On Monday, I took Xena to see Dr Dipti. She has always been steady and clear with me, never dramatic, never vague. She told me that the mast cell cancer may have reached her lymph… More
No Higher Court
I don’t appeal to a higher power;
Because victims have called to no reply;
And since the light itself does not bring sight,
Why not ask of the dark that made hope die?
I don’t believe in true dark and pure light;
Because as monsters go, once you zoom in,
You discern each villain, who kills and rapes
And tortures, once was – or still is – human.
As such, there are some elites who profit
From the deaths of the hell bringers and ghouls.
If I must choose the lesser evil,
Let the fools be the judge of cruel tools.
We know the gods we pray to won’t bother;
But I believe humans as demons abound,
Who will, in the universal law of time,
Drag themselves, screaming, into the hard ground.
What’s In a Name?
I have been thinking about names.
Not the grand, poetic kind — not the kind etched into monuments or whispered in mythology — but the ordinary, daily way a name is spoken across a room. The way it lands. The way it either gathers you in or leaves you standing alone.
Both my partners always call me by my name. Harpreet.
Never a pet name.
Never a softening.
Never a “jaan”, or “babe”, or “hon”.
Just Harpreet.
And I have begun to notice how that feels.
I am generous with endearments. I use them easily, instinctively. To me, affection spills into language. It becomes something playful, something warm. A word can carry touch. A nickname can feel like an embrace.
But when my own name is spoken — plainly, consistently — I sometimes feel as though I am being addressed rather than held.
There is nothing wrong with my name. I love my name. It carries my history, my survival, my pride. It is the name I fought to stand tall within. It is the name I claimed when I chose to live honestly.
And yet, in intimacy, something inside me longs for softness.
A name with an added warmth.
A word that belongs only to us.
Perhaps this is trivial. There are greater crises in the world. There are real horrors unfolding every day. To speak about pet names and tenderness can feel indulgent, even small.
But emotional needs do not scale themselves according to global tragedy. The heart does not say, “There are worse things, so be quiet.”
It simply feels what it feels.
When someone always uses your full name, it can create a subtle distance. A formality. As though you are perpetually being called into attention, rather than being drawn into closeness.
I realise this is not universal. Some people express love through action, through provision, through steadiness. Not everyone grew up in homes where affection was verbalised. Not everyone is fluent in the language of endearment.
But I am.
And when I give what I instinctively speak — softness, warmth, teasing tenderness — and it is not mirrored back, I sometimes feel like the only one lighting candles in a room that is already bright enough for everyone else.
Perhaps the issue is not the name itself. Perhaps it is what I associate with it:
That I am always the one reaching first.
Always the one leaning in.
Always the one initiating intimacy.
A name without adornment can begin to sound like routine. And routine, in love, can sometimes blur into invisibility.
I do not want grand gestures. I do not want theatrics. I do not need declarations shouted from rooftops. I only want to feel, occasionally, that I am not the sole architect of tenderness.
That someone might call me something that melts rather than summons.
That my name might sometimes be wrapped in softness.
There is power in being known by one’s true name. But there is also intimacy in being given a name that exists only in love.
Perhaps this is not about linguistics at all. Perhaps it is about reciprocity.
To be called Harpreet is to be recognised.
To be called something tender is to be cherished.
And sometimes, the difference between those two is the quiet space where longing lives.
The Quiet Tiredness of Love
This Valentine’s Day, I bought clothes for a partner. I took both out for dinner. I brought them flowers. I did what I always do — I made the day deliberate, visible, celebratory.
What I received was a card from A. Inside it, he had written only two names: mine and his. Nothing more than what the printed card already said.
There was no added line. No awkward attempt at poetry. No private joke. No scribbled sentiment.
And I realised something I have known for years but rarely allow myself to articulate: I am the romantic one. I am the initiator. I am the one who leans in first for a kiss. I am the one who asks for intimacy. I am the one who creates the moment and then steps into it, hoping someone will meet me there.
This is not a complaint. It is a truth.
I have seen straight men forget birthdays, forget anniversaries, forget tenderness altogether. In comparison, I know I have been fortunate. I have partners who are kind. Partners who are steady. Partners who chose me. That matters.
But romance is a different language. And in that language, I often feel like I am speaking alone.
The past month has been relentless. Zach’s illness. Zach’s death. Now Xena’s illness. Fear has become a permanent hum in the background of my days. Grief sits at the foot of the bed.
Both my partners know this has been hard. They have seen it. They have lived beside it. And yet there has been no unexpected embrace, no quiet pulling into arms without being asked, no coming into bed and simply holding me because they sensed I was tired.
That is all any of us want, isn’t it?
To be seen without having to announce ourselves.
To be understood without having to explain the wound.
Instead, Valentine’s felt like another day suspended between fear and memory.
And then I feel small for even thinking this way. Because the world outside is burning. There are horrors unfolding as I write this. There is cruelty without accountability. There are griefs that dwarf my own.
Who am I to long for a kiss when there is so much suffering?
But feelings do not obey global hierarchies. Pain does not queue politely behind larger catastrophes. My problems are still my problems. My loneliness, even inside love, is still mine.
I no longer have a wide circle of friends. I have my mother. I have my sister. I have my partners, who are my chosen family. And having once been hurt by chosen family, I carry a quiet fear of losing again.
Perhaps that fear makes me hold back from saying, “I am tired.”
Perhaps it makes me soften my needs so they do not feel like demands.
But tonight, I will say it gently.
I am tired.
Not of love — never of love — but of always being the one who reaches first.
I do not need grand gestures. I do not need theatrics. I only need to be gathered sometimes without asking.
Valentine’s Day is supposed to celebrate romance. For me, it became a reminder that even inside devotion, one can feel a small, private ache.
And still — I choose love.
I choose my family.
I choose to stay.
But I also choose to acknowledge that even the one who gives the flowers sometimes wants to receive them without having to hint.
That is not selfish.
That is human.
And perhaps that, too, is a form of courage.
Hearts Still Care 
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