LAMHE

From the time I was little, I was fascinated by the unseen. I remember waiting for the Sunday newspaper, eager to flip to the horoscope column. Not because I believed it blindly, but because I was curious. I loved showing my palm to any roadside palmist who claimed to see something unusual. Later, I devoured books on numerology, palmistry, and astrology. Each prediction felt like a story waiting to unfold. But as I grew, so did my questions. If two people shared the same zodiac sign or numerological number, why did their lives unfold so differently? The answer I always heard was karma. “It is your past and present deeds that shape your destiny,” people said. Yet another puzzle arose: if karma and planetary positions were so powerful, how could a simple ritual — feeding the poor, chanting a mantra, or donating a cloth — really alter one’s fate? As a number 4 — ruled by Rahu — I recognised myself inl the descriptions: unconventional paths, mental restlessness, delays, and rebellion. But ...

The other evening, I found myself at a casual get-together with friends. The wine was flowing, the snacks were crisp, and the conversation… well, it took its usual ‘after-two-drinks’ detour into the dusty lanes of Indian politics. Suddenly, the room transformed from an air-conditioned lounge in Sydney into a live studio debate on Times Now. One friend was passionately bashing BJP, another passionately bashing Congress. In a few minutes, we had Modi compared to Hitler, and Nehru blamed for our clogged city drains. I, however, sipped my drink silently, offering only a smile here and there. That’s when a friend looked straight at me and smirked, “You’re awfully quiet. Don’t you like criticising Modi and his government? Or are you a Modi bhakt?” Ah! The trap had been set. I smiled again (the kind of smile that confuses even a seasoned debater) and replied, “I’m not a fan of any party. Time to time, I’ve admired some leaders. I liked Indira Gandhi. I liked Atal ji. I do respect Modi too. Bu...

  As a counsellor, and perhaps more keenly as a human observer, I often find myself reflecting on some patterns we see in digital spaces. One such pattern is hard to ignore: the chronic posters. You’ve seen them — people who post 10 to 15 updates a day about political drama, wars, global leaders, or social injustice. “Israel did this, Trump did that, Modi failed here…” And so on. Strangely, no one seems to respond. No likes. No comments. No debates. And yet — they keep going, day after day, as if they are reporting for a newsroom that doesn’t exist. I used to wonder — what do they get out of it? It’s not journalism. It’s not activism. Most of them aren’t even involved in social or political circles. So what is it? Over time, through counselling sessions and quiet contemplation, I’ve realized — it’s not about the  news . It’s about the  need . The Illusion of Activism In today’s world, where real action often feels far-fetched, clicking “Share” can momentarily feel like po...

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...

  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...

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 ...

🎂🎊🥂 Today, I turn 60. As I look at these two photos, one from my 16-year-old self talking over an old-fashioned landline phone, and the other from today, smiling with my mobile in hand, I can’t help but feel a deep sense of nostalgia and gratitude. The lamp shades may have changed, the phones evolved, but the essence of who I am—the laughter, the love, the challenges, and the growth—remains  unshaken .At 16, I was filled with youthful dreams, talking to the world over the phone, blissfully unaware of what lay ahead. Today, I smile in the same way, but now, the world fits in the palm of my hand, and the background tells the stories of modern times. From the young girl who dreamed of music, dance, and creativity, to the woman I am now—an artist, a choreographer, a counselor, a wife and a mother—I have lived a life rich with experiences, both sweet and bitter. Each step of my journey has taught me something invaluable, from the beauty of Indian classical arts to the lessons I’ve le...