War sold, war owned, war disowned! With no warranty!

Raju Korti
I have always believed that wars begin with great certainty and end with even greater confusion. What is unfolding inside the American administration today confirms that rule with almost theatrical precision.

Somewhere between Washington and Tel Aviv, a war appears to have been pitched, marketed and finally purchased like a questionable real estate project. The brochure promised quick returns. The terrain, as it turns out, is not cooperative.

The working belief in many diplomatic circles is simple. Israel convinced Washington that confronting Iran militarily would be manageable. Perhaps even neat. A short, decisive strike followed by a conveniently collapsing regime in Tehran. A swift demonstration of power. A new geopolitical order. Except that reality, unlike PowerPoint presentations, has a stubborn habit of resisting neat conclusions.

Iran has now made it clear that the United States may have started the war, but Tehran intends to decide when it ends. That statement alone should send a chill through the corridors of the White House because it means the timeline has slipped from Washington’s hands.

Suddenly the much advertised ten day “pause” in operations looks less like a humanitarian gesture and more like an act of strategic hesitation. Discretion has quietly stepped in where bravado once strutted about. In other words, someone in Washington may have finally realised that taming Iran is not the geopolitical equivalent of flipping a light switch.

Which brings us to the most fascinating part of this unfolding drama. The blame game. Donald Trump has already begun laying down markers. In a recent remark he said, “I don’t want to say this but I have to… Pete didn’t want it to be settled. In other words, our Sec. of War doesn’t want peace, he wants war.

”That is not exactly the ringing endorsement one expects from a commander in chief speaking about his own defence secretary. Yet in the very same breath Trump also acknowledged how the war drum began beating. “Pete, I think you were the first one to speak up and you said, ‘Let’s do it because you can’t let them have a nuclear weapon.’” Translation. The war was necessary. But it was someone else’s idea.

Trump & Hegseth: At war!

Pete Hegseth, for his part, had reportedly pushed precisely that argument earlier. The United States could not allow Iran to obtain nuclear weapons and therefore military intervention was unavoidable. So, the narrative now unfolding inside the American administration is breathtaking in its simplicity. The war was right. The war was necessary. But the responsibility for it is negotiable.

Meanwhile Vice President JD Vance has apparently begun pointing fingers in a different direction altogether. Across the Atlantic. In a tense phone call with Benjamin Netanyahu, Vance reportedly told the Israeli leader that the predictions which had been “sold” to Trump before the war simply had not materialised. Sources would have it that “before the war, Bibi really sold it to the President as being easy, as regime change being a lot likelier than it was.

”Reality has again proven stubborn. Despite the killing of Iran’s Supreme Leader Ayatollah Ali Khamenei, the regime in Tehran has not collapsed. If anything, hardline factions have tightened their grip. The expected domino effect never happened. The Iranian state did not dissolve into convenient chaos. The revolutionary establishment simply closed ranks.

And now Washington is discovering a problem that should have been obvious from the beginning. Regime change is not a military tactic. It is a political gamble. No one in the American administration seems to have a clear picture of what Iran would even look like after a war. Who governs it. Which factions take power. Whether the country fractures or consolidates. In short, the war was apparently sold without a warranty.

The atmosphere between Washington and Tel Aviv is therefore becoming distinctly awkward. Israel pushed the narrative of an easy strategic victory. Washington bought into it. Now the battlefield is producing a far less cooperative script.

Even the information war is turning messy. When a right-wing Israeli outlet reported that Vance had shouted at Netanyahu over settler violence in the West Bank, American officials quickly suspected that the story itself had been planted to smear the vice president. Israelis denied it. So now the allies are not only debating the war. They are debating who is planting stories about whom.

If this were a television drama, the writers would probably be accused of exaggeration. But the consequences are serious. If the war drags on, Washington’s control over the strategic narrative will weaken. The United States risks looking like the senior partner who financed the project but forgot to read the fine print. Israel, meanwhile, risks appearing like the enthusiastic salesman who promised quick results.

The deeper question is about credibility. If Washington begins publicly quarrelling over who pushed the war, the global perception of American strategic coherence will take a hit. Allies will worry about impulsiveness. Rivals will sense hesitation. And Tehran will simply watch. Because from Iran’s perspective the situation is almost ideal. The Americans are debating who started the fire while the flames continue to spread.

Wars are often described as foggy. But what we are witnessing now inside the American administration is something else entirely. A war that was confidently sold. A war that is now being carefully disowned. And somewhere in between, a superpower trying to figure out who exactly wrote the sales pitch. 

Taking anti-India rant to dangerous levels!

Raju Korti
I have heard many strange arguments over the years about India and Pakistan. But every once in a while, a statement comes along that is so reckless, so devoid of strategic sense, that it deserves to be examined not as rhetoric but as a window into a troubled mindset. Former Pakistan High Commissioner to India Abdul Basit’s suggestion that Pakistan should bomb Mumbai and Delhi if the United States attacks its nuclear arsenal falls squarely in that category.

This was not a random television panellist mouthing off. Basit served as Pakistan’s top diplomat in New Delhi from 2014 to 2017. He knows India. He knows the vocabulary of diplomacy. He also knows the devastating implications of invoking nuclear retaliation against civilian centres. And yet he said it.

Abdul Basit (Wikipedia pic)

His argument was presented as a “worst case scenario”. But the reasoning that followed revealed something far more troubling than a hypothetical. It revealed a strategic logic that borders on the absurd. Basit essentially said this. If the United States targets Pakistan’s nuclear assets and if Pakistan cannot strike the US directly or hit American bases or Israel, then the fallback option is India. In other words, if you cannot hit the actual adversary, hit India. It is difficult to imagine a more bizarre articulation of deterrence theory.

Deterrence is meant to discourage an attacker by threatening retaliation against that attacker. What Basit suggests is deterrence by attacking someone else entirely. It is the geopolitical equivalent of threatening to burn your neighbour’s house because you cannot reach the person who threatened you. No credible nuclear doctrine works this way.

The remark becomes even more startling when one remembers that Pakistan’s own nuclear infrastructure has already shown vulnerabilities. During India’s Operation Sindoor, one of Pakistan’s nuclear related facilities was reportedly struck by Indian forces. That episode itself demonstrated how fragile the notion of invulnerable nuclear assets can be in a modern conflict environment.

Yet Basit’s solution to such vulnerability is not caution. It is escalation against a third party. There is another disturbing layer to his remarks. Basit also declared that in Pakistan “everyone is a jihadi”. Whether educated or poor, he said, the entire society shares this mindset.

If he meant this literally, it is a terrifying admission about the ideological environment surrounding a nuclear arsenal. If he meant it metaphorically, it still betrays the political culture that often frames Pakistan’s security discourse. Either way, the statement should alarm observers far beyond India. The timing is also revealing.

Just days before Basit’s remarks, the United States’ Office of the Director of National Intelligence released its 2026 Annual Threat Assessment. The report placed Pakistan among significant nuclear concerns for Washington, alongside major powers like Russia and China.US intelligence chief Tulsi Gabbard specifically flagged Pakistan’s evolving missile capabilities and its development of long-range delivery systems that could potentially reach intercontinental ranges. This matters.

For years, Pakistan has justified its nuclear arsenal as an India specific deterrent. The argument was simple. The weapons existed to counterbalance India’s conventional military superiority. But if Pakistan is now developing missiles capable of reaching far beyond South Asia, the narrative inevitably changes. Washington begins to view Islamabad not merely as a regional actor but as a potential strategic threat.

Basit’s comments inadvertently reinforce precisely that perception. If the world hears a former Pakistani envoy calmly discussing the bombing of foreign cities as a fallback option, it strengthens the argument that Pakistan’s nuclear thinking is dangerously elastic.

In strategic circles, language matters. Even hypothetical scenarios reveal the frameworks within which decision makers think. And Basit’s framework suggests something alarming. Pakistan appears ready to expand the battlefield whenever it feels cornered.

There is also a deep contradiction embedded in his reasoning. Basit repeatedly called the scenario “improbable” and “out of the impossibility”. Yet he kept returning to it, elaborating on how Pakistan would respond.

When diplomats feel compelled to construct elaborate hypothetical attacks, they are usually revealing anxieties rather than strategy. The anxiety here is obvious. Pakistan fears the vulnerability of its nuclear program. It fears American scrutiny. It fears isolation. And it fears that in a crisis it may not be able to retaliate directly against a superior adversary. So, the rhetorical missile is aimed at India.

India, in Pakistani strategic discourse, often becomes the convenient substitute target whenever frustration with larger powers builds up. This pattern is hardly new. Whenever tensions spike elsewhere in the world, whether in Afghanistan, the Middle East, or Washington’s policy debates, India suddenly reappears in Pakistani rhetoric as the ultimate adversary.

It is easier to threaten Delhi than to confront the structural weaknesses of Pakistan’s own strategic position. But threats of this nature carry consequences. Even when unofficial, they feed international doubts about the safety, command structure, and ideological environment surrounding Pakistan’s nuclear arsenal. They reinforce the concerns already articulated in the American intelligence assessment.

In other words, statements like Basit’s do more damage to Pakistan’s credibility than any foreign critic could. So how should India respond? The answer is simple. With calm and clarity. India does not need to match rhetorical recklessness with rhetorical outrage. Basit’s remarks are best understood as a symptom of Pakistan’s strategic frustration rather than a credible policy signal.

India’s nuclear doctrine remains clear, restrained, and anchored in deterrence. The country has repeatedly emphasised responsible stewardship of its arsenal and has avoided the kind of loose public nuclear talk that occasionally surfaces across the border. The contrast speaks for itself.

At the same time, India cannot ignore the deeper signal embedded in such rhetoric. When former diplomats begin normalising the idea of striking unrelated targets in a crisis, it suggests an intellectual environment where escalation is not fully understood. That environment is dangerous.

Ultimately, Basit’s remark is less about India and more about Pakistan’s internal strategic malaise. It reflects a country struggling to reconcile its nuclear ambitions with its geopolitical limitations. When the gap between ambition and capability becomes too wide, frustration fills the space. And sometimes that frustration speaks aloud.

In this case, it spoke in the language of nuclear threats. For a country already under scrutiny for its nuclear posture, that is perhaps the most self-destructive message it could have sent to the world.

Hormuz Faultlines and NATO’s quiet snub to Trump!

Raju Korti
At the heart of the episode lies a contradiction. Trump first "demanded" that NATO and key partners secure the Strait of Hormuz. He then conveniently dismissed their presence after their reluctance became apparent. This oscillation is as much revealing as it is damning. It suggests that Washington still seeks the legitimacy of collective action even when it increasingly prefers unilateral execution. The demand, therefore, was not merely operational. It was political signalling aimed at burden-sharing and moral endorsement.

Strait of Hormuz (Wikipedia)

The response from Europe, however, has been remarkably cool. Core NATO members such as Germany and France have historically resisted deeper military entanglement in West Asian conflicts without clear multilateral mandates. Italy and Spain too have shown little appetite for direct involvement. Even United Kingdom, traditionally Washington’s closest military partner, has exercised caution, mindful of domestic political costs and the absence of a clearly defined endgame. Outside NATO, allies such as Japan, South Korea, and Australia have also declined participation, reflecting a broader reluctance to be drawn into a potentially escalatory conflict with Iran.

This is not an abrupt rupture. The first visible cracks in transatlantic unity arguably surfaced during the Iraq War, when the failure to find weapons of mass destruction dented American credibility. The episode seeded a durable scepticism in European capitals about intelligence claims and regime-change doctrines. What is unfolding now appears to be an extension of that distrust, sharpened by Trump’s often transactional view of alliances.

The Strait of Hormuz itself has become central because it is the artery through which nearly a fifth of the world’s oil flows. Any disruption here has immediate global consequences, from energy prices to inflationary pressures. Iran’s ability to threaten or selectively restrict passage gives it asymmetric leverage, especially after the initial US-Israeli strikes. In strategic terms, control over Hormuz is not merely about maritime security. It is about economic coercion on a global scale.

There is also a quieter question underpinning the conflict. To what extent has Washington been nudged, or even compelled, into escalation by Israel. If that perception gains ground, it complicates US diplomacy, particularly in Europe, where public opinion remains wary of being drawn into conflicts seen as externally driven. The ramifications could be long-term, affecting not just this war but future coalition-building efforts.

For NATO, the refusal is not necessarily a declaration of disunity but a recalibration of interests. European members appear unwilling to underwrite conflicts that lack clear objectives, exit strategies, or direct threats to their own security. In that sense, it is less about rejecting the United States and more about rejecting the template of intervention.

For Trump, the implications are more immediate. If the conflict stretches into a prolonged engagement, akin to another Russia-Ukraine War-type stalemate, the absence of allied backing could translate into strategic and political isolation. His assertion that the US does not need NATO sits uneasily with his earlier appeal for support. It raises a question of credibility, both internationally and domestically. A short, decisive campaign would vindicate unilateralism. A protracted one would expose its limits.

The oil dimension adds another layer. Rising prices and supply disruptions inevitably ripple across economies, including India, which depends heavily on energy imports routed through Hormuz. The safe passage of Indian vessels underscores how deeply interconnected the crisis is. For New Delhi, the priority remains stability rather than alignment, ensuring that geopolitical tensions do not translate into economic shocks.

In the final analysis, NATO’s reluctance is not a dramatic break but a subtle distancing. It reflects an alliance adjusting to a world where American leadership is no longer automatically synonymous with collective action. The Strait of Hormuz, narrow in geography, has thus widened into a test of strategic patience, alliance cohesion, and the evolving limits of power.

The quiet permission to die. With dignity!

Raju Korti
In a country where life is often held sacred beyond reason, death has long remained an awkward, almost forbidden conversation. The recent Supreme Court ruling permitting passive euthanasia in the case of Harish Rana has shifted that silence. It has given legal articulation to something deeply human, the desire not merely to live, but to die with dignity.

Rana, a young man trapped in a vegetative state for over a decade after a catastrophic accident, became the face of this dilemma. His parents, worn by years of care and the slow erosion of hope, sought permission not to end his life, but to stop prolonging his dying. The Court agreed, allowing the withdrawal of life support under strict safeguards and placing him in palliative care at AIIMS, where the process has now formally begun.

(Visual representational)

This is not euthanasia in the dramatic sense often imagined. India continues to prohibit active euthanasia, the deliberate act of ending life through medical intervention. What the Court has allowed is passive euthanasia, the withdrawal or withholding of life-sustaining treatment, permitting death to take its natural course. The distinction is both legal and moral. One ends life. The other ceases to artificially extend it.

India has walked this path before, though hesitantly. The case of Aruna Shanbaug, a nurse who remained in a vegetative state for over four decades after a brutal assault, first forced the judiciary to grapple with the issue. In 2011, the Supreme Court, while rejecting the plea for ending her life, laid down guidelines permitting passive euthanasia under strict judicial oversight. That judgment became the moral and legal foundation for today’s decision.

The Rana case is, in many ways, the first true operationalisation of that principle. What was once theoretical has now entered the realm of lived reality.

Globally, the landscape is uneven. Countries like the Netherlands, Belgium and Canada allow active euthanasia or assisted dying under regulated frameworks. In contrast, India remains cautious, permitting only passive euthanasia and that too under layered safeguards involving medical boards, consent protocols and, often, judicial scrutiny.

The difference is not merely legal. It is civilisational. In the West, individual autonomy often reigns supreme. In India, decisions around life and death are embedded in family structures, religious beliefs and social expectations. The patient is rarely an isolated individual. He is a son, a parent, a responsibility.

The argument for euthanasia rests on autonomy and compassion. If life has irreversibly lost its quality, if suffering is unending and recovery impossible, should the law compel existence? The Court, in Rana’s case, appeared to answer in the negative, recognising dignity as intrinsic to the right to life under Article 21.Yet the counter-argument is equally forceful. Who decides when a life is no longer worth living? Can economic burden, emotional fatigue or social pressure subtly influence such decisions? In a country with vast inequalities in healthcare, the fear of misuse is not unfounded.

What complicates the debate in India is the absence of robust palliative care infrastructure. In many parts of the country, prolonging life is not a technological excess but a desperate struggle for access to basic treatment. The ethical discourse of euthanasia risks becoming distorted in such a setting.

Moreover, the process itself remains cumbersome. Unlike some Western nations where advance directives and living wills are more seamlessly implemented, India requires multiple layers of medical opinion, documentation and often legal validation. The intent is caution. The effect can be delay.

And yet, something fundamental has changed. The Court’s words to Rana’s parents are telling. Allowing a loved one to go, it observed, is not abandonment but an act of profound love.

That sentiment marks a subtle but significant shift. Death, in this framing, is not the enemy. Undignified dying is.

The law has taken a step forward. Society will take longer. Between reverence for life and acceptance of death lies a narrow, uneasy bridge. India has just begun to cross it.

Pakistan became a vassal state long back, Mr Khawaja Asif!

Raju Korti
When Pakistan’s Defence Minister Khawaja Asif raised the spectre of his country being reduced to a “vassal state” in the unfolding Iran-Israel-United States conflict, he appeared to be projecting a future threat. In reality, he was describing a long-settled condition.

For the uninitiated, a vassal state is a subordinate nation that holds some internal autonomy but is dominated by a more powerful state in its foreign policy and military affairs. Dependent on the superior power, such states are typically obligated to provide military support, align strategically, or adhere to dictated policies in exchange for economic and political patronage. By this definition, Pakistan’s trajectory since the late 1970s reads less like sovereign assertion and more like calibrated dependency.

Khawaja Asif (Wikipedia grab)

During the Soviet–Afghan War, Pakistan positioned itself as the frontline state of the American Cold War enterprise. The military regime of Muhammad Zia-ul-Haq became the conduit for American and Saudi money, arms, and intelligence to the Afghan mujahideen. The arrangement suited Rawalpindi’s strategic depth doctrine. It also entrenched structural dependence. Billions of dollars flowed in. Policy space narrowed.

The pattern persisted through the Gulf War. While publicly cautious, Pakistan quietly aligned with Washington’s regional architecture. Its military elite understood the hierarchy. The price of Western military hardware, debt rescheduling, and diplomatic shielding at forums such as the IMF and World Bank was compliance, not confrontation. 

After 9/11, the script became explicit. Under Pervez Musharraf, Pakistan reversed overnight from Taliban patron to indispensable American ally in the so-called War on Terror. Airbases were opened. Intelligence pipelines were activated. Logistics corridors were secured. In return came Coalition Support Funds and the resumption of military aid. Public sentiment seethed. The establishment calculated.

Asif’s claim that Pakistan might be encircled by hostile powers if Israel’s regional footprint expands overlooks a simple truth. Islamabad has repeatedly chosen alignment with Washington even when that choice collided with domestic narratives about Zionism or American imperialism. If Israeli and American objectives converge against Iran, Pakistan’s room for manoeuvre will be defined not by ideology but by economic fragility and military calculus.

Pakistan’s elite may rail against Zionism. The Pakistani street may detest American foreign policy. Yet at each strategic fork, from the anti-Soviet jihad to post-9/11 counter-terrorism cooperation, the state has fallen in line with Washington’s priorities. That pattern is not ideological affinity. It is structural dependence.

It is also inaccurate to suggest that the United States is simply captive to a monolithic Zionist force. There is indeed an influential and highly organised pro-Israel lobby in the United States. Groups such as American Israel Public Affairs Committee operate through lobbying, campaign contributions, and public advocacy, much like the National Rifle Association or AARP. The American Jewish community constitutes roughly 2 percent of the population but is politically engaged and well represented in policymaking circles. However, to argue that global powers are held hostage by Zionism collapses complex institutional dynamics into conspiracy shorthand. American Middle East policy reflects strategic calculations, domestic politics, energy security concerns, and alliance commitments. Israel is a critical ally, but not a puppeteer.

Even if one accepts that Israeli pressure has nudged Washington into confrontation with Iran, the more pertinent question is Pakistan’s agency. Would Islamabad defy American sanctions regimes? Would it risk IMF programmes or FATF scrutiny to back Tehran materially? History suggests otherwise.

What hurts Pakistan’s ego most is not external pressure. It is the awareness that strategic autonomy has long been traded for economic survival. The contradictions are stark.

Pakistan once nurtured the Afghan Taliban as a lever against Indian influence in Kabul. Today it battles the Tehreek-e-Taliban Pakistan, which draws ideological sustenance from the same ecosystem. Islamabad demands action from the Taliban government in Afghanistan while denying that its own past policies incubated cross-border militancy.

In Balochistan, the state confronts a long-running insurgency fuelled by grievances over resource extraction, political marginalisation, and security excesses. The province is central to the China-Pakistan Economic Corridor, itself a product of dependency on Beijing as an alternative patron. Thus, Pakistan juggles two suzerains. It balances American security expectations with Chinese economic leverage, while domestic fault lines widen.

These are not symptoms of encirclement by Israel, India, Afghanistan, and Iran acting in concert. They are manifestations of internal policy incoherence.

Asif’s warning that an Israeli victory could align India, Afghanistan, and Iran against Pakistan stretches plausibility. India and Iran share limited strategic convergence beyond transactional concerns. Tehran’s relations with Kabul remain fraught over refugees and water disputes. Afghanistan under the Taliban has little ideological affinity with New Delhi. The idea of a seamless anti-Pakistan bloc ignores deep fissures among these states.

More importantly, Pakistan’s vulnerability does not stem from an Israeli tank column reaching its border. It stems from economic precarity, overreliance on external bailouts, and a security doctrine that oscillates between patronage and paranoia.

If Pakistan’s leadership were candid, it would admit that alignment with Washington during the Soviet occupation of Afghanistan, the Gulf War, and the post-9/11 era was not coerced but chosen. It was deemed rational within the logic of regime survival and institutional interest. The cost was diminished autonomy in foreign and security policy.

To describe the current Iran crisis as an externally imposed plot risks evading that history. Pakistan does not face the prospect of becoming a vassal state because of Israel’s ambitions. It confronts the consequences of decades spent outsourcing strategic security to larger powers while cultivating domestic narratives of defiance.

Khawaja Asif’s warning may resonate with nationalist sentiment. It does not alter the structural reality. Sovereignty is not lost in a single war. It is eroded through repeated bargains where expediency outruns independence.

Pakistan crossed that threshold long ago.

The geometry of power in Hexagon Alliance!

Raju Korti
As Prime Minister Narendra Modi winds up his two-day visit to Israel, Netanyahu’s brainchild, the “Hexagon Alliance”, has travelled quickly from diplomatic corridors to strategic chatter. I find the term intriguing, not because alliances are new, but because branding in geopolitics often signals intent before architecture.

The idea, pitched by Benjamin Netanyahu, visualises a six-nation alignment to counter what he calls a radical Shia axis. While the precise composition remains fluid, India and Israel are seen as pivotal, with potential inclusion of countries such as the United States and key West Asian partners. The structure is still not formally codified. That raises the first question. Is this alliance new or merely a repackaging of existing convergences?

(Pic representational)

In truth, it is both old and new. India and Israel have enjoyed deep strategic ties since the 1990s. Intelligence cooperation, counter-terrorism coordination, drone technology, missile systems, and cyber capabilities form a dense web of engagement. The United States has long been a security guarantor in the region. Gulf states have quietly recalibrated their alignments after the Abraham Accords. The novelty lies in presenting these strands as a coherent bloc.

The geopolitical objective appears straightforward. Contain Iran’s influence, check radical networks, secure maritime routes, and consolidate a pro-stability arc stretching from the Mediterranean to the Indo Pacific. This is how the Hexagon geometry shapes out in a rapidly fragmenting world order. A hexagon suggests symmetry and shared responsibility. But ground realities of geopolitics are rarely known to offer perfect shapes.

I surmise that this alliance might work not as a NATO style military pact but more likely through layered cooperation. intelligence sharing. joint military exercises, coordinated cyber defence, maritime domain awareness, technology transfers and diplomatic signalling at multilateral forums. The operational core would be flexible, allowing members to participate in specific verticals without binding treaty obligations.

India’s role would be delicate but decisive. New Delhi has strategic autonomy as a cardinal principle. It balances relations with Iran for energy and connectivity, with the Gulf for diaspora and remittances, with Israel for defence technology, and with the United States for strategic leverage against China. Joining any overtly anti-Shia or anti-Muslim bloc would complicate India’s carefully curated West Asian equilibrium. My reading is if India participates, it would likely frame the alliance in terms of counter-terrorism, stability, and economic security rather than sectarian alignment.

Israel’s role would be sharper. It seeks regional normalisation and a coalition that deters Iran. By bringing India into a visible framework, Israel internationalises its security concerns and adds demographic and economic heft. Netanyahu’s pitch is as much about optics as about operational synergy.

Pakistan’s reaction is telling. Islamabad has termed it an anti-Muslim Ummah bloc, and its Senate has passed a unanimous resolution condemning the proposal. The rhetorical framing reveals anxiety. Pakistan worries about strategic encirclement. An India-Israel axis, especially if backed by Washington and Gulf capitals, narrows Islamabad’s manoeuvring space. It also risks exposing Pakistan’s internal sectarian fault lines in a polarised regional narrative.

Whether this alliance will change ground realities depends on three variables. First, clarity of purpose. If the hexagon remains a slogan, it will fade. Second, leadership. Who will call the shots? The United States would naturally command military heft, but Washington’s inclination towards new entanglements at this juncture appears uncertain. Israel will push security priorities. India will insist on consensus and issue-based engagement. Gulf states will weigh domestic sensitivities. Decision making may evolve through a steering mechanism rather than a single hegemon.

Third, the China factor. Beijing’s deepening footprint in West Asia through energy deals and infrastructure investments cannot be ignored. Any new bloc will be read in Beijing as part of a larger containment lattice. That adds another layer of strategic complexity.

The stakes are high. From energy security to counter-terrorism intelligence, cyber warfare preparedness. and arms supply chains. At the same time, the risks are also real. Sectarian polarisation. proxy escalations and diplomatic backlash from non-aligned partners. For India in particular, reputational balance in the Global South is crucial.

In lighter vein, I sometimes wonder whether South Asia needs a Hexagon of its own. Imagine a cricketing alliance of India, Pakistan, Sri Lanka, Bangladesh, Afghanistan, and either UAE or Oman as host. A super tournament that would dominate Asian cricket and television ratings. The infrastructure of UAE or Oman is ready. The passion is unquestioned. The diplomacy, however, would be fiercer than any final. Managing India Pakistan tensions would require more skill than negotiating a ceasefire. Yet sport has often succeeded where politics hesitates.

But geopolitics is not cricket. A hexagon in strategy is less about trophies and more about deterrence. Whether this particular hexagon becomes a solid structure or remains a rhetorical polygon will depend on how carefully its architects align ambition with realism.

For now, the geometry has caught attention. The angles will determine the outcome.

Teaching 'judicial corruption' in Class 8: Pros & cons!

Raju Korti
The decision by the National Council of Educational Research and Training to include a discussion on corruption in the judiciary marks a significant pedagogical shift. Earlier textbooks largely confined themselves to explaining the structure and functions of courts. The revised chapter, titled “The Role of the Judiciary in Our Society,” retains that framework but ventures into more complex terrain by addressing case backlogs, complaints against judges and the constitutional mechanism of impeachment.

The statistical context is stark. The textbook cites approximately 81,000 pending cases in the Supreme Court of India, 62,40,000 in the High Courts of India and 4,70,00,000 in district and subordinate courts. By presenting these numbers, the text situates corruption within a broader systemic challenge of delay and access.

The question is whether Class 8 students, typically aged 13 to 14, are developmentally and civically prepared for such a nuanced discussion.

(Pic representational)

The case for inclusion rests on democratic maturity. Shielding students from institutional imperfections may foster an unrealistic understanding of governance. Introducing the idea that judges are bound by a code of conduct, that complaints can be filed through the Centralised Public Grievance Redress and Monitoring System, and that Parliament can remove a judge through impeachment under constitutional procedure reinforces the principle that no office is above accountability. Far from undermining faith, such transparency can deepen it by demonstrating that the system contains self-correcting mechanisms.

Moreover, civic education in a constitutional democracy is not merely about institutional reverence but about critical engagement. Students exposed early to concepts of checks and balances may grow into citizens who value institutional reform rather than blind loyalty. Acknowledging that corruption can worsen access to justice for the poor may also build empathy and social awareness.

Yet the counter argument is equally compelling. Adolescents at this stage often process information in binaries. Presenting corruption within the judiciary, even with caveats about due process and accountability, may risk creating a premature sense of distrust. The judiciary occupies a unique symbolic position as the guardian of rights. If students internalise the message that even this pillar is compromised, it may contribute to a broader cynicism about public institutions.

There is also the pedagogical challenge of explanation. Corruption in the judiciary is not easily reducible to simple examples without risking distortion. Allegations, complaints and impeachment procedures involve legal nuance. Without careful classroom mediation, students may conflate isolated instances with systemic rot. The impression formed at this age can be enduring.

The long-term implications therefore hinge on delivery rather than mere inclusion. If teachers frame the discussion within the larger constitutional design, emphasising safeguards, procedural fairness and the rarity of extreme measures such as impeachment, the lesson may strengthen constitutional literacy. If presented sensationally or without context, it could erode institutional trust.

The broader repercussion lies in the evolving philosophy of school education. Moving from idealised civics to a more candid account of institutional challenges signals a transition towards democratic realism. Whether that realism matures into informed citizenship or slides into scepticism will depend on the balance struck in classrooms.

The introduction of judicial corruption into a Class 8 textbook is neither inherently premature nor unquestionably appropriate. It is a test of how a society chooses to educate its young about power, accountability and imperfection.

The Samosa Sage of social media

Raju Korti
There are some people you have never met, yet they walk into your day with such familiarity that you feel you have known them for years. My Facebook friend Ravi Chhabra belongs to that rare tribe. The kind whose posts don’t merely scroll past your eyes but linger in your mind like a favourite tune long after the music has stopped.

And if there is one irresistible overture that announces Ravi’s arrival on your timeline, it is gloriously, unapologetically the alluring, appetising samosa. Golden, plump, crisp at the edges and flanked by emerald-green chutney and tamarind gloss, Ravi Bhai’s samosas don’t just sit there as food photographs. They perform. They beckon. They practically whisper, “Go find one. Now.” One can almost hear the crunch through the screen. I often imagine half his friends abandoning their phones mid-scroll, scurrying toward the nearest snack stall like pilgrims answering a sacred call.

Ravi Chhabra (from his FB wall)

Samosas, in Ravi Bhai’s world, are not merely snacks. They are celebration, comfort, nostalgia, and joy folded neatly into triangular perfection. Yet, the delicious irony and charm lie in the fact that this great admirer of good food is no reckless indulger. Dietary restrictions keep his cravings politely in check. The posts are sometimes longing glances, sometimes playful temptations, and often simply Ravi Bhai sharing happiness in its crispiest form. For him, loving food isn’t gluttony; it is appreciation. Geography doesn’t matter. Taste does. From street corners to distant cuisines, good food is good food. From the crisp southern elegance of a dosa to other regional delights, his palate travels India with the same curiosity his mind brings to life.

But Ravi Bhai is far more than a man with a poetic relationship with snacks. An engineer by training and an MBA by qualification, he carries vast experience across industries and classrooms alike. Teaching, mentoring, guiding students through projects. These aren’t sidelines for him; they are passions. He shapes minds with the same care with which a master cook folds spices into filling: thoughtfully, patiently, meaningfully.

Then comes music, his emotional sanctuary. Old Hindi songs are not just entertainment for Ravi Bhai; they are time machines, therapy sessions, and soulful companions. He belongs to a close-knit group called RTS Romancing The Song, where melodies from another era still breathe, sigh, and stir memories. One can almost picture him humming softly, letting Kishore Kumar’s warmth or Rafi’s velvet notes drift through his evenings.

Words, too, find a loving home in Ravi Bhai’s world. Poetry, shayari, clever puns, witty lines, motivational thoughts -- he savours them all. And sometimes, he creates his own, tossing out limericks with playful rhythm or quotes that gently nudge you toward reflection. His humour sparkles without being loud; his wisdom lands without being heavy.

Yet beneath the lightness runs a deep, steady river of thought. For over a decade, Ravi Bhai has immersed himself in Vedanta, drawing not just knowledge but nourishment for the soul. The profound verses he shares from the Bhagavad Gita aren’t ornamental quotes meant for likes. They are lived philosophies. Through them, you sense a man learning continuously how to live better, kinder, and more meaningfully. And as if intellect, music, humour, and spirituality weren’t enough, compassion quietly crowns it all.

Ravi Bhai volunteers with Maya Care, an organisation that serves the elderly and empowers the physically challenged through training and employment. It is service not worn like a badge but practiced like a habit -- natural, sincere, and steady.

In Ravi Bhai, you encounter a rare blend: A samosa-loving philosopher, a music-soaked mentor, a humourist with depth, a professional with purpose, a thinker who serves. His timeline is like a well-curated thali. A little spice of wit, a generous helping of wisdom, soulful music on the side, thoughtful reflection as dessert, and of course, the ever-present, mouth-watering samosa at the centre.

Some people shout on social media. Some sell. Some sermonise. Ravi Bhai simply shares: joy, thought, flavour, and feeling. And in doing so, he reminds us that life doesn’t have to be lived in extremes. It can be savoured like a perfectly fried samosa. Crisp on the outside, rich within, and best when enjoyed slowly.

One post at a time.

X factor or modern-day chucker? The Usman Tariq question!

Raju Korti
Few contests in world sport carry the emotional voltage of an India–Pakistan clash. Yet, in the fevered build-up to Sunday’s blockbuster, the loudest conversation is not about Abhishek Sharma’s expected fireworks or how Babar Azam would fare. It is about the unsettling sling of Pakistan’s newest X-factor, Usman Tariq.

Tariq burst into the T20 World Cup with three scalps against the USA, bamboozling batters who looked like students facing a pop quiz in quantum physics. Variations flowed, the trajectory dipped late, and confusion reigned. But so did suspicion.

His approach is theatrical. A staggered, diagonal shuffle, a dramatic pause that seems to suspend time itself, and then a slinging release that shields the umpire’s view. Some see innovation. Others smell illegality.

(Pic an Instagram grab)

Sunil Gavaskar has been among those urging proper scrutiny, reminding the cricketing world that mystery should never come at the cost of fairness. Kevin Pietersen echoed similar concerns, arguing that unusual actions demand closer scientific examination, not social media verdicts. Cameron Green went a step further, mimicking Tariq’s action after being dismissed in Lahore, while Tom Banton voiced discomfort during the ILT20. Even the ever-measured Ian Bishop openly questioned whether such deliberate pauses violate the spirit and laws of the game.

At the heart of the debate lies the ICC’s 15-degree rule, which allows a bowler’s elbow to flex up to 15 degrees during delivery. Anything beyond that constitutes throwing, or chucking. Modern biomechanical testing replaced the days when umpires dramatically no-balled offenders mid-match, as happened with a young Muttiah Muralitharan in the 1990s, a saga that once led Sri Lanka to walk off in protest. Today, umpires can only report suspicious actions. Formal testing follows later.

Tariq has already been reported twice in the Pakistan Super League and cleared both times by PCB-conducted tests. That, in theory, should end the argument. Yet controversy rarely obeys laboratory reports.

Adding fuel to the fire is Muralitharan himself, now bluntly calling Tariq’s action “completely illegal” and questioning the ICC’s silence. According to the Sri Lankan legend, it is not just the elbow bend but the exaggerated pauses that make a mockery of rhythm and regulation.

History offers uncomfortable parallels. Saeed Ajmal, Shoaib Akhtar, Shane Warne’s teammate Brett Lee was questioned early in his career, and even Murali spent years under the scanner, largely due to the congenital bend in his arm that made legal deliveries look illegal to the naked eye. Several others were eventually barred or forced to remodel their actions, often ending careers overnight.

Yet there is a dissenting voice, and it comes from Ravichandran Ashwin. The cerebral off-spinner has argued that the laws increasingly favour batters and suffocate bowlers’ creativity. If actions pass biomechanical tests, he believes, perception should not become prosecution. Some quietly wonder whether Ashwin’s own occasional last-moment hesitation in his delivery stride makes him more sympathetic to Tariq’s methods.

As for Tariq, he has consistently maintained that his action is natural, within the legal limit, and repeatedly cleared by testing. The pause, he insists, is part of his rhythm and deception, no different from batters backing away or shuffling across the crease. Pakistan, unsurprisingly, see no problem. A wicket-taking mystery spinner in a World Cup is not something any team volunteers to lose, especially before facing India.

And so, as the cricketing world counts down to another chapter in the sport’s fiercest rivalry, Usman Tariq stands at a curious crossroads. To some, he is innovation incarnate. To others, a throwback to cricket’s murkiest controversies.

Sunday’s match may be decided by runs and wickets, but beyond the scoreboard, a deeper question lingers: where does bowling genius end and illegality begin? In cricket, as in life, the finest lines are often the most fiercely debated.

Living a hundred years? Oh, for dear life!

Raju Korti
Someone in his wisdom is reputed to have said that “you will live to a hundred if you give up everything that makes you want to." I have always smiled at that line half amused, half suspicious. What really brews a long life? Is it inherited luck, monk-like discipline, bland food and morning walks, or simply an unshakeable optimism that refuses to age? If life has taught me anything, it is this: longevity laughs at formulas.

I have known people who lived like instruction manuals. No smoke, no drink, eight hours of sleep, yoga at dawn, smiles on schedule and yet exited far too early. And I have watched others, best friends with cigarettes and sofas, casually outlive doctors’ predictions. The truth is messier, more mysterious, and far more human than any health chart allows.

In India, we bless each other with shatayushi bhava (may you live a hundred years). But not everyone longs for that milestone. Some fear becoming dependent. Others dread the slow fading of purpose. A few feel their life’s list is complete and would rather bow out gracefully than linger.

(Pic representational)

My own appointment with mortality arrived eleven years ago, on a hospital bed after a near-fatal coronary bypass. I suspect the doctors offered me a limited future measured in two years, simply because they had to be benevolent as professionals. Surviving that moment taught me something unexpected. When you are given life back, you no longer own it entirely. A part of it belongs to the world.

Not long ago, on a trip to Dharwad in Karnataka, I met a man introduced as 103. No fanfare. Just a dhoti, a kurta, bright eyes and a laugh that could shame youth. When I asked how it felt to live beyond a century, he pointed skyward and said softly, “All His writ(ing). No credit to me.” I touched his feet, not in reverence of faith, but in respect for wisdom uncluttered by ego.

He reminded me of Mike Fremont, the American who I read; beat cancer at 69 and sprinted joyfully past 100, thriving on plants, movement, sleep and sunlight. Ditto of the Japanese chef who refused retirement because purpose kept him young and  the Indian doctor who crossed 101 with discipline as his quiet companion.

Science now whispers of humans living to 150. Two lifetimes stitched into one body. Yet immortality, that oldest human greed, feels strangely unattractive to me. Because years without meaning are merely calendar pages turning.

And as I navigate my own chain of existential storms, I find my life captured best in these hauntingly beautiful lines:
Zinda hoon is tarah ke gham-e-zindagi nahi,
Jalta hua diya hoon magar roshni nahi. 

Xi's supremacy, absolute power in volatile times!

Raju Korti
The recent removal of a senior figure from China’s military command marks far more than another episode in Beijing’s long-running anti-corruption campaign. It signals the near completion of Xi Jinping’s project to bring the People’s Liberation Army fully under the control of the Party, and ultimately under himself. For the first time since the founding of the People’s Republic, the armed forces are no longer a semi-autonomous power broker but a disciplined extension of the top leadership.

This shift fundamentally alters the balance within the Chinese Communist Party. Historically, military leaders held immense political leverage, often acting as kingmakers during moments of transition or crisis. By systematically purging senior officers and dismantling entrenched networks, Xi has neutralised that parallel centre of power. The result is an unprecedented concentration of authority in one individual, surpassing even the dominance enjoyed by Mao in institutional terms.

Xi Pic Wkipedia grab

Internally, this consolidation brings both stability and fragility. On one hand, Xi now faces little organised resistance. Rival factions have been weakened, bargaining power within the Party has shrunk, and the path to shaping the next Party Congress appears firmly under his control. On the other hand, governance in such a tightly centralised system increasingly depends on personal loyalty rather than institutional feedback. Fear-driven compliance may deliver short-term order, but it risks suppressing honest counsel, policy correction and early warning of crises.

The purges also expose deep structural problems within China’s military, particularly corruption that had hollowed out readiness and credibility. Cleaning up the system strengthens Xi’s control but simultaneously reveals how fragile some of China’s hard power capabilities may have been beneath the surface. A military under tighter discipline may be more obedient, yet the disruption caused by large-scale removals can temporarily weaken cohesion and effectiveness.

For the broader political system, the message is clear: the era of collective leadership has effectively ended. Decision-making is now intensely personalised. This creates clarity in command but amplifies the consequences of miscalculation. With fewer internal checks, strategic choices will increasingly reflect Xi’s personal reading of risks, threats and opportunities.

Externally, this concentration of power introduces uncertainty. Regional tensions are rising, with several neighbouring countries adopting firmer postures toward Beijing. At the same time, China faces a fluid global environment shaped by great power rivalry, economic pressures and ongoing conflicts that affect its diplomatic space.

For Southeast Asia, Xi’s strengthened grip is a double-edged development. It could bring more predictable long-term strategy from Beijing, but also faster, more decisive moves when China feels challenged. Without internal counterweights, responses to territorial disputes, alliance shifts or perceived encirclement may become sharper and less restrained.

Whether China is entering a period of hardened stability or heightened volatility remains unclear. Xi now possesses unmatched authority over party, state and military. History suggests such concentration can produce bold reforms or dramatic overreach. What is certain is that China has moved into uncharted political territory, where the fate of a vast system is increasingly tied to the instincts of a single leader.

Balochistan, Pakistan's slipping grip and India’s tender spot

Raju Korti
When the world has become a headquarter of all geopolitical hotspots, its branch offices, by default, also have to vie for the attention and importance they desperately seek. I am referring to Balochistan which expectedly turned into a fire from a frying pan when it found the opportune time .

The largest province, not to speak of its mineral-rich terrain, has deteriorated sharply, marked by coordinated, series of assaults from the Balochistan Liberation Army (BLA), leaving hundreds of civilians, security personnel and militants dead in the last two months. By all accounts, this is the fiercest stage of their uprising encompassing 14 cities amidst claims and counter-claims, pushing the region to a potential collapse.

(The green hotspot)

Pakistani forces, as only expected, have responded with counter-measures to smother the BLA attacks but the damages are also beyond military operations, spilling over to hit essential services like internet and electricity. In the run up to the Balochistan’s case for self-determination, what strikes me is the strange situation Pakistan finds itself in. It is poetic justice if an antidote is served to you for the very poison you spread. This is what will result. Later if not sooner.

True to Pakistan’s political posturing, where confessions are usually made later in the day, Defence Minister Khwaja Asif's candid admission in the National Assembly highlights the core challenges and establishment’s helplessness: Balochistan's vast geography, spanning over 347,000 square kilometers, makes it a "gigantic task" to manage, especially compared to more densely policed provinces like Punjab and Sindh.

There is an obvious resigned note in Asif’s submission. The insurgents' advantage in terrain, their possession of advanced weaponry while Pakistani security forces face shortages of comparable gear. That this escalation stems from longstanding grievances rooted in economic exploitation and political marginalisation is already known.

Balochistan holds immense mineral wealth, including 5.9 billion tons of copper-gold ore and untapped rare earth elements potentially worth 6-8 trillion dollars, yet locals receive only 2 percent royalties from mining deals. Enforced disappearances, poverty, and the perception of the province as "collective property" mismanaged by Islamabad fuel separatist sentiment.

The insurgency, mostly in the form of skirmishes, has been ongoing since the 1940s following Balochistan's contested accession to Pakistan. It has, however, evolved into a low-scale but persistent conflict involving nationalist groups demanding autonomy or independence. The reason is not far to seek. What has flared up the issue is the recent violence disrupting key projects like the China-Pakistan Economic Corridor (CPEC), threatening Beijing's investments and prompting fears that instability could spill over into neighbouring regions.

For all their professed bravado, as is its wont, Pakistan's military, already stretched by economic woes and threats in Khyber Pakhtunkhwa, appears handicapped, with Asif's remarks signalling a crisis of resources and strategy. Then there are predictable accusations of backing from Afghanistan and India, but these only serve to deflect from internal failures. Or so Baloch activist Mir Yar Baloch believes.

Pakistan's response reveals a trajectory toward resignation rather than resolution. Security operations continue, with over 200 militants reportedly killed in retaliatory actions, yet the insurgency's decentralised, networked tactics, hit-and-run assaults, propaganda via satellite uplinks, and transnational linkages, evade traditional control.

The state's writ has eroded to the point where military patrols avoid nighttime operations in 80 percent of the province, and attacks have reached government secretariats. Chief Minister Sarfraz Bugti's assertion that solutions lie with the military rather than dialogue further entrenches alienation, as enforced disappearances and human rights abuses drive youth, women, and elders into the fray.

It needs no expert view as this deadlock leaves the conflict stalled on the battlefield. It is not altogether surprising that there have been no territorial gains but only rising fatalities, reported at whopping 60 percent increase in incidents in 2025 alone. Islamabad has lived up to its well-guarded reputation of living in denial; economic strain be damned. It only points to a creeping acceptance of diminished control, risking provincial fragmentation if unrest persists.

Anything that happens or concerns Pakistan, India cannot be kept out anywhichways. Wittingly or unwittingly, India occupies a pivotal yet cautious position in these dynamics. Baloch leaders, including Mir Yar Baloch, president of the Free Balochistan Movement, have repeatedly appealed for New Delhi's moral, political, diplomatic, and economic support, viewing India as a counterweight to Pakistan's occupation since 1948.Mir Yar Baloch has emphasised mutual benefits in technology, economy, and peace, while rejecting accusations of Indian backing as Pakistani propaganda to cover failures. This probably hurts Pakistan more than the Baloch uprising per se. Baloch claims his forces could liberate the province in a week with fighter jets and weapons, and has invited international scrutiny, including from India, to expose alleged abuses like mosque bombardments and mass graves. Notably, same suicide bomber practices that have become popular after the LTTE gave it international recognition. No surprises that Pakistan, in turn, accuses India of sponsoring terrorism, with Interior Minister Mohsin Naqvi citing evidence of support for Baloch militants. However, these claims lack independent verification and align with Islamabad's pattern of externalising blame.

For India it is a tricky and cautious situation where engagement must balance strategic interests with risks. The insurgency threatens CPEC, a Chinese initiative India opposes due to its passage through disputed territories, potentially weakening Pakistan's western flank and diverting its military focus from the eastern border. Yet direct involvement could escalate tensions, inviting accusations of interference and straining relations with global powers wary of regional balkanisation.

A "Greater Balochistan" narrative, encompassing parts of Iran and Afghanistan, adds complexity, as US strikes on Iran could further destabilise the area, creating ungoverned spaces that benefit militants and endanger Central Asia. India should prioritise non-military avenues: amplify Baloch voices in international forums like the UN, push for investigations into human rights violations, and offer humanitarian aid through multilateral channels. Economically, fostering ties with Baloch diaspora and exploring post-conflict partnerships in resources could position India favourably, but only if pursued diplomatically to avoid direct confrontation. Supporting dialogue between Islamabad and Baloch representatives, while condemning violence, would align with India's democratic ethos and long-term stability goals in South Asia. Much will depend on the walk India talks.

I suspect, in the final analysis, India's restraint could pressure Pakistan toward concessions, preventing a full surrender but that might only invite broader chaos.

The “Book War” before the book

Raju Korti
For any writer worth his salt, there can be no better publicity than becoming famous before the book is even published. Controversy, after all, is the most efficient marketing tool mankind has ever invented.

Which is why the unfolding saga around former Chief of Army Staff General M.M. Naravane’s memoir Four Stars of Destiny fascinates me not merely as a political skirmish but as a case study in how narratives are born, weaponised and amplified in modern India.

Book cover, a file grab

At one level, there is nothing unusual about a retired army chief’s book being vetted by the government. Military memoirs across the world routinely undergo security clearance. In the excitement of writing, or even unknowingly, classified details can slip in. It is perfectly logical that the Ministry of Defence should examine such a manuscript before it enters the public domain.

What is unusual is the government’s insistence in Parliament that the book “has never been published” while hard copies of it are dramatically waved in the Lok Sabha by the Leader of Opposition. Defence Minister Rajnath Singh’s assertion may be technically correct in a narrow legal sense. But in the real world of publishing, a book is very often “born” long before it reaches a bookstore.

Having authored books myself, I know how this works. Publishers send soft copies and proof hard copies to authors for rechecking. These usually have no cover, no ISBN and are meant strictly for corrections. Once the book is officially published, authors receive complimentary copies which they can distribute as they please, depending on their contract.

What I find difficult to believe is that General Naravane personally sent a finished copy to Rahul Gandhi. A former army chief cannot privately print and circulate his book. The only plausible explanation is that a pre-publication copy, whether a proof, a promotional galley or a warehouse print run, found its way out.

And this is where modern publishing realities enter the picture. Publishers do not wait for launch day to start printing. Thousands of copies are often produced months in advance so that distribution across the country happens simultaneously. The suggestion that Penguin Random House may have printed the book anticipating clearance is not speculation. It is standard industry practice.

Add to this the fact that magazines like The Caravan reportedly accessed the manuscript or typescript, and Rahul Gandhi later floated the theory that the book had been published abroad. All this points to one simple truth: the book, in practical terms, was already in circulation in some form.

Trying to “un-ring the bell” once review copies are out is almost impossible. In fact, the government’s attempt to freeze the book may have done the worst possible thing. It transformed a routine military memoir into a forbidden document. The harder it was held back, the greater its political value became. Thus, was born the book war.

Rahul Gandhi quoted alleged excerpts claiming that during the China standoff, General Naravane kept alerting the political leadership about Chinese tank movements and received no clear direction for a long time. According to these quotes, he felt abandoned and was eventually told to act as he deemed fit, inheriting what he described as a “hot potato.

”The government countered sharply, arguing that quoting from an unpublished book violates parliamentary rules, harms national security and goes against national interest. And somewhere in the middle of this shouting match sat the author himself.

General Naravane chose a composed, professional silence. He merely reiterated that his job was to write the book and that it was the publisher’s responsibility to secure MoD approval. Notably, he did not dispute the authenticity of the leaked excerpts. Nor did he join the political slugfest. That silence speaks louder than any press conference.

Now comes the most intriguing twist. Some voices are suggesting legal action against Penguin Random House for allowing the book to leak or circulate without clearance. This is a double-edged sword.

If the government sues the publisher, it effectively confirms that the book exists and that its contents are genuine enough to warrant suppression. It would amount to acknowledging that what Rahul Gandhi is quoting is broadly what General Naravane wrote.

For Penguin, the stakes are equally high. If copies were printed or allowed to circulate without formal clearance, they could face legal trouble under the Official Secrets Act or service rules governing former military heads. Yet, practically speaking, once pre-orders, review copies and warehouses are involved, total containment becomes a logistical fantasy.

What fascinates me is how a memoir about military service has morphed into a political grenade. Lost in the noise is a basic point about the Indian Army itself.

There are countless instances where the army has acted decisively on the ground while keeping the government informed. It is among the most disciplined forces in the world. It seeks political clearance as a matter of constitutional propriety, not operational weakness. And when circumstances demand, it does not hesitate to respond firmly.

If General Naravane was indeed seeking clearer directions during a tense standoff, that reflects more on administrative decision-making than on military capability. This was not 1962. The army today is fully equipped and confident of handling provocations.

However, if the excerpts attributed to him are accurate, they do raise uncomfortable questions about the political leadership’s crisis response mechanisms. Which perhaps explains the nervousness around this book.

In trying to suppress it, the establishment may have inadvertently amplified its impact. A memoir that would have quietly sold a few thousand copies has now become a national talking point. It has acquired the aura of a banned book, always the most seductive category of all.

I cannot help but wonder how General Naravane feels watching his unpublished work ignite a political firestorm. Is he amused at the publicity every author secretly craves? Or troubled that a professional account of service has been dragged into partisan combat?

Either way, his book has already achieved what most writers only dream of. It has become famous before it has even been born. And in this strange episode, we have learned a larger lesson: in today’s India, it is not just battles on the border that matter. Even books can become battlegrounds. All is fair in love and war, they say.

Apparently, in publishing too.

From layouts to layoffs: The brutal, ugly fine print!

Raju Korti
When a newspaper as storied and influential as The Washington Post is forced to sack nearly a third of its workforce, it is no longer a management story. It is an industry verdict. For decades, The Post symbolised the power of print journalism, the romance of investigative reporting, and the commercial might that once backed serious newsrooms. Today, even that citadel is cutting departments, shrinking global ambitions, and scrambling to reinvent itself as a lean digital-first operation after bleeding tens of millions of dollars year after year.

That moment tells me more about the state of print media than a thousand industry conferences ever could.

(Pix a Facebook grab)

We are living through a great divergence. On one end stands The New York Times, marching ahead like a well-oiled digital empire, stacking millions of subscribers, monetising games, cooking tips and product reviews alongside news, and posting revenues that many corporations would envy. On the other end lie hundreds of mid-sized and smaller newspapers gasping for breath, slashing staff, shutting bureaus, merging editions, and praying for advertisers who are no longer coming back. This is no longer a slow decline. It is a two-tier industry. A handful of global brands will survive, perhaps even flourish. The rest are fighting for relevance, revenue and dignity.

Print advertising, once the lifeblood of newspapers, has steadily migrated to digital platforms, social media influencers, search engines, and algorithm-driven content mills. Classifieds vanished first. Display ads followed. Now even brand advertising is chasing eyeballs rather than credibility. The economics that once sustained large newsrooms simply no longer exist.

And when revenue collapses, everything else follows. Overheads become unbearable. Printing costs rise. Distribution shrinks. Newsrooms are trimmed to skeleton crews. Restructuring becomes a permanent state of existence.

I have watched this decay from close quarters. Having worked with newspapers controlled by self-proclaimed pro-labour outfits, I have seen how hollow lofty slogans sound when survival is at stake. These were organisations that preached worker welfare in editorials while quietly handing out pink slips in offices. No increments for years. No promotions. Frozen careers. At times, brazen requests for pay cuts in the name of “difficult market conditions”.

The irony was almost comic, if it were not tragic. What rarely gets spoken about is the small but powerful coterie within many media houses that continues to thrive regardless of how badly the organisation bleeds. These influential few call the shots, surround themselves with obedient yes-men, and insulate their own positions while entire departments are wiped out. Journalists are told to tighten belts while executive privileges remain untouched. Ethics are preached downward and discarded upward. Long ago, ethics itself became collateral damage.

The print industry, in many places, has been taken over by over-smart operators and ambitious upstarts who treat newspapers not as institutions but as temporary profit machines. They squeeze what they can, cut what they must, and move on richer when the organisation finally hits the barrel. By the time a newspaper folds, their fortunes are already secured.

 Digital competition has only accelerated this moral and financial erosion. Today, people increasingly prefer consumption over comprehension. A thirty-second clip generates more engagement than a carefully researched exposé. A sensational visual travels faster than a nuanced article. Many would rather watch a lurid video of Jeffrey Epstein chasing young girls than read a serious investigation describing his crimes in carefully constructed prose.

Substance has become a liability. Sensation has become currency. Mainstream media has been overshadowed by public relations agencies, event management firms, spin doctors, social media strategists, so-called influencers and advertiser-driven narratives. The boundaries between news, opinion, promotion, publicity and propaganda have blurred beyond recognition. Everything is content now. Everything is branding. Everything is monetisable.

The result is an overkill of information that leaves audiences overwhelmed and oddly indifferent. In this chaos, traditional newspapers are fighting on two fronts. Financially against collapsing revenues. Credibility-wise against a digital ecosystem that rewards noise over truth.

The Washington Post’s retrenchment is therefore not a failure of one newspaper. It is a symptom of a broken business model struggling to adapt to a ruthless attention economy. The New York Times’ success, while admirable, is also a reminder that only scale, brand power and aggressive digital reinvention can offer a lifeboat. For most regional and mid-sized papers, that lifeboat simply does not exist. They are hanging on by the skin of their teeth.

Every round of layoffs is justified as restructuring. Every salary freeze is called prudence. Every closure is branded strategic transformation. But beneath the corporate vocabulary lies a simple truth: the old print economy is collapsing faster than anyone publicly admits.

I am often asked if I miss the newsroom. I miss the craft. I miss the conversations. I miss the adrenaline of deadlines. But I do not miss the hypocrisy, the insecurity, the silent fear of the next restructuring mail, or the knowledge that loyalty is usually rewarded with redundancy.

In a strange way, I am glad I stepped out of that vicious circle for good. Life on one’s own is tougher, financially uncertain, and often unforgiving. But it offers something the modern print industry increasingly cannot: dignity, independence and freedom from institutional decay. Survival may be hard, but it is honest.

What we are witnessing today is not merely a technological shift. It is the dismantling of an entire economic and ethical ecosystem that once supported serious journalism. Some giants will adapt and dominate. Many others will quietly disappear.

The tragedy is not just about newspapers shutting down. It is about the slow erosion of a profession that once believed truth could sustain itself.

Of Noam Chomsky and fallen conscience!

Raju Korti
I have taught Noam Chomsky’s theories and political ideologies to graduate and post-graduate students for years. More than once, I devoted entire sessions to his ideas, including two consecutive days of four hours each, unpacking the propaganda model he articulated in Manufacturing Consent. Between 1992 and 2002, I read Chomsky extensively, often nodding in agreement, largely because his arguments appeared benign, humane and intellectually honest. His critique of corporate media, power structures and manufactured public consent resonated deeply with anyone concerned about democracy and truth.

Chomsky & Epstein (file grab)

That long-held engagement makes what has emerged from the Epstein Files particularly unsettling.

The US Department of Justice documents have placed Chomsky among high-profile figures who maintained a sustained relationship with Jeffrey Epstein well after Epstein’s 2008 conviction for soliciting a minor for prostitution. Emails and records reveal multiple meetings in 2015 and 2016, dinners at Epstein’s Manhattan townhouse with influential personalities, and even Epstein’s role in facilitating elite networking. More troubling is the revelation of a $270,000 wire transfer from an Epstein-linked account to Chomsky, which Chomsky has described as a mere technical rearrangement of funds related to his late wife’s estate.

Chomsky’s defence rests on a narrow legalistic logic. He claims that since Epstein had served his sentence, he believed the financier had a “clean slate” and could re-enter society under normal social norms. He insists their conversations were confined to intellectual subjects such as science, politics and global finance. When questioned by journalists, his initial response was an abrupt “none of your business.” He has also maintained that the money involved was not a gift but a financial restructuring.

On paper, this defence may appear tidy. In substance, it feels disturbingly hollow.

A man is often known by the company he keeps. Even if one accepts that Chomsky was not directly involved in Epstein’s monstrous crimes, the choice to sustain a close and prolonged association with a convicted sexual offender is not a neutral act. It becomes even harder to digest when that association included financial dealings and personal favours within Epstein’s elite network. The optics are bad, but more importantly, the ethical judgment is worse.

What jars is not merely the contact, but the tone of dismissal. I am not the one to sit on moral judgement but advising Epstein to ignore public outrage over exposed sex crimes, brushing off legitimate questions as intrusive, and framing the relationship as socially routine suggests a startling indifference to the gravity of Epstein’s offences. For a thinker who spent decades dissecting power, complicity and moral responsibility, this casualness feels painfully inconsistent.

There is a popular defence now circulating among Chomsky’s admirers. One, there is no photographic or explicit evidence of his involvement in sexual abuse. Two, even if his personal judgment failed, his linguistic scholarship and political contributions remain intact. On the first point, the issue is not whether Chomsky committed Epstein’s crimes, but whether maintaining close ties with such a man after his conviction was itself indefensible. On the second, while his academic work in linguistics may remain untouched, the moral authority that once amplified his political voice cannot escape the shadow now cast over it.

This is where my disillusionment truly sets in.

For many of us who studied society through language, power and ideology, Chomsky was more than a scholar. He was a conscience, a relentless critic of hypocrisy and elite corruption. To see him entangled, however indirectly, in the orbit of one of the most grotesque figures of modern scandal is a profound shock. The maxim that even gods have feet of clay suddenly feels painfully accurate.

His defence strikes me less as a principled explanation and more as an afterthought shaped by damage control. Legal innocence is not the same as moral clarity. Intellectual brilliance does not excuse ethical blindness. When a public thinker who lectured the world on justice, exploitation and accountability chooses convenience over conscience, the disappointment cuts deeper than any academic disagreement ever could.

Chomsky’s contributions to linguistics will likely endure in textbooks. But his stature as a moral and political lodestar, at least for me, has suffered harm. Preaching social ethics while maintaining comfort with a convicted predator creates a chasm between thought and conduct that no amount of intellectual nuance can bridge.

The Epstein Files have done more than expose a network of abuse. They have stripped away comforting illusions about those we placed on pedestals. In Chomsky’s case, the fall is not about criminal guilt, but about perceived moral failure. And for someone who shaped my intellectual journey for over a decade, that is perhaps the most painful revelation of all.

India-US trade deal: Certainty after prolonged suspense

Raju Korti
The heart of the deal is simple. The United States cuts its tariff on Indian goods to 18 per cent from 25 per cent. India, in turn, lowers tariffs and non-tariff barriers on American goods to near zero in selected areas. India also commits to buying more American energy, farm products, technology and coal. A major irritant linked to Russian oil has been eased.

(Pic representational)

Both sides can claim a win. India gains immediate relief for its exporters. Sectors like textiles, engineering goods, chemicals and light manufacturing become more competitive in the US market. This matters at a time when global demand is weak and margins are thin.

The United States gains wider access to the Indian market. American energy firms, agri exporters and technology companies benefit. The deal also pushes India to reduce dependence on Russian oil, which aligns with Washington’s larger geopolitical goal.

In the short term, some Indian producers who face American competition may feel pressure. On the US side, domestic lobbies that dislike tariff cuts will grumble. But no major group takes a direct hit.

For India, the biggest gain is certainty. Exporters now know the tariff they face. That helps planning and pricing. The deal also signals that India is no longer stuck in trade disputes but is willing to cut deals with large partners.

Another gain is timing. This comes just after the agreement with the European Union. Together, these deals place India more firmly in global supply chains.

The US secures a stronger economic partnership with India. It also nudges India away from Russian oil without public confrontation. American exporters gain access to a large and growing market. Politically, Washington shows it can still strike bilateral deals that serve strategic goals.

The biggest irritant was energy. India’s purchase of Russian oil had drawn sharp US tariffs. This was the real tug of war. India blinked first here, though softly. It did not abandon energy security. It agreed to diversify supplies over time. The US responded by removing the extra penalty and cutting the base tariff.

Other irritants like digital taxes and market access have not vanished. They have been parked for later rounds. That itself is progress.

For the Indian economy, the effect will be gradual. Exports should get a lift. Investor confidence improves. The signal matters more than the exact tariff cut.

For stock markets, sentiment is the key word. Indian markets have been volatile for months. This deal reduces one big uncertainty. That is why futures reacted sharply. It does not guarantee a bull run, but it creates a firmer floor.

Export oriented stocks, energy logistics and manufacturing could benefit first. The wider market will follow only if earnings improve.

This deal is not the end. It is a base camp. More negotiations will follow on services, digital trade and deeper tariff cuts. If managed well, this could lead to a broader economic partnership rather than a narrow trade pact.

And for a piddly investor like me, who puts in two peanuts hoping for half a peanut, the lesson is simple. Big deals do not make you rich overnight. But they quietly improve the odds. In the stock market, that itself is no small comfort.

Our fond fascination for conspiracy theories!

Raju Korti
As expected, within hours of Ajit Pawar’s death in a plane crash near Baramati, conspiracy theories took flight faster than the ill-fated aircraft ever did. Social media sleuths, WhatsApp uncles, Telegram experts and part-time analysts all swung into action, confidently suggesting sabotage and dark hints about rivals, allies and especially leaders from his own Mahayuti camp. The official word, including that from his own uncle Sharad Pawar, that it was a clear accident was promptly treated as a minor inconvenience.

Plane wreckage site (file grab)

We Indians have a special fondness for conspiracies. We see them where there are none and miss them where they might actually exist. Nothing sells quite like a conspiracy theory. It comes with intrigue, suspense and the delicious thrill of believing that one knows something that others do not. For a sizeable section of suspicious minds, nothing ever just happens. Accidents, politics, office promotions, breakups, health scares, even bad tea at a wedding must have a hidden hand behind them.

This mindset does not discriminate. The moon landing was staged. The earth is flat. Covid-19 was manufactured. Vaccines are part of a population control plan. Climate change is a scam. Doomsday is always around the corner and the Holocaust, for some, needs fresh questioning. As if the world is incapable of producing an open and shut case.

India, of course, has its own well stocked conspiracy cupboard. Netaji Subhas Chandra Bose. Lal Bahadur Shastri. Dr Homi Bhabha. Sanjay Gandhi. Dr Shyama Prasad Mukherjee. General Bipin Rawat. The list is long and endlessly recycled. These theories thrive on familiar fuel. Government secrecy over classified files. Contradictory reports. Missing bodies. Inconclusive post-mortems. Silence where people expect drama.

In Netaji’s case, stories of survival and secret lives in distant lands refuse to die. Shastri’s sudden death in Tashkent sparked poisoning theories that still simmer. General Bipin Rawat’s helicopter crash in 2021 was quickly repackaged as foul play despite official investigations calling it an accident. Powerful leaders, it seems, are not allowed ordinary endings.

At a psychological level, conspiracy theories serve a purpose. They help people make sense of a frightening and complex world. They restore a sense of control. They offer the comfort of feeling special, informed and part of a knowing tribe. They turn vague anxieties into neat narratives with villains and motives, no matter how imaginary.

The problem is that the line between information and misinformation is now paper thin. Rumour and theory are no longer cautious cousins. They are loud, reckless twins. The media’s appetite for conspiracy is understandable. It attracts eyeballs and outrage. But the real responsibility lies with people. Applying the mind is still an option, even if it is no longer fashionable.

Sometimes, a crash is just a crash. And accepting that may be the hardest conspiracy to swallow.