Tolerating an endless headache called Bol Bachchans!

Raju Korti
If there is one species I admire and remain wary of in equal measure, it is the compulsive talker. The dictionary, in its polite moments, calls them garrulous, loquacious or voluble. In real life, they are walking, talking pressure cookers who must release steam daily, preferably on the nearest available ear.

I do not know whether it is my fate or karmic mischief, but I seem to encounter them with alarming regularity. These are people who can talk regardless of time, place, mood or meteorological conditions. Funerals, traffic jams, hospital corridors, lift rides between the third and fifth floor, other people’s lives; nothing is too sacred or too trivial. All other engagements politely step aside because nothing, absolutely nothing, is more important than what they currently find fascinating.

In my limited wisdom as a counsellor and an unwilling audience, I find such people deeply self-centred (not selfish, though that happens too), convinced that the universe is best understood through their anecdotes. Their speech is an endless drag, a never-ending director’s cut of their life story. Friends, relatives, enemies, neighbours’ neighbours, long-forgotten schoolmates, triumphs, traumas and minor inconveniences are all laid out with forensic detail. After a point, the only thought that crosses one’s mind is to flee, preferably to the nearest restroom, to recover from the verbal assault and the resulting headache.

What makes matters worse is that most of this talk has zero bearing on the listener’s life. None. Yet the listener clings on, fuelled by misplaced hope that this monologue will eventually reach a full stop. It never does. Once they begin, they have no idea where to stop, or why they should.

I have had my share of such people. They talk without drawing breath and without leaving the faintest crack for a response. And if you dare to interrupt, even with a polite “hmm” or a hesitant “actually…”, you are waved off, talked over or simply erased from the conversation. Your sentence overlaps with theirs, making you look like a first-class idiot attempting a duet with a train engine.

They talk non-stop, often boasting about their power, influence and achievements, real or imagined. If that runs dry, they shift seamlessly to gossip. The tongue, in their case, is a lethal weapon. “Bol Bachchan” is not an insult here; it is a job description.

I am deeply uncomfortable in the presence of such people, not because I am their target, but because they are spectacularly poor listeners. In their company, I feel introverted, reticent and unfairly mute. The only time I have spoken at length to a passive audience was in a classroom, and that too under compulsion. Even then, I hated the sight of deadpan faces staring back at me as if speech itself were a punishment. If that was justified speech, imagine the torture of listening to hours of unjustified, irrelevant, meandering gibberish.

Of course, one can avoid such people if they exist on the fringes of one’s life. A fake phone call here, a sudden appointment there. The real test of character arrives when they are your own. Family. Close friends. The inner circle. They stretch your tolerance to the point where you feel like yanking your own hair out, strand by strand. They remain blissfully unaware. And you, the cursed one, must grin, nod and take it in stride.

I often wonder if these people ever get tired of talking, and where they draw their boundless energy from. Too much talking, I am told, is taxing on the heart and mind. Take it from me, someone with a bypass history. I have come to value measured speech, if not dignified silence. I was never much of a talker anyway.

Can such people be corrected or moderated? I doubt it. The truly loquacious do not believe they have a problem. For them, silence is awkward, listening is anything but optional, and conversation is a solo performance. The rest of us can only practise survival skills, cherish quiet souls, and remind ourselves that sometimes, the most intelligent thing one can say is nothing at all.

Jeffrey Epstein: Made for thriller flicks and text books!

Raju Korti
In the past week, an impression has rapidly gained ground in India that once the (in)famous Jeffrey Epstein Files are placed before the United States House of Representatives, there will be an institutional collapse of global proportions. The narrative here suggests that governments, including Prime Minister Narendra Modi’s, will be blown away. Apocalypse, earthquake, tsunami. The rhetoric writes itself.

The irony of such hyperventilation is that a significant slice of the files is already in the public domain. Democrats on the House Oversight Committee released nineteen photographs last week and followed that with sixty-eight more. From a much larger cache of nearly ninety-five thousand photographs voluntarily handed over by Epstein’s estate.

