LAMHE

  During my years behind a microphone, I learnt that silence was something to avoid. In radio, even a few unexpected seconds of silence can make the listener wonder whether something has gone wrong. As a performer, I learnt something different: a carefully placed pause can sometimes communicate more powerfully than words. And now, as a counsellor, I have come to understand a third kind of silence—the silence of a person who has been asked, “Are you OK?” but does not yet feel safe enough to answer. That silence is rarely empty. On R U OK? Day, we encourage people to ask one another a simple and important question. This year, the day falls on Thursday, 10 September 2026. Across Australia, workplaces, schools and community organisations will turn yellow. There will be morning teas, posters, photographs and messages reminding us that a conversation can change a life. All of this matters. According to R U OK?’s 2026 Impact Tracker, nine out of ten people who were asked if they were ...

A few days ago, I came across a discussion among therapists around a question that made many people visibly uncomfortable: What happens when a therapist develops feelings for a client? I read the responses and moved on, but strangely, the question did not move on from me. Perhaps it stayed with me because I did not arrive in counselling through a straight professional corridor. Long before I entered a counselling room, I had spent years in very different spaces—as an artist and performer, a teacher, a writer, in media, and in community work. On paper these roles may appear unrelated, but in reality they have one thing in common: people. And when you spend enough years working closely with people, you begin to understand that attachment does not restrict itself to romantic relationships. A student can become deeply attached to a teacher. A young artist may begin seeking one mentor’s approval more than the applause of an entire audience. A junior colleague may admire a senior far beyon...

Education has always occupied a special place in my life. I was fortunate to grow up in a family where learning was never seen merely as a means of earning a livelihood but as a responsibility towards society. My father devoted his life to academics, and I myself began my professional journey as a lecturer before life gradually led me towards counselling, writing, community work and the arts. Perhaps that is why, whenever I hear about students losing faith in an examination system, I instinctively think first of the young people and their families rather than the politics surrounding them. Behind every competitive examination lies a story of sacrifice. Parents postpone their own dreams so that their children can pursue theirs. Students spend years preparing for a few crucial hours that they hope will determine the course of their future. When that trust is shaken, the pain is genuine, and it deserves to be acknowledged. That is precisely why the allegations surrounding the NEET examina...

For the last few days, I have been disturbed. Not because another murder has taken place. Sadly, India has witnessed many such tragedies before. What has unsettled me is something much deeper. Every time I read about another young couple caught in a shocking crime, I find myself asking the same question: How does an educated young person reach a point where ending a human life appears easier than speaking the truth? I am not writing about one particular case. The courts will decide who is guilty and who is not. My concern is something larger than any individual incident. It is about us—our families, our children and the emotional world we are creating for them. Perhaps this question troubles me so much because, more than forty years ago, I was also a young woman in love. I met my husband, in 1983. Whenever I tell our story, people assume that my parents opposed our marriage because I belonged to a Rajput family and he was Punjabi. That explanation is too simplistic. My father was a hig...

  I watched yet another controversy unfold on social media. A stage, a microphone, a cheering audience, and a young man joking that he wanted to “recover the cost of a biryani from his girlfriend.” The audience laughed. The clip spread. Apologies followed. Defences were offered. “It was just comedy.” “It was freedom of speech.” “We did not know what we were saying.” I am a mother of two daughters. I am also a counsellor, a community leader, and someone who has spent a lifetime working in media and the performing arts. I have seen societies change. I have lived in India, Fiji, and Australia. I have watched cultures evolve, and I have learned to respect differences. But there is one value that should never become negotiable: the dignity of another human being. A relationship is not a transaction. A dinner is not an investment. A gift is not a contract. No woman owes affection, intimacy, or her body because someone spent money on her. When young people repeatedly hear jokes that reduc...

A few days ago, someone asked me for my opinion. I gave it. They looked disappointed. Not angry. Not offended. Just disappointed. It took me a while to understand why. They had not come looking for an opinion at all. They had come looking for agreement. I have begun to notice this everywhere. In families. In friendships. On television debates. On social media. Even in counselling rooms. People ask questions that sound like invitations to think, but what they are really offering is a small examination paper. There is only one correct answer, and they already know what it is. The old saying was that truth hurts. I think the new truth is that disagreement hurts even more. When I was growing up, conversations were often noisy. Uncles argued about politics, aunts debated family matters, grandparents interrupted everyone because they believed experience deserved a hearing. Nobody unfriended anybody. Nobody announced that the family dinner was a toxic environment because two people voted diff...

I am a mother of two daughters. I also come from a large family filled with women—I had three sisters, and before us, there were six buas . I grew up in a household where girls were deeply loved, well-educated, and encouraged to speak their minds. Yet, even in such an empowering environment, we were constantly reminded that relationships require patience, grace, and adjustment. But my father also taught us something else, very clearly: “अन्याय मत सहना” —Do not tolerate injustice. It is this specific balance that has been weighing heavily on my mind as I watch the ongoing media storm surrounding the recent Bhopal tragedy. Like many, I am deeply disturbed by the loss of life, but I am also unsettled by the speed with which society has delivered its verdict. Investigations are still underway and evidence is incomplete, yet television debates, social media experts, and emotionally charged narratives have already decided who the villain is. Perhaps the husband is guilty. Perhaps the in-laws...