Category: 2020

Tan90

Published on by Harpreet Chhachhia1 Comment

When I fell in love with him, I accorded him every particle of respect that a spouse would be given. He was loved by my mother, whom he called Biji. My sister, Geeta, who loved him dearly. Geeta is a talkative girl who loves wholeheartedly. He got along with her because he is talkative and loving too. He was more of a brother to her than I could ever be. When he left, she cried bitterly. I broke her heart, over and over again. I am not the brother she always wanted and when he and I broke up I took away the brother she deserved. My kids loved him, like a father. My daughter, especially, would look for his return every alternate day when he came to stay with us. She adored him and he adored her… he would click their portraits regularly. He would have mock fights with my sister and his own sister because they wanted the snaps too – he would play at not wanting to give up the snaps.

I never thought I would be involved in a polyamorous relationship. For reasons explained elsewhere, I spoke to my lover of 16 years, at the time, and he agreed to include the new. Honesty was laid out on the table. And so he was included. He, too, agreed to the dynamic. And post that, as my life and loved ones are witnesses, there was never any discrimination. He was loved. He still is. Because of the wonderful man, he really is.

One of the conditions I have in any relationship, is to see my lover every day. India doesn’t give us the legal right to be with each other. His father declared that I was not welcome in his home. So I would stand at the gate when I would leave him and his sister home. If I had to meet him I would have to wait in the car, so that he would come down and be with me. I could never sit on his bed. I could never open his cupboard. I could not use his bathroom. I could not even stand at his doorway. Because I am homosexual.

But he entered my home. He slept with me on alternate nights. He watched movies with me in my family hall and held my hand on the sofa. He cooked in the kitchen with my mother. He took baths with me in my bathroom. He brought his PlayStation home to share with me. He used the pillow, which referred to on the night of the breakup, “I won’t bend your pillow anymore.” He met all my friends. They saw me treat him as a spouse and they accorded him the same respect. They adored him. I shared every inch of my life with him. He touched every corner of the homes I belonged to. Every object in my life reminds me of a memory with him. It is the same with all the four men who became part of my life over the years. I do not know if it is my fault. It is who I am. I allow them in – in my home, in my bed, in my heart and in my life.

I didn’t realise that in his heart, it wasn’t possible. In time, he believed that I was meant to be the alien, when he was in his home. Perhaps he found new friends who decided that compromise was never a choice. Adapting was not in the nature of love. Bitterness isn’t born, it is created. And perhaps, I was wrong in wanting to be with him. Perhaps, I should not have asked him to make a decision in the middle of a lockdown. Perhaps, I was supremely confident that my family meant as much to him as his did to him.

I think my last fight cinched my relationship. When I asked him to decide who he wanted to be with. I asked him to decide. The family that had rejected him for who he was or the family that had accepted him for he was. I wish I could have accepted him for who he was in his entirety. He had a sister who loved him. But she someone who could never stand by him completely. Because, you see, she too was torn between her own idea of love and sense of duty. And yet –

I appreciate her for who she is. She and I got close over the years and we bonded. I knew where I stood with her. In any fight with him, she had made it clear where her loyalty would lie. I was assured of her steadfastness. I made a mistake by trusting him that his loyalty would lie with me. Ironically, on parting, he accused me of not trusting him. That was the line he chose to take and the fact that he was not happy with me. Of the first, I am aware that it wasn’t true. I trusted him to the point of opening up the core of my heart to him. He is privy to everything in my life. Without a shred of a secret lurking anywhere in my life or the lives of those I love. He knows it and I do.

I made a mistake of thinking that the decisions I made for him against my family would stand as example. I took it for granted that he would choose me. He would love me as much as he did them. This is my constant trait, I rely on the fact that when I love I put the object of my affection first. Over it all. However, it can not always be reciprocated. In fact, it so happens that it never is. Other factors come into play. Love for the family. The feeling of comfort that money affords. The insecurity of your own feelings of love.

As for the second, happiness… oh, the poetic quest for it! Happiness is an illusion. I was not happy all the time. Neither was he. But I understand that being happy is like the tide of an ocean. It never remains static. His idea of what love could be then is different. He always said he loved me Tan90-ly… I’ll never forget this. Because now I realise that I do love so. In time, perhaps, he will realise what it means. Perhaps, in time, he will meet those who understand what he had and chose to give up. Perhaps, in time, he will realise what my family gave him. Perhaps, in time, he will know me better and understand that if he really wanted it to work, we could have worked.

Perhaps, in time, I will realise he just didn’t want to give us further effort. Loving someone Tan90-ly doesn’t mean the same thing to everyone. I could never build bridges and then burn them. I can never stop lingering over the places I have been happy in. I can never break away from people I love. I have not confused love with other emotions. Perhaps that is how I can see it have a purpose – it is a tangible entity that can never die… not until I do. My only regret is that there were those I loved who became casualties of heartbreak along with me. I mourn for them. They who opened their hearts, and home, because they love me. Tan90-ly, too.

Depression

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

The first time I was exposed to it, I was very young. My aunt, who I was very close to, had it. She married at 35 and was a widow by 40. She battled with it, her entire life. She used to tell me, she had this sinking feeling. She couldn’t really participate in joy. The last time I saw her laugh was when I put a Snapchat filter on her, a few years ago, during Christmas. The reindeer horns and Rudolf nose made her laugh out loud. I remember that laugh vividly and thankfully, I have the video saved.

She passed, last year. I am glad that she did, because she battled against this demon, for nearly forty years.

Most people do not understand it. They do not understand how emotions can get the better of you. ‘Be practical.’ ‘Let go of negativity.’ ‘Do things that make you happy.’ I am not saying that for them it’s as easy as a switch to be turned on, I am just saying that for them, being practical is easier.

I had my first bout of depression at 20. I was young then. I had my first love leave me. I remember crying, at nights, for months on end. Staying alone. Seeking some sort of understanding. I remember sitting on a water tank, up on my grandmother’s terrace, and thinking how easy it would be to lean forward and end the pain. I wrote poetry. Poetry has been a crucial vent to this surge into a pit of disfeeling. Time, family and friends brought me over through that time.

I experienced death quite a few times. I lost people I loved. I lost pets I have always regarded as my children. I have seen my mother battle cancer. I have taken the hard call to put one of my daughters (for people who want a simpler term, pet dog) to sleep. And I faced a crisis in my then-thirteen-year-old relationship. I faced this pit then. I looked into it. I dwelled in it. I came out of it, because again, life pulled me out. I was 38 then.

This year, it has come visiting me again. Tour de force. I have had a heart break. I have dealt with death again. I have lost two of my greatest support structures in one go. Family still rallies around me. I have populated social media requirements. But this time, it’s more difficult to bear because friends have to stay away – a pandemic governs the world. Fear compounds anxiety.

For the first time, in my life, I have to resort to taking a pill to sleep. When I sleep, I am wakened by vivid dreams of loss and insecurities. My eyes snap open. I am wide awake. I realise it is all true, and I cannot breathe. Panic attacks are common. The surge of emotion becomes so graphic that I cannot express the need to escape it. I will try to explain it.

My aunt wasn’t a woman of detail. So, I couldn’t understand it completely. Now I do. It is like an invader in your home. He has broken doors down like match sticks and entered into your space.

You know he is around. You know he intends to harm you. And you think, if you ignore him, he won’t attack. Because you know, if you call for help, no one will be able to see him. So, you try and do your chores. You answer messages. You talk to the ones you love. You make your tea. Then some object, some memory, around you, reflects him. And – you spiral.

He picks you up and puts you on the bed. Gently. Then he climbs on top of you. Straddles you. He places his elbows on your chest. And he is heavy. (Boy, is he heavy!) Your chest feels as though it is going to cave in with the pressure.

“Breathe,” you tell yourself.

“Breathe,” people, you reach out to, say.

“Try,” he says, with a smile.

And you look at him on top of you. Smiling. It’s a genuine smile. And you can see his eyes. They reflect your fear of loss. They are honestly telling you to breathe, too.

But you cannot.

And then you fall inward. Memories burn. It feels like you’ve hit cold water. Suddenly. And gasps tear out of you. There is no real escape. You hope that it will pass. You look back into his eyes, and say, “please”.

Time passes. You cannot realise if it has been a minute or hours.

Either of two things happen. He stops smiling, and with some power that governs even him, he increases the pressure. Or, your child comes up to you, asking to be taken down. Or your mother yells from somewhere in the kitchen to answer her. And he gets distracted. The weight lessens.

“I have to get up now,” I say. I can say that much.

He turns to look at me. He nods. He knows I love them. He gets off my body.

I sit up and realise I had been crying. I wipe my face. Stand up. And go to answer my kiddo’s needs or my mom’s call.

I turn to him, like a lover. He looks at me, his hands in his pockets. He shrugs. “I’ll be right here,” he says. “I won’t be abandoning you, you can count on it.”

I swallow to wet my dry throat and attend to my duties. Maybe, my mom notices my face. She grows concerned and from her concern comes fatigue and irritation. “What happened to you now?” She questions.

“Nothing,” I have learnt to say. “I am okay.”

I want to call my friends, whom I cannot meet. But guilt takes over. They have seen me through days, when things were unbearable. I wonder, if I am not capable of being strong. If I call them, they would wonder why I cannot take a grip on things. They have their own lives, why would they want to deal with something I cannot even explain properly. And my breath falls short.

Then, from over my shoulder, I hear him say, softly, “hey.”

Locking Down But Not Away

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

I sit here wanting to express my thoughts out onto the screen. The fingers move across the keyboard and I want to express everything on my mind. Then I wonder if this is for me or whether this will be read by other people. This is just another way of venting out grief that seems to be shredding me from within. People think that with the passing of time grief and pain become easier to bear. I stand witness with those people. Because I have been through hell and back with many episodes of death and loss, I know that I survived through it all. Time is a great healer. But what people tend to forget is that time is relative, just like pain is relative.

Einstein spoke about it a long time ago. One minute with a loved one seems like a minute, one minute under the dentist’s drill seems like an hour. Pain for me is a constant. It was unbearable a month ago. I felt as though my insides were being torn apart and I was physically being drawn and quartered. For my family, I tried doing things that I was before my heart broke. I went through the motions. I tried to prevent the number of times I broke down before them. My aunt keeps asking me, ‘how are you today?’ and I have told her to not do so. I know she is worried about me – my mom, sis, partner all are … but we all think that if outwardly the wounds do not show, they are healing.

I let them think that. It’s easier on them.

My best friend tells me I have to think about myself. I have to strengthen my heart. Stop repeating love. But I also know that people are not capable of change. They are capable of trying to change. They are capable of adapting. If I move to Canada, I’ll never like the climate. But I will learn to live with it. I will always be someone who loves the heat more than the cold though. For love, I will be capable of doing so. And when my heart breaks, I will not be able to get rid of the pain so easy.

One very important reason being that I do fall in love easily. But when I do, I am all in. Forever. Falling out of love is a phrase I have never believed in. If someone does fall out of love, I don’t think they really understood what it means to love, in the first place. Break ups happen because we forget to think about the other. We put ourselves first. We tend to confuse self-respect with being selfish. We confuse love with self-love. Our world has become so politically correct, that there is now a back lash against it with the upliftment of autocracy. We have forgotten that the world is made of different people, different organisms. We have to accept that there will be differences, and accepting the differences makes us humane. Sympathy is not the same as empathy.

The days pass by, and I had two lovers. I have always been open about my heart. I have always been honest, not just with myself, and with the people I love, but with the world, to whom I owe not a great deal of explanation. Today, I sit alone. Heart break and death have taken away what I cherished. I do look at the spaces I am left with. I see my mother, my kids, my sister, my aunt. All who rally around my grief and try to lift me out of it. My grief is selfish – and where there was a flood, there is now a quagmire. It’s like a black hole. Anything I put in, gets swallowed.

Yet, I also know that the panic attacks have stopped. The breathlessness takes over in bursts, and is over soon. I go onto social media, because diverting my mind and energy, in a state of lockdown is all I am left with. I have reached out to those who care. But in time, their caring wanes, because their lives do not stop just because mine has come to a grinding halt in space and time. The lockdown happens within now. Because I am tired of also reaching out, and repeating the grief, that has drained me.

Strangers ask me to smile, be the person social media has come to know me as… My family wishes me to just be me. But I am not me, right now. Right now, I am a wound. The wound was raw. Now it just seethes. It hasn’t closed. Not by a long shot. If it is touched, it throbs and I cry out. But I have learnt the art of bandaging. So, people can see the bandaging, they have no clue about what’s happening underneath it. They may choose to address it. They may not. It doesn’t matter really. Because love itself caused the wound, I can hardly expect the healing to come from any other than my own capacity to love.

Have I learnt from this? I have learnt that I have what it takes to withstand it. Grieving has made me sure of my capacity to love. My heart will not freeze. It is not capable of it. It can never build a castle of ice. It can never solidify. And I will never apologize for being able to keep loving who I have loved. I will never feel sorry for the fact that I will be able to love again.