And those names. Bill Gates. Noam Chomsky. Steve Bannon. Donald Trump. Add Prince Andrew and Bill Clinton from earlier reporting. Each accompanied by the predictable disclaimers that range from selective memory loss to convenient ignorance. The kind of excuse making that has been perfected over centuries. Several photographs even include redacted identification cards of women across continents. Russia, Morocco, Italy, the Czech Republic, South Africa, Ukraine and Lithuania. One batch reportedly features excerpts of sentences from “Lolita” scrawled across a woman’s body. A screenshot of a text exchange references girls being “sent” for someone identified only as j, with a price tag of one thousand dollars mentioned. The fact that committee Democrats describe the material as both graphic and mundane captures the bizarre duality of Epstein’s world. Mundane wealth. Graphic depravity.

What fascinates me is not the moral theatre but the man at the centre of it. Jeffrey Epstein’s journey reads like a fictional protagonist conceived by an ambitious potboiler writer. (I believe, it would have been right up James Hadley Chase's alley to write and portray his character.) A high school teacher of Physics and Mathematics who abandoned chalkboards for Wall Street, building a billionaire’s empire in properties. His Virgin Islands estate in the Caribbean remains the most visually (and infamously) documented, replete with hidden cameras, juvenile girls and a calendar of clandestine, amoral and lecherous activities involving some of the world’s most powerful guests.

His suspicious death only heightened curiosity. Democrats suspected foul play. His associates hoped his silence might bury their own associations. The public trawled through conspiracy theories with the devotion of amateur detectives. I am not here to judge. If anything, I marvel at how many fronts the man handled simultaneously. Networking with presidents and princes. Flying private jets. Managing finances. Ordering girls. Documenting everything. His ability to multitask would have made him a case study in versatility had his pursuits not been criminal and exploitative.

The Files qualify as perfect cinematic material. India has turned the word files into a cultural brand. The Kashmir Files. The Kerala Files. The Bengal Files. It feels inevitable that someone attempts The Epstein Files. In my mind, Akshaye Khanna, the current rage, could play Epstein, just to introduce the Indian flavour. The ensemble cast portraying the who’s who named in the files would make this a multi star project. A Pan American Indian crossover if you will. If Hollywood grabs it first, expect awards. If Bollywood does, expect embellishments. I volunteer to write the script for the Indian flick. A four-hour epic or better, a binge worthy serial with viewership rising episode after episode, for obvious and predictable reasons.

My curiosity also extends to his academic past. As a Physics and Mathematics student myself even beyond my engineering days, I find it amusing to imagine him teaching Newton’s Laws before breaking all social ones. Or juggling calculus and clandestine rendezvous. If nothing else, Epstein deserves a full-fledged chapter in text books on documentation for the painstaking way he archived photos, messages and communication. A man who collected details with methodical obsession and likely shared only with confidantes like Ghislaine Maxwell. Blackmail or insurance. One will never know.

And now, a question for our Indian doomsayers. No Indian name has surfaced. Anyway, not until the time of writing this blog. Are we witnessing evidentiary anticipation or political kite flying? If the latter, the winds are not exactly supportive. 

Yet even if half of what appears in the Files or on Wikipedia is accurate, Epstein secures his place under the sun. Not for greatness. Not for morality. But for the chilling combination of power, manipulation, exploitation and networking that allowed him to straddle elite circles and criminality with breathtaking ease. Posthumously though.

Even devils deserve credit where due.

The curious case of Lifetime Everything!

Raju Korti
I have always been fascinated by humanity’s incurable obsession with the word “lifetime”. Lifetime achievement, lifetime immunity, lifetime appointment, lifetime access, lifetime this and lifetime that. Say it slowly and it sounds less like a concept and more like a lucky charm sold at a traffic signal. Wear it, wave it, and hope mortality looks the other way.

The latest reminder comes from Pakistan’s 27th Constitutional Amendment of 2025. In one masterstroke, power is centralised, the Supreme Court is brusquely nudged aside, and the Army Chief is elevated to a position that comes with lifetime status, immunity and sweeping control over all armed services. It is as if the nation collectively decided that if something must be permanent, it should be authority. Democracy, accountability and judicial independence can manage with a renewable plan.

It is amusing how eagerly we distribute permanence in a world that refuses to guarantee tomorrow morning. Life itself has a shelf life, strictly non-negotiable, yet we behave as if a constitutional clause or a citation can outwit biology.

Centurion for a lifetime: Yours Truly!

