All that glitters

Dr Fahim Chand | Monday February 23, 2026 06:00

Muscles twitched at peak efficiency, primed to leap a millisecond before extinction, as a missile sliced past my ear. My head swivelled wildly, hunting the next threat. The battlefield? The gym floor. The weapon? A red rubber ball with malicious intent. PE class accelerated as dodgeball dissolved into Darwinism in shorts.

The introduction of a second ball triggered an arms race. Reflex trumped friendship. Anyone with eyes in the back of the head possessed a decisive evolutionary edge.

The rest of us relied on instinct and luck. As the herd thinned and rubber ricocheted off knees, backs and foreheads, the ending was preordained. No lone child could withstand an opposing team unified by a single, ruthless objective. Eventually, gravity claimed the last survivor to a soundtrack of cheers.

We laughed. We boasted. Little did we realise we were rehearsing for adulthood. Because the rubber balls never stopped flying. They simply became information. Today the projectiles are headlines, notifications, outrage in 280 characters. I stopped watching the news years ago.

I do not seek it; it stalks me. Whether this ceaseless barrage, mostly negative, relentlessly urgent, erodes our already delicate mental health is difficult to quantify. But suspicion lingers. You know me well enough. I curate my intake: healthcare, music, sport, art, technology. I prefer information with purpose. Yet despite disciplined selection, I still find myself submerged in the theatre of global scandal. At present, the name Jeffrey Epstein ricochets through every channel. A “billionaire financier,” we are told, a phrase polished enough to obscure more than it reveals.

Beyond it lies a murkier world: private jets, famous associates, whispered excess, alleged cruelty. The rarefied air of the 0.1%, where the rules appear elastic and consequences negotiable. It is astonishing how effortlessly we are captivated by the glittering few.

We double-tap their filtered breakfasts, imitate their wardrobes, and hoist them onto pedestals sturdy enough to bear our collective longing. But what, precisely, are we worshipping? Jeffrey Epstein was not a misunderstood tycoon. He was a predator who devastated countless young lives. Around him orbited the rich and recognisable, names that dominate headlines, faces beamed into living rooms for decades.

They attended the parties, boarded the jets, savored proximity to power. The powerful often knew, or chose not to know, until the scaffolding finally collapsed. Karma? Justice? Moral rot giving way? You decide.

Shabana and I watched the Netflix documentary’s closing moments, where it is officially stated that Epstein took his own life in a New York jail cell. Conspiracy theorists insist he was silenced to protect the famous. The facts are public; interpretation remains a choose-your-own-adventure.

What lingered most was not speculation but the victims’ anguish. They felt robbed, denied full justice, denied the simple closure of accountability. Meanwhile, the rest of us watch emails leak, photographs surface, reputations scramble. “Redacted” enters daily vocabulary. Screens glow with sordid detail; lawyers mobilise, publicists earn retainers.

Epstein is gone. The wreckage remains. The damaged lives remain. Virginia Giuffre, one of the most prominent survivors, later died by suicide, a haunting reminder that headlines fade faster than trauma.

In those final moments, was there remorse? Or merely calculation, interrupted? I remind myself why I don’t seek this material. It does not elevate; it corrodes. It pulls us toward the darker register of human nature, feeding the same morbid fascination that once drew crowds to public spectacles.

There are no unblemished heroes waiting to rescue us. Superman satisfies the checklist, but he stays conveniently fictional. We are all flawed, some catastrophically so. I can admire Jordan’s genius on the court and still see his humanity.

I can marvel at Maradona’s artistry without outsourcing my moral compass. Excellence in craft does not equal excellence in character. Stop confusing talent with virtue. Stop mistaking private jets for moral altitude. On the school gym floor, we learned the ball eventually comes for everyone.

No reputation could shield you. In adulthood, the balls are information, scandal, consequence. Real maturity lies not in idolising those who throw hardest, but in choosing, very carefully, who we allow onto our team.