Category: 2025

50

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

This Wednesday, I turn fifty.

Fifty years on this planet. Five whole decades of living, loving, losing, and learning. It feels both like the blink of an eye and an eternity.

I still remember that child. The little boy who used to come home with fifteen comic books from the library — Richie Rich and Archie comics tucked under one arm — rushing to the hall sofa, just in time for the setting sun to cast its golden light through the balcony. That glow, those pages, that sense of having the entire evening mapped out in joy — I remember it vividly. I was so happy then, so content with that small treasure trove of stories.

I remember Diana, the dog I once had, who was taken away by the municipality. I couldn’t stop it. I was a child. And I remember Appu, the black and white dog who lived at the street corner. I remember going down every morning to play with Mithun Chakraborty’s dogs, their tails wagging in a chorus of companionship.

I remember the rains — always a little joyous, always a little sad. June rains meant school would begin. But even that brought its own delight: brown paper book covers, my mother’s careful hands helping me prepare for the term. School was, for the most part, a happy place. I remember my aunts. I remember my uncle. My grandmother. Mornings steeped in calm. Nights cloaked in childhood’s imagined fears. A home filled with noise and ideas and art. A black and white TV that turned into a colour one because of my aunt’s gift.

I remember my childhood with startling clarity. And I remember my teenage years with equal intensity — only that those were darker years. Years of confusion. Of trying to understand my place in a world that seemed to offer me none. Years of grappling with a truth I couldn’t speak aloud just yet. Of learning about my sexuality. Of facing bullies. Of surviving an alcoholic father. Those years taught me that if I had to live in this world, it would have to be on my own terms. Because the world’s terms were unacceptable.

And then came books. Oh, the saving grace of books. Moving from Bandra to Versova, I moved from Famous Five to Johanna Lindsey, to Jude Deveraux, and then into the warm, vast embrace of literature. I read and read — and through those pages, I escaped. I built myself through the words of others. I found my best friend. I found my tribe. I found love. My first love brought me dance — something I had always dreamt of — and then he brought me heartbreak. At twenty, my world cracked open.

My 20s were a storm of romance, heartbreak, yearning. They were about finding my place in the spectrum of the LGBT+ mantle. Finding my tribe. I met the love that would last a lifetime. I lost a huge love when I lost my gran. My first furkid died. Then my second. Then my third. The decade made me understand things about death that would only broaden my mind and understand my existence better.

My 30s were about trying to understand friendship, loyalty, and my place in the broader social world. I faced severe body image issues. I learned that love doesn’t come with promises of the future. There is no happily ever after, just the here and now and what I could and would make of it. I understood what cancer was when it attacked my mom and our family. I understood how it felt to be cheated on and what I could do with shattered dreams. I accepted that there were more ways of being in a relationship with a man that I love without sticking to what I was told and learned through heteronormativity.

And then came my 40s — a decade of awakening. I realised I was the creator of my own destiny. I had power. I had choice. I grew into the man I always hoped I would be. I still carry insecurities — about the way I look, the way I speak, the way I behave. But I have come to love my skin. And I’ve learnt not to care too much about those who don’t like what I say or do. That’s their business.

Yes, I had another heartbreaking love in my 40s. I lost my best friend. I lost my aunts, women who were like second mothers to me. I’ve buried people I loved. I’ve buried four children — the dogs who were my family. Death has become a familiar companion. But I no longer see it as a finality. I think we carry the people we love with us. And as long as we do that, they live on. Perhaps that’s how immortality works.

Even today, someone banged into my car — a delivery boy, clearly poor, clearly terrified. I could have raised hell. I had the power. But I didn’t. I just told him sternly to be more careful and let him go. That’s where I am now. I no longer feel the need to shout or punish. Everything is so temporary. And kindness is what stays.

I’ve lost homes. I’ve moved often. But I’ve learnt that home is not a place. It’s people. Wherever the ones I love go, that becomes my home.

And now my 50s begin. I know there will be more challenges. That’s the nature of life. But I also know I am ready for them. Everything changes. Everything passes. Even the hardest times. Even the best ones.

