Dr Madhvi Mohindra organised workshops for PBS Bollywood Dance Competi...

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हथियार उठा लो आज

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नववधू की हृदय विदारक चीत्कार , बिखरी है व्योम में ,   चूड़ियों के टूटने की आर्त पुकार , गूंजी है रोम - रोम में।   बिलखते बच्चों की भयभीत दृष्टि , छाती पीटती माँ की नयन वृष्टि।   हर मोड़ पर लहू में डूबी उम्मीद की लकीर , रक्तरंजित घाटी में तड़पती वेदना की तस्वीर। क्या यही है मेरा कश्मीर ? क्या यही है मेरा कश्मीर ?   इन वादियों में गूँजती है दर्द की कहानियाँ , सिसकती फ़िज़ाओं में भटकती जवानियाँ   कहीं धधकती चिताओं से उड़ती राख ज़ख्मों पर छिड़कती सियासी खाक   शोकसभा में बँट गई संवेदनाएँ कैंडल मार्च में जल गयी आशायें   आँसू भी यहाँ बिकते हैं संसद के गलियारों में , और दर्द … बस मुद्दा बन जाता है अगले चनावों में।   अंधकार की सीमा पर बैठा डर और ग़ुस्से के बवंडर में पैठा   ध्वस्त दीवारों में सिसकता शांति प्रस्ताव दरिद्रता की ढेरी पे बैठ पड़ौसी दिखाता ताव   वोह भूखा है ...
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Operation Sindoor: The Unfinished Sentence of a Nation’s Patience

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  I was sipping my morning tea when the news arrived—not like a whisper, but like a siren through my chest. Another terror attack, this time in Pahalgam. The moment felt heartbreakingly familiar. My heart clenched not just with pain, but with exhaustion. It wasn’t just grief—it was the weight of decades. I asked myself, how many times must we bury our dead before the world sees the truth? How many times must we call this a beginning, when we know this war never truly ends?   India’s response came swiftly— Operation Sindoor. And what a name. Not just a military label, but a metaphor. Sindoor—that sacred streak of red across a woman’s hairline, a mark of life, of promise, of protection. But also, the first drop of blood, symbolic of every sacrifice made for the sanctity of the nation. This was not war for war’s sake; this was a reply rooted in the soil of rage and reverence. India didn’t just retaliate—it restored balance. With S-400 air defense systems, Akash missiles, and...
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The Spotlight Syndrome

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Once upon a time, community work was humble. Quiet. It was led by those who believed in service, not in selfies. There were potlucks, prayers, fundraisers, and friendships. No titles, no trophies. But times have changed. Somewhere in the folds of global migration and local ambition, community service transformed into a spotlight sport. These days, in diaspora circles especially, starting an association has become the new social ladder. You don’t join a club anymore—you launch one, with a press release. You don’t serve the people—you gather them like a following. “Founding President,” “Convenor,” “Chairperson”—not so much roles as badges of importance, carefully stitched onto Facebook bios and WhatsApp groups. At first glance, these gatherings appear noble—forums for cultural preservation, youth empowerment, and social bonding. But peel the layers and often you’ll find an exhausting game of visibility, control, and ego management. What used to be a shared platform is now a stage for per...
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