Last week, during my morning walk, I suddenly ran into Bhatia ji. Age had taken its toll, his gait had slowed to a thoughtful pause, and there was a strange sense of relief in his eyes. As we talked, I learned that after 42 long years, he had finally packed up for good and bid farewell to America. The reason was simple: in his sunset years, the fragrance of his hometown's soil had pulled him back.

What happened to that trademark bravado? The Donald Trump who stormed back into the White House promising to end wars in 24 hours, why has he gone strangely quiet as 2025 draws to a close? Was all the bluster just policy? Was the chest-thumping confused for real diplomacy? Or was the entire strategy built on disruption without any real follow-through? The million-dollar question: has the world simply tuned him out?

On the last morning of 2025, as winter fog still hangs over the industrial estate, Jagan Nath lifts the shutter of his small factory. Inside are familiar smells of oil, iron and sweat, an office with computers, and display boards. At home, his wife Rajni has already put the kettle on. Between packing tiffins, checking her children’s school messages and tending to ageing parents, she listens to the news playing softly in the background. Words like economy, technology, AI and future float into the room. They sound big. Distant. Yet somehow personal. Meanwhile, 85-year-old grandpa is discussing politics with his friend on mobile, as his toothless wife counts tablets and capsules neatly lined up. Daughter and son, Radhika and Navin are discussing party ideas on the dining table.

If politics were just about numbers, India's opposition would be a formidable force ready to storm the citadel of power. But in the brutal arena of Indian democracy, raw seat counts mean little without conviction, cohesion, and a compelling counter-narrative. And, on those crucial fronts, the opposition remains woefully short.

Justice, we are told, is firm. Blindfolded. Balanced. In 2025, it also appeared flexible. Sometimes hesitant. Sometimes hurried. From green hills to governor’s desks, from factory floors to city streets, the Supreme Court kept redrawing its own lines.

At Lahariya Sarai, 40-year-old Ram Sahay stands on a railway platform caught between two worlds. Every step he takes forward is yanked back by forces older than him. The scent of his village soil competes with the blinding glare of the city, and in this tug-of-war, he mirrors the dilemma of millions of Indians.