The value of these lifetime honours is worth examining. A lifetime achievement award, for instance, often arrives at a stage when the recipient’s knees creak louder than their accomplishments are remembered. It is less a celebration and more a ceremonial closing time announcement. Thank you for your services, please collect your plaque, and kindly vacate the stage before memory does it for you.

Lifetime immunity is even more entertaining. It assumes that power, once granted, will be exercised with monk like restraint forever. History suggests otherwise. Immunity does not improve character; it merely removes consequences. It emboldens the worst instincts while politely informing accountability to wait outside.

Then there are lifetime appointments. These rest on the touching belief that wisdom, integrity and relevance age like fine wine. In reality, some age like milk left out in the sun. Institutions stagnate, fresh thinking is locked out, and loyalty to the chair replaces loyalty to the Constitution or the organisation.

What fascinates me most is the psychological comfort these lifetime labels provide. They are talismans against insecurity. When leaders fear the uncertainty of public approval or legal scrutiny, they reach for permanence. Lifetime is not about honour; it is about insulation. It is a padded cell for power.

In Pakistan’s case, the lifetime elevation of the Army Chief into a supreme military role is less about efficiency and more about entrenchment. It sends out a clear message. Power is not to be questioned, rotated or reviewed. It is to be preserved, preferably forever, or at least until nature intervenes.

The irony is brutal. No amendment, award or immunity clause has ever stopped time. Empires crumble, statues are pulled down, and lifetime honours end up as footnotes, sometimes embarrassing ones, in history books. What survives is not the duration of power but the quality of its use.

Perhaps we should retire the word “lifetime” altogether. Replace it with something more honest, like “for as long as it works” or “until reality kicks in”. Life, after all, is the only entity that truly understands the concept of lifetime. And it has never offered immunity to anyone.

Anna Hazare and the diminishing returns of moral protest

Raju Korti
At his ripe age, Anna Hazare must be wondering what more he needs to do to see his life’s mission reach fruition. For all his benign intent and unimpeachable personal integrity, his most potent weapon, the fast unto death, has begun to lose its sting. What once shook governments now elicits assurances, committees and carefully worded promises. The moral pressure remains, but the political response has grown anaemic.

The Lokayukta Act, which is at the centre of his latest agitation, captures this malaise perfectly. On paper, it promises an independent anti-corruption ombudsman empowered to inquire into complaints against public servants, ministers and even the chief minister. In practice, it remains a law without teeth. Enforcement mechanisms are vague, appointments are delayed and operational clarity is missing. Between presidential assent, legislative amendments and executive intent lies an inordinate gap that has reduced the Act to a well-meaning document waiting for life.

Hazare’s frustration is understandable. Announcements are made with ceremony; timelines are offered with confidence and yet implementation slips quietly into the future. One hopes, not without irony, that he gets to see the law function meaningfully in his lifetime.

His isolation today contrasts sharply with the mass movement he once led. The 2011 anti-corruption stir was anything but a solo act. Students, professionals, celebrities and ordinary citizens rallied behind him, united by a shared anger against systemic corruption. Politicians were kept at arm’s length during the fasts, preserving the movement’s moral high ground. Yet that unity proved fragile.

The fallout with key associates was inevitable once politics entered the frame. Arvind Kejriwal chose the electoral route, arguing that power was essential to cleanse the system from within. Hazare strongly disagreed, insisting that his movement remain apolitical. Others like Prashant Bhushan and Yogendra Yadav too drifted away as ideological and strategic differences sharpened. What began as a collective moral uprising gradually splintered into competing interpretations of change.

In hindsight, some supporters felt disillusioned, even used, as the movement was politically co-opted and redirected. Hazare stayed put, steadfast but increasingly alone, holding on to an idea of activism rooted in personal sacrifice rather than political negotiation.

This raises an uncomfortable question. Has Anna Hazare been isolated on the very issue he brought to national consciousness? Corruption remains pervasive, but public outrage now competes with fatigue, cynicism and more immediate anxieties. The fast, once a rallying cry, now risks being seen as ritual rather than rupture.

Hazare’s hold over the anti-corruption discourse has weakened, not because the issue has lost relevance, but because the methods have. Moral authority still commands respect, but it no longer guarantees outcomes. In today’s India, intent must be matched by institutional pressure and sustained public engagement. Without that, even the most austere protest risks becoming a footnote to its own history.

