have left me moved. That he should have penned this monumental work while caring for his own wife, Varsha, an extremely delicate kidney patient who undergoes dialysis three times a week, speaks volumes. Despite her frailty, Varsha has stood firm and unflinching -- not just by his side, but beside a larger cause. Together, they have given birth to something deeply human and revolutionary -- the Sobati Sanstha.

 It is more than a foundation; it is the start of a movement. One that I hope grows into a robust tribe -- a collective of Companions who don’t shy away from pain but hold space for it, who become that quiet shadow of comfort when someone is standing at the edge of life.

At the release function of Companions in Nagpur on July 5 -- a city where my father took his last breath -- I couldn’t help but feel that the circle had closed gently, silently. I had written in my speech: “Sobati didn’t ask me to revisit my past. It simply handed me a mirror. And in that mirror, I saw my father. I saw myself. I saw us.

”I remain grateful -- to Shekhar Bhau for trusting me with this translation, and to Varsha for being the quiet warrior that she is. May their work find wings. May more Companions rise. And may this movement ensure that no one ever walks their last mile alone.