Category: Articles

Change

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

It started with me observing my father. He was an alcoholic. No matter what anyone told him—his mother, his sisters, his wife (my mother)—he just wouldn’t let go of the drink. He would promise us he’d quit, and for a week or two we would believe him. And then he’d start again. The disappointment would settle in all over again, and everyone’s heart would quietly break.

As I grew up, I came to a painful realisation: people don’t really change. What we call change is often just a layer of polish applied to the same underlying self. We are social animals, and in order to survive in society, we pretend to adapt, to evolve. We pretend for jobs, for families, for relationships. But at the core, the essence of who we are remains untouched.

People often say things like, “You’ve changed,” or even the opposite, “You’ve not changed at all.” They might be talking about your physical appearance, your personality, or the way you react to the world. Personally, I feel I haven’t changed much at all. My beliefs, my sensitivities, my emotional responses—they’re more or less what they were when I was a teenager.

What has changed is not me, but how I cope. Life has toughened me. Society has handed me situations that have demanded survival and response. I’ve learned to better manage my emotions, to recognise patterns, to pre-empt reactions. But the wound still hurts.

For example, when I was teased in school or college, it devastated me. I would carry those words home and let them sit like shame on my shoulders. Even today, if someone says something cruel, it cuts me. The difference is, I’ve learned how to respond. I don’t lash out. I try to understand where the other person is coming from—their insecurities, their unresolved pain. This has helped me understand others better, but more importantly, it’s helped me understand myself.

But that doesn’t mean I’ve changed. It just means I’m more prepared for the inevitable blows. I still feel the sting—I’ve just learned how to wear armour.

A friend of mine once said, “Change is the only constant. If you don’t change, you can’t grow.” But I find myself wondering—what is growth, really? Are we talking about the physical changes in our body, the slow disintegration of the flesh as wrinkles deepen, as the eyes dull and the heart grows heavier? Or are we talking about spiritual or emotional maturity, and if so, how much of that is truly transformation and not just better performance?

Jean-Paul Sartre once wrote, “Man is nothing else but what he makes of himself.” But what if we keep making ourselves from the same mould, over and over again, just dressing it differently each time?

There’s a strange sort of permanence to us. Statues carved millennia ago have worn down over time, but they still stand. The ideas behind them still stand. The people they represent may be long gone, but their essence—what they symbolised—still survives. And I believe that’s true for people too.

So why do we expect people to change?

If your partner has lied to you once, chances are, he’ll lie to you again. And we know that. Yet we hold on to the hope that “this time” will be different—because we want to believe that love changes people, that commitment and loyalty make them better. But the truth is, if we truly love them, we may also have to learn to love them with their flaws.

Of course, there are limits. There are lines that must not be crossed. And those lines are different for each of us. That, too, is part of who we are. So if I choose to forgive a liar, that’s because of who I am. And if I choose not to, that’s also because of who I am.

Our choices, our tolerances, our reactions—they don’t show how much we’ve changed. They show how well we know ourselves.

So how do we break this cycle? How do we stop spinning the same wheel? Maybe we don’t. Maybe all we can do is try to be better—not necessarily different, just better. Try not to hurt others, even if we end up hurting ourselves. That kind of self-restraint is difficult. It’s a discipline.

But perhaps the real point is this: you have to accept who you are. You don’t need to constantly reinvent yourself just to meet someone else’s idea of growth. It’s enough to live in your own skin—even as it fades, wrinkles, and grows weary.

Your DNA doesn’t change. No amount of therapy or cosmetic surgery or self-help books can replace that essential code of being.

As Albert Camus said, “Man is the only creature who refuses to be what he is.”

And maybe that’s the problem. We refuse to accept ourselves. We glorify change and call it growth, but what if we’re simply resisting the truth of who we are? Maybe real growth isn’t about becoming someone else—it’s about finally becoming okay with being yourself.

So no, people don’t change. Not really.

The trick is to just learn how to live with one’s self.

Self-worth

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

I was watching songs, clips, interviews of and on Marilyn Monroe today, and it took me back to when I first saw her on screen. I must have been seven or eight when I watched the unveiling of her statue in