A visitor from space with mood swings!

Raju Korti
For months now, this mysterious interstellar object has behaved like that one relative who changes personality depending on who is watching. First it was described as a hostile outsider armed with nuclear ambitions. Some theories even suggested it was spying on planets, making gravity defying turns and pointing its tail in the wrong direction. The object seemed determined to play the villain straight out of a sci fi potboiler.

31/Atlas: Pic representational

Cut to the latest twist. The same object is suddenly being repackaged as friendly. Harvard professor, Loeb, has floated the idea that it may be sprinkling life giving chemicals across planets it has flown close to. In Indian terms, it is as if the guest who arrived with threatening body language is now offering homemade sweets.

So, what is really going on? A couple of scientific clues have come from what the object is believed to be releasing into space. If that’s true, two substances stand out. Methanol and hydrogen cyanide. The names sound intimidating, but their behaviour is surprisingly down to earth.

Methanol is basically a simple alcohol. In space, it is found near new stars. On Earth, tiny organisms like bacteria happily treat it as food. Plants manufacture it as part of their daily life. Methanol in space can transform into sugars and amino acids, which are the basic bricks from which life is built.

Hydrogen cyanide on the other hand is the classic villain of detective novels. Deadly in high doses. Extremely useful in tiny amounts. Plants and bacteria actually produce it to defend themselves or to help seeds germinate. In chemistry, hydrogen cyanide can join other molecules to form the bases of DNA and amino acids. These are the tools that make life tick.

Now here is the curious part. Observations show that this interstellar object is releasing more than a hundred times more methanol than hydrogen cyanide. That is the highest ratio seen since only one other oddball comet in our own solar system. If chemicals had personalities, this one would be leaning heavily towards the life friendly side. The cyanide is present, but in a defensive whisper, not an attacking shout.All this naturally leads to the buzzword ‘panspermia’. The idea is simple. Comets or space rocks can carry these basic life building chemicals to planets. When they crash or even graze a planet’s atmosphere, some of these chemicals settle down and kickstart life. Think of it as cosmic courier service. Long before e commerce deliveries, the universe was perhaps sending parcels of methanol and hydrogen cyanide to young planets.

Does this make a material difference to what we know?. Not yet. Scientists still know very little about this object’s origin and purpose. Its tail pointing in the wrong direction, its colour changing to blue near the sun and its gravity defying lane-swerving behaviour remain unsolved mysteries. Some argue it is a normal comet formed under unusual conditions in a faraway system. Others wonder if it is something artificial. But until there is proof, everything remains speculation.

What does it mean for Earth? Practically nothing at the moment. The object will not come anywhere close to us. It might casually gift wrap some life friendly chemicals for planets like Mars or moons like Europa, but nothing more. If these chemicals do find their way onto such worlds, they may help us understand how life begins elsewhere. For now, Earth is safe, and all theories about danger seem to have taken a coffee break.

So we are left with a cosmic visitor that entered the solar system with a dramatic reputation. It has danced around planets, confused astronomers, and sprinkled chemicals associated with life. It has also given rise to wild theories that range from apocalypse to universal gardening. As of now, the object is not the interstellar villain it was feared to be. If anything, it behaves like a confused tourist on a long space yatra. Friendly, unpredictable and utterly mysterious.

Grounded by greed! Why India’s low-cost dream Is now flying on fumes

Raju Korti
I have watched the arc of Indian aviation from the swagger of early privatisation to today’s turbulence and it is impossible to escape one conclusion: the low-cost dream that took off with fanfare in the late nineties is now sputtering on its last fumes. Kingfisher, Jet Airways, East West, Damania and Go First all went bust and each collapse was wrapped in a different excuse but the underlying reason was the same, irrational economics dressed up as innovation. Air India, retaken from the Tatas, is still reeling and remains trapped between legacy fatigue and the trauma of that recent London-bound crash. IndiGo holds sway not because it is exceptional but because everything around it has collapsed. Once a competitive field, the sector is now a duopoly masquerading as choice and that is the real story.

The recent disruption where IndiGo virtually threw the government, passengers and the entire aviation ecosystem under the bus was not an operational blip but calibrated muscle flexing. When flights were cancelled en masse, when delays piled up and when thousands of travellers were stranded, it looked suspiciously like orchestration to force the government to dilute roster guidelines, and the tactic worked.