But here I am — at the doorstep of fifty — with no regrets. Because I have lived. And more importantly, I have loved. Fiercely. Freely. Deeply. I have been loved in return. I have said the things I needed to say. I have done the things I wanted to do.

And if this is the final stretch, I go into it with a full heart.

So here’s to another decade — of becoming, of letting go, of still loving, still dancing, still dreaming. I’m ready.

And I’m grateful.

Style & Struggle

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

I’m not a rich man. I make do. But if there’s one thing I’ve always had in abundance, it’s a sense of style—and a longing to express myself through fashion.

As a child, I was captivated by the elegance of those I saw on screen—actors, actresses, runway icons. In high school, I was utterly devoted to supermodels like Linda Evangelista, Cindy Crawford, Naomi Campbell. I hoarded magazines like Vogue, GQ, Cosmopolitan, rifling through the glossy pages, dreaming of what it would be like to wear such clothes. Fashion, for me, wasn’t about brands or money. It was about transformation, self-expression, imagination.

Over the years, I cultivated an instinct. I can look at someone and tell whether what they’re wearing works—whether the clothes complement their body, their spirit. Friends come to me in moments of style crisis. What top goes with what bottoms? Which shoes balance a jacket? What accessory lifts an outfit into something unforgettable? I find joy in helping them—and I’ve extended that styling instinct to my family as well.

My sister doesn’t quite agree with my flamboyant, Western, modern aesthetic. But my mother does. I’ve been styling her for years, and it’s something we share and delight in. I suppose being a homosexual man has brought with it a sensitivity to aesthetics—an eye for detail, a yearning for beauty that sits slightly outside the norm.

But here’s the paradox: while I can style others with ease, when it comes to myself—particularly for significant occasions like my birthday—I find it exasperating. I imagine the outfit in my head with utter clarity. I can see the drape, the silhouette, the movement of fabric in the light. And yet, somehow, the final product never quite captures what I saw in my mind.

Take this year’s birthday, for instance. The theme is white. I had envisioned a pristine tuxedo—a well-fitted white suit with a wingtip collared shirt, a shawl-collared vest, a sequinned white tie, sleek trousers, and the kind of presence that turns heads. I had it tailored. I spent good money. But when I wore it, it felt wrong. Lifeless. Not me.

So I returned to the drawing board, reimagining something oversized, flowing—a dreamy, dramatic white ensemble with a mid-thigh-length sequinned shirt, an open vest, and wide trousers. It was meant to be poetic, airy, and opulent. I didn’t find the silver shoes I wanted, so I settled on a bold red pair and for back-up (I loved the shoes!) a shiny gold one. But again, when I wore the outfit, something felt off. Not terrible, not hideous. Just not quite the vision I had carried in my heart.

And this is where it becomes difficult—fashioning dreams into reality when funds are limited. The cloth costs a bomb. Tailoring costs more. And there’s no going back once it’s stitched. Unlike prêt-à-porter, where you see, try, and buy, tailor-made clothes require you to visualise, communicate, and gamble.

Maybe I’m still learning how fabric falls. Maybe I struggle to translate vision into language for the tailor. But it breaks my heart when I fail to materialise what I imagined.

Still, I persevere. I don’t create to impress others. I dress for the mirror—for the moment when I look at myself and think, Yes. That’s the man I want to be. That’s the man I see in my mind’s eye.

It’s not about vanity. It’s about honouring the person I am, the artist within me, the child who once dreamed in magazine spreads. I want my 50th birthday to reflect who I’ve become. Not perfect. But honest. Eccentric. Elegant. Me.

And yes, perhaps people do laugh sometimes. Maybe they always will. But I’ve learnt—especially now, as I near 50—that their opinion isn’t the point. If I can look at myself and feel beautiful, powerful, present—then that’s enough. More than enough.

So back to the drawing board I go. One week to go. And this time, I trust I’ll get there.

Because at the heart of it, fashion—like life—isn’t about having it all. It’s about creating beauty with what you have, daring to imagine more, and showing up in the world as exactly who you are.

