LAMHE

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...

    Working as a counsellor and a counselling student, I am greatly distressed for the growing problems which results in unpaid placement in the system of education. The story of Nariman Dein, a young ambitious psychologist, whose higher education was interrupted by the necessity of taking up unpaid work placement positions, highlights a deeper issue affecting students at multiple levels of study. The 200 hours of placements and 40 hours of supervision are much needed part of the counselling educational programs. Nevertheless, this demand for counsellors who are actively practicing and registered with counselling governing boards poses a great challenge. The result of the study reveals that professionals who are competitively committed will regularly achieve more than is expectant of their supervisory hours before they enrol for the formal attachment (Smith et al., 2020). L lived through the same situation as other students with social inequalities. The financial pressure ...

  As we celebrate our 32nd wedding anniversary, I find myself reflecting not only on our own journey but also on the larger narrative of love and relationships in our generation. The question that often occupies my mind is: What will our generation be known for in the decades to come? Academically, I hold a Ph.D. in music therapy, along with Masters degrees in music (sitar) and Hindi. My passion for music extends beyond academia; I've had the privilege of being a radio artist, both as an Announcer and Drama artist, which allowed me to immerse myself in the world of sound and storytelling. My journey also led me to the role of a lecturer, where I shared my knowledge and insights with eager minds. Beyond the realms of academia and artistry, I've embraced roles as a community leader, social worker, and counsellor. These experiences have enriched my understanding of human connections and the complexities of navigating life's challenges. On a more personal note, I met my husband...