(Pic representational)

This government does not normally take blackmail lightly but this time it blinked. The rollback of the new crew duty and rest norms was a concession that signalled something far more troubling than administrative weakness. It told every dominant player in a vital sector that scale can be weaponised against the state. It also amplified the larger anxiety that IndiGo’s control of over sixty percent of the domestic market and dominance across major terminals has given it a chokehold over regulators and passengers alike.

The truth is unpleasant but unavoidable. DGCA has been slow, reactive and too ready to adjust its stance when pushed. The so-called transition period was not an act of prudence. It was capitulation dressed as pragmatism. Pilot bodies had warned that IndiGo had frozen hiring and relied on non-poaching pacts instead of preparing for the rule change. The predictable chaos that followed was then deployed as leverage. In the end the regulator backed off and passengers paid the price.

But the rotten core of the sector is not regulation alone. Everything comes back to ticket pricing and surge pricing practices that have turned flying into an extortion racket. A seat that costs four thousand can jump to forty thousand within minutes. Refunds vanish behind invisible deductions. Cancellations read like they were drafted by Nigerian scam artistes. And while corporate travellers now count pennies, the rural and small-town flier who has entered the market in large numbers is willing to pay for reliability. That reliability simply does not exist and the airlines know they can behave with impunity because demand will keep coming.

IndiGo’s recent internal revolt only sharpens the edges of this story. Pilots writing a blistering open letter accusing the management of greed, claiming the airline believes it is too big to fail, exposing ground staff making eighteen thousand rupees while doing the work of three people and even mocking a seventy-year-old leader who refuses to retire is not mere dissent. It is a rebellion from the cockpit and proof that the operational chaos outside is mirrored by structural decay within. A company cracking from inside is the last entity that should be running most of India’s skies.

The government’s instinct now should not be to merely crack the whip but to redesign the rules of the game. Pricing bands must be clearly defined. Arbitrary spikes must stop. The base price may rise but predictability will return and that is far healthier than randomness masquerading as free market logic. DGCA must grow a spine because soft regulation in a market dominated by one player is not neutral, it is dangerous. And the government must engage Indigo without fear or favour because the airline’s temporary victories will cost it heavily if the state finally decides it has had enough.

What remains constant is this: in every round of confrontation between airlines, regulators and governments, the flyer loses. The low-cost revolution promised democratisation of travel but delivered instability, opacity and the unchecked arrogance of dominant players. Unless the system is rebuilt around transparency and accountability, the dream that once lifted millions into the air will remain permanently grounded.

Oh those moments with Trevor Bailey & Peter Roebuck!

Raju Korti
It was the autumn of 1987. The Reliance World Cup was in full swing, and I was fortunate to meet a man whose voice had echoed through countless living rooms. Trevor Bailey, England’s Test all-rounder, writer, and the sardonic soul of BBC’s Test Match Special. Bailey wasn’t in India in his usual avatar as a commentator but as a cricket writer, detached from the boisterous box that included legends like Brian Johnston, Christopher Martin-Jenkins, Henry Blofeld and Don Moseley. Having grown up addicted to the BBC’s understated, wry, and supremely literate commentary, I approached the hotel reception with a touch of trepidation. To my astonishment, Bailey agreed to meet me, then working with The Hindu and its sister publications, Frontline & Sportstar, almost immediately in the lobby. No fuss, no pretense.

Me, Moiz Haq with Trevor Bailey and Peter Roebuck.   

By a wonderful coincidence, I was also occasioned to meet Harold “Dicky” Bird during the same time. During the 1987 Reliance World Cup match between India and New Zealand, a game forever stamped in memory as the only one where Sunil Gavaskar struck his lone ODI hundred, I also had the unusual privilege of securing a one-on-one with the legendary umpire. Bird was never easy to approach. He was famously blunt and, true to form, initially refused outright, saying he had little interest in journalists. It was only through the good offices of BBC Test Match Special’s Trevor Bailey and the thoughtful columnist Peter Roebuck, both of whom I had long conversations with the day before, that my credentials were vouched for. Thanks to their intervention, Bird relented and agreed to half an hour.

That meeting is etched in my mind, not so much for his views on umpiring or on his own cult status, but for the cadence and charm of his conversation. Listening to him, I felt he could have been a marvellous commentator, lacing authority with wit and a Yorkshireman’s candour. The initially stiff Bird, eased further when I told him that I loved John Arlott’s commentary. When I mentioned this impression to Bailey and Roebuck the next day, they broke into hearty laughter, as if to say they had always known Bird’s hidden flair. I also noticed something more, which reflected the professionalism of that generation. Be it Bird, Bailey, Roebuck, or any of their contemporaries, they insisted on meeting scribes in the hotel lobby, never in private rooms or suites. It was a small but telling gesture, upholding both dignity and distance. In Harold “Dicky” Bird, I remember a man who was hunched in the shoulders yet towering in his integrity. He never sought to be a figure of awe, yet players across the cricketing world revered him instinctively. He belonged to a breed that placed the game above the individual, even when the individual himself became an institution.

Barely a day after umpire Dicky Bird had turned me down politely, but had relented later thanks to a delighted Bailey, who appreciated a half-page article I had written on him. That conversation with Bailey turned into a two-hour masterclass in wit, warmth, and dry English humour. He spoke glowingly of his fellow commentators. “We were different in temperament but gelled beautifully,” he mused. I mentioned my eternal favourite, Brian Johnston “Johnners” to millions, and asked if he would pass along a letter of admiration. Bailey not only agreed but actually did, which I later confirmed through Peter Roebuck, the sharp Australian columnist seated beside me in the Press Box that day as India triumphed over New Zealand and Gavaskar scripted his only ODI hundred. Bailey smiled when I reminded him how Johnston and Moseley would dissolve into helpless giggles during commentary, and how Johnston had dubbed him “The Boil” after an Aussie distortion of his name (Boiley). He recalled the leg-pulling in the commentary box, often at the expense of Henry Blofeld, with the mischief of a schoolboy reliving dormitory pranks.

Bailey, nicknamed "Barnacle" for his gritty, immovable batting, laughed when I teased him about the long pauses in his speech that made it sound like he was trying to dislodge a piece of obstinate chicken bone from his throat. “You’ve noticed that too?” he chortled, clearly unbothered. He was candid about his sporting life: “I was actually a better footballer. I could dribble longer than I could bat,” he quipped in that clipped British accent. Yet, behind the acerbic wit was a man who understood the art of restraint. On the field and in the commentary box. “We never read out scorecards or explained field placings. Still, nothing escaped us. Commentary was fun, not a frenzy. And yes,” he added with a wink, “we did enjoy our wine and cakes, often sent by admirers.

”Toward the end, when I asked him if I could get Johnston’s book autographed someday, Bailey’s tone turned briefly sombre. “Johnners isn’t doing well... but I’ll pass on your sentiments.” That autograph never came. Johnston passed away a few years later. I had hoped to make up for it the next time Bailey visited India. But that reunion never happened either. He and Roebuck, the two men I met within days of each other, passed away within nine months of each other in 2011. The article I wrote on Bailey is now a tattered relic of yellowing paper, but the photograph remains intact. A reminder of a golden afternoon when I spoke with a man who embodied cricket’s wit, grit, and old-world grace.

That same week, I had another enriching encounter. With Peter Roebuck. Sharp, deeply perceptive, and unfailingly courteous, Roebuck had the disarming quality of turning an interview into a conversation among equals. We spoke at length about cricket, commentary, and writing. It struck me then -- and has stayed with me since -- that these men, Bailey and Roebuck, were giants of insight and elegance, yet wore their brilliance with quiet modesty. Both gone in the same year, they left behind not just cricketing wisdom, but a rare kind of human warmth that no obituary can fully capture. Unlike Bailey, I was occasioned to meet Roebuck a couple of times later. What struck me was his affability to meet anyone and everyone without any airs.

In their very different ways, Roebuck and Bailey embodied cricket’s finest virtues. Sharp minds, dry humour, and unshakeable integrity. Fittingly or ironically, both left us in 2011, just months apart.

(NB: The pic is 39-years-old. Between me and my dear colleague Moiz Haq, we handled the special four-pages devoted to World Cup. At the cost of patting our backs, we did an exemplary job.)