An Indecisive Indian

  Sir William Mark Tully passed away on 25 January 2026. KBE. Former BBC Bureau Chief in India for two decades. A BBC journalist for over thirty years. Winner of numerous awards. Author of nine books. All this is known. All this will be written, recorded, archived. And yet, none of it quite captures the man. In the days following his passing, I read deeply moving obituaries written by friends whom I admire. Rajendra Aklekar, journalist with Mid-Day and chronicler of India’s rail history and heritage. Deepak Sapra, one of the most outstanding alumni of my railway alma mater and author of the much-loved The Boy Who Loved Trains . Incidentally, Sir Mark wrote the foreword to their books, as he did to mine, My Train 18 Story . Reading their tributes stirred something personal in me. I felt compelled to write, not merely because Sir Mark was a towering journalist, but because he had left an indelible imprint on my own life and thinking. What truly set Mark Tully apart,...

When the lights dimmed and the final note dissolved into silence on the night of 16 January, I believed it was over. The third show. The final bow. A fitting finale in Lucknow to Sāhir: Har Ik Pal Ka Shayar . Perhaps even an epilogue, a narrative closure arrived at with dignity and grace. What followed was the familiar ritual. Smiles. Handshakes. Photographs. Selfies. That pleasant, aching exhaustion which comes only after something honestly given. And knowing Sāhir as I have come to know him, I half expected him to murmur, with his customary irony, “Bas, ab itna hi tha (Here it ends, that is it). ” But Sāhir did not leave. He stayed in the softened gaze of an audience unwilling to rise from their seats, as though one careless step beyond the Sant Gadge Auditorium might fracture the spell the evening had cast. He lingered in the silent embraces backstage, where costumes were shed but emotions were not, where words were unnecessary because feeling had already spoken. And he res...

  I have chronicled the journey of Bayān-e-Ghālib before, most recently in the blog I penned following our Delhi performance (see reference at the end). In the interest of brevity, I shall offer only a concise recounting of those earlier reflections and swiftly turn to the events and experiences that have unfolded since. A sagacious senior once shared with me advice that became an anchor in my life: while it is natural and noble to have dreams, four things must precede them—your family, your friends, your health, and your spirit. Departing from the chorus that urges youngsters to "chase their dreams," he advised patience: nurture the fire of your dreams, let it simmer, and wait for the right moment. When it comes, seize it with full commitment, guided by Dr. APJ Abdul Kalam: "Dream is not what you see in sleep but is the thing which doesn't let you sleep." “Go wisely and slowly. They stumble that run fast,” Shakespeare warns through Friar Lawrence in R...

  ‘God is dead’, Nietzsche announced in the late nineteenth century, not as a boast but as a diagnosis, bracketing the question of whether God ever lived at all . He was not celebrating the demise of a deity; he was lamenting the collapse of a shared moral universe once sustained by belief. His warning was less theological than civilisational. A century and a half later, God has neither died nor decisively lived. He survives, stubbornly, inside arguments, television studios, debating halls, newspaper columns, and, most relentlessly, WhatsApp forwards. This shifts the issue away from existence itself, toward something more uncomfortable: not whether God exists, but whether debating His existence leads us anywhere at all. The recent television debate on Lallantop on the existence of God, the widely discussed face-off between Dr. Javed Akhtar , the celebrated poet, lyricist, screenwriter, and avowed atheist, and Mufti Shamail Nadwi , a religious cleric and scholar, illustrates ...