Category: 2025

Who am I?

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

I have lived a life shaped by shadows and by light. My father gave me nothing but DNA and trauma — he was not a father, not in any true sense of the word. What I inherited from him was not love or protection but insecurity, heartbreak, and scars I’ve carried for years. And yet, I refused to let that darkness define me. At sixteen, I came out to my mother; by nineteen, to the rest of my family. I took the reins of my life in my own hands and chose honesty over fear.

From the very beginning, my compass has never been ambition, wealth, or status. I am not the man who runs after big cars or sprawling houses. I am the man who believes that love — real, messy, courageous love — is enough. My greatest hope has always been simple: to love and to be loved in return.

I am not perfect. I’ve hurt people, I’ve made mistakes, and when I do, I take responsibility. That is who I am: someone who owns his flaws and keeps moving forward. I have lived my life openly, without regret. I have explored love in its different forms — monogamy, openness, polyamory. I’ve had my heart broken more times than I care to count, but through all of it, I have never pretended to be anyone other than myself.

Since I was twenty-one, I have been part of the LGBTQ+ community, not just as a member but as someone who opened his home, his family, and his life to others. I wanted people to see what honesty looks like, what self-acceptance can do. I’ve believed — and still believe — that everyone should be allowed to live and let live. If your words or actions harm no one, then you should be free to be who you are. That’s how I have lived, and that’s the example I hope I’ve set.

It hasn’t been easy. Growing up under abuse leaves you with trust issues, especially with men. It leaves you questioning whether love will ever be as steady as the love you give. I’ve stood up to bullies, survived the violence of my own father, and fought through the weight of depression when life felt unbearable. And yet, I am still here — standing, writing, loving.

Who am I?

I am a man who is moral, empathetic to a fault, and honest even when it costs me. I am someone who doesn’t give up on people easily, even when it hurts. I am someone who has learned that my worth is not negotiable.

I am worth recognition. I am worth appreciation. I am worth love.

And I know it.

When Beauty Becomes a Mirror

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

The other evening, I found myself in an unexpected emotional spiral, all because of eyeliner.

I was watching Joanna Lumley in the new season of Wednesday and I said to my partner, “Look at her eyes—so unwrinkled, she can put eyeliner so effortlessly. She’s older than my mother, and yet my mother struggles to apply eyeliner at all.”

My partner quickly pointed out that I shouldn’t be comparing actresses to my mother. I understood his point, of course. What I had expected was a conversation about how celebrities have stylists, makeup artists, and perhaps even plastic surgery, whereas my mother has lived through cancer, disease, and hardship—with a face that carries those battles. Instead, his response was, “You wouldn’t like it if I compared you to Hrithik Roshan or Anil Kapoor.”

And that hit me hard.

Because the truth is, I’m fifty. And for fifty, I know I still look good. I hear it often enough—just the other day, someone told me I looked 30, maybe 33 at most. And yet, coming from the person I love, the comparison stung. Perhaps it’s because we’re not as physically intimate as before. Perhaps it’s because I have gained weight, stopped going to the gym, and sometimes feel like I’ve “let myself go.”

The irony is, strangers often see me at my best—when I’m dressed well, energised, smiling. My partner, like anyone close, sees me at my worst—the morning face, the bad breath, the paunch that refuses to stay tucked in. And I wonder: why is it that admiration from the outside world cannot quieten the insecurities that come alive in love’s mirror?

Maybe this is my wake-up call. To do better, look better, feel better—not because I need to compete with Hrithik Roshan, who has trainers, makeup teams, and an entire industry polishing his image—but because I want to stand tall in my own skin again.

Ageing is strange. On one hand, I feel proud of how I’ve carried myself through fifty years. On the other, a single comment can undo all that pride and pull me into comparison. Perhaps the lesson here is that beauty is not a fixed point—it’s a moving mirror, and sometimes the hardest reflection to accept is the one shown by those we love most.

Drizzle

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

I nicknamed the kiddo I got to foster. The guys who left him didn’t exactly abandon him on our doorstep — but they did come and leave him there. They named him Milo for all of four days, and we were debating whether or not to name him at all, because once I name him, I get emotionally invested. So I was putting that off for as long as I possibly could.

There was somebody from Khar who wanted to adopt him. I thought this was it. He’s lucky, he’ll get placed within 24 hours. But when we asked for the adopter’s address so that we could come and drop Drizzle at his house, see the place, and decide whether or not he’d be able to keep Drizzle properly — give him the home we want him to have, and not return him after a week — we were met with silence. He did not reply to any further messages, nor did he answer our call. So we’re back to square one.

Drizzle, basically, is a very sweet fellow. Today he did something that touched me. He always wanted to climb up onto the sofa, and I was always wondering why — especially since Zuri is usually sitting there. I thought that was why he wanted up.

But actually, Riyaz, who had rescued him from a road in Goregaon, told me that when Drizzle first came to him, he nestled against his shoulder and fell asleep. So today, after he had eaten and done his potty (he now uses the bathroom, clever little thing), I picked him up. And just like that, he nestled into my lap, into the crook of my arm, and went to sleep.

Moments like that make me so sad about the world we live in. Every day, Instagram is filled with stories of dog feeders being abused by dog-haters in colonies and on the roads, of dogs tied with ropes and dragged mercilessly behind motorcycles until they die, of others dumped near jungles so that wild animals can get to them. I see dog feeders being attacked, and I wonder — where does all this ignorant hate come from?

When you see a pup like Drizzle sleeping in the crook of my arm, and realise all he wants is to play, eat, and drink water, my heart breaks. It feels catastrophic inside me, because I feel so helpless at how far we as humanity have fallen. We take over their spaces, and when they ask us — in the only way they know how — to contribute to their safety, we turn our backs.

It’s the same with animal rescues I see online: donkeys, cows, horses. A cat thrown from a high-rise in Mumbai. And I wonder — how can people do this?

I know there are crimes against people too. Today, I burnt my thumb while reheating food. It blistered immediately — a first-degree burn — and it hurt so badly I was walking around the room to bear it. That small pain made me think of the man who burnt his wife alive because she couldn’t meet his dowry demands. And I can only imagine the agony she must have gone through. The thought makes my heart unbearably sad.

I feel torn apart by the horrors this world keeps offering, again and again. We’ve had wars, then Cold Wars, and now fresh waves of hate — ignorance that convinces some people they are superior and others inferior. Where does this come from?

With animals, I completely lose it, because they have nobody except us. People like me, my sister, and those who marched alongside me — we raise our voices for them. But we are so few. I feel like we’re in the minority.

I’ve been a homosexual fighting for my rights in this country for as long as I can remember. First, you come out to your parents. Then to your family. Then you brave the world. You’re bullied, picked on, made to feel less — because everything is built on straight privilege, and the “other” is always looked down upon. I now know where this prejudice comes from. But I’m so tired of dealing with it.

I’m just so tired.