My Family’s Faith

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

In my family, religion has never been a matter of compulsion, inheritance, or rigid tradition. It has been a deeply personal and often private path—respected, explored, questioned, and above all, lived with empathy. We are a family not bound by sameness, but knitted together by love, resilience, and the shared grace of accepting each other as we are.

The generation before mine taught me this without ever having to explain it in so many words. My mother, a Parsi woman, met and fell in love with my father, a Sikh man. Their union was not seen kindly by many in her community, and she was shunned—albeit briefly—before her parents came around and welcomed her back. That moment of reconciliation, to me, holds more spiritual weight than any sermon could offer.

On my father’s side, every sibling followed their own truth, and none bowed to the pressures of uniformity. My eldest paternal aunt married a Maharashtrian Hindu man with four children. She chose not to have biological children of her own because she wished to raise his as hers. She did so with grace and devotion, speaking fluent Marathi, transforming his household into a space of warmth. He passed away just five years into their marriage, at a time when they were only beginning to build something tender and lasting.

My second paternal aunt married a Gujarati man with children from a previous marriage, and once again, she made the choice not to bear children, instead pouring her love into me and my sister. She was more of a father to us than our own, who fell into alcoholism not long after I was born.

My paternal uncle married an American Catholic woman—an intercultural and intercontinental union—though the marriage did not last. Yet she was known to all of us, accepted fully during the time she was part of our family.

On my mother’s side, the inter-faith marriage she entered into was a rarity. Her siblings all married within the Parsi fold. But then came the next generation: my cousin Natasha, the daughter of my maternal aunt, married a Malayali Catholic. No one raised an eyebrow. It was accepted as natural—as it should be.

My own sister married a Kashmiri Pandit. Other cousins married Catholics, Gujaratis, Hindus—no one seemed to view these marriages as transgressions. To us, they were unions of love, not religious negotiations.

As for me—I have loved a Hindu man. I have loved a Muslim man. I have loved a Danish Christian. And I am an atheist. The irony is not lost on me. But I don’t find contradiction here. I find cohesion. I do not reject belief systems—I observe, absorb, appreciate, and honour what others hold dear. In many ways, that is my faith: the sanctity of personal belief, whether present or absent.

Recently, I had a conversation with an acquaintance about this tapestry of interfaith relationships in my family. His response stunned me. He said something to the effect that such a thing would never be allowed in his family. And worse, he spoke with a tone of disdain—almost pity. For the first time in a long while, I was made to question whether what I had always considered a strength—this lived secularism, this openness—could be seen as a flaw.

It shook me. For a fleeting moment, I felt dislodged from my own certainty, my own probable pride in coming from a family that embraced diversity as if it were the most natural thing. But I recovered that sense quickly. Because what he dismissed is, in truth, what I hold dearest: a family that opens its doors wide, where beliefs may differ but love remains constant.

As a child, I was educated in a convent school. I learnt Catholic prayers. My paternal grandmother taught me Sikh prayers. My mother still prays every Friday—a habit I have inherited in spirit if not in ritual. From friends and relatives, I’ve picked up Hindu customs, observed Jain decorum, joined in Eid celebrations, decorated the tree each Christmas, danced in the colours of Holi, and set up Pooja rituals during Diwali. I celebrate Ganesh Chaturthi, Bhau Beej, Rakhi, Dussehra, and Navratri. Every festival that holds meaning for someone I love, holds meaning for me too.

As I see it, religion is not a divide. It is an offering—one that can be accepted with grace, even if not practiced. Love is the force that ties all these practices together. Belief is not a boundary but a bridge.

“All differences in this world are of degree, and not of kind, because oneness is the secret of everything.”

— Swami Vivekananda

My upbringing has taught me that India is not one story. It is a grand, complex novel—interwoven with hundreds of narratives, dialects, faiths, food traditions, music, prayers, and paths. It is not unity through sameness. It is unity through difference.

And for those who reject that difference, who turn away from the beauty of co-existence, I can only feel sadness. Because they are missing out—not just on festivals, or food, or languages—but on the rich, life-changing encounters that can shape a soul.

I may be an atheist, but I believe—deeply, fervently—in the sanctity of human connection. And perhaps that is the greatest faith of all.