Chintu, the playful eight-year-old, often visits my apartment. One day, while watching the news, I saw the anchor dramatically announcing the imminent use of nuclear weapons. Chintu laughed, mistaking it for a video game. I realized that in this age of deepfakes, it's hard to distinguish reality. I switched channels and saw a chaotic debate. Desperate for a break, I turned to an IPL match, where noise levels reached dangerous levels. I switched off the TV and went to the park where old retirees gather. We call ourselves the 'FourEss,' but we are just retirees with time on our hands. Timir was already there, muttering. Brigadier Sharma, an expert on many things, was pontificating. Misserji and the Brigadier clashed over IPL tactics. Kani Babu still struggled to understand the teams. Binnoo summed up the world's craziness. Timir then piped up again: 'The new generation coins such crude names—no finesse whatsoever!' Mazhar Bhai and Basu started arguing. Unable to follow, Bhatti complained. Mazhar Bhai laughed. Gopu added a story. Then it hit me—a perfect epiphany. I recalled the end of Orwell's Animal Farm. We old fogeys live in an Orwellian world. We can no longer distinguish Trump's war from the IPL. Human behavior seems disorientating. I stayed longer at the park. As I left, Timir's voice followed me. K.C. Verma is a former chief of R&AW.