An Indecisive Indian

Khwateen o hazraat (ladies and gentlemen), how fortunate you are. You were born in Hindustan, and in your virasat (heritage) you received not merely a language but a living, breathing tehzeeb (culture), zaban-e-Urdu (the Urdu language), or better still, Hindustani. And with it came that exquisite inheritance of adab (literature), sher o shairi (poetry). Such is this adab that one can only marvel at this khushnaseebi (good fortune), that countless poets have adorned the husn-e-ghazal (beauty of the ghazal), and will continue to do so for ages to come. Thus was created this luminous khazana (treasure) of ghazals, and among those who carried it to the hearts of people with unmatched grace, the name that rises above all is Jagjit Singh. What is a ghazal? It is as if a husn-e-be-misaal (peerless beauty) has gently shaken her rain-kissed tresses, and in that fleeting moment the air is filled with a lateef (delicate) freshness, a roohani kaifiyat (spiritual mood). Like droplets slipping...

  Let me begin with a disclaimer, for what I am about to say will inevitably be dismissed by some as compulsive negativity, without the courtesy of examining the concerns being raised. The recent India AI Summit 2026 unfolded less like a conference and more like a coronation. Vast LED walls pulsed with algorithmic optimism, exhibition halls shimmered with robotic choreography, and panel discussions rose and fell in crescendos about ethical AI, sovereign compute and India’s moment in the digital century. Policymakers, top global government representatives, investors and venture capitalists, industry leaders from India and around the world, startups and researchers converged under one gleaming roof, each armed with slides, statistics and suitably visionary adjectives. India’s digital public infrastructure, from Aadhaar to UPI and other population-scale platforms, bore testimony to administrative success and, beyond that, stood as a civilisational proof of concept. The narrative...

  Union Budgets are meant to be moments of stock-taking and signal setting. As the Finance Minister speaks, priorities are revealed not merely through allocations, but through emphasis, intent and, at times, carefully choreographed silence. For Indian Railways (IR), that silence has now evolved into a full-fledged policy instrument, not accidental but “carefully budgeted”, with footnotes “strategically camouflaged”, delivering clearer signals than most speeches manage. Once a standalone spectacle, the Railway Budget was the annual confession booth where ambitions were proclaimed, inconvenient truths reluctantly admitted, and the nation’s transport backbone subjected to public cross-examination. Since its merger with the Union Budget, however, IR has been quietly demoted to a footnote. Vast operations, stubborn structural problems and a permanently fragile financial balance sheet are now squeezed into a few lines and a cluster of tables buried so deep in the documents that their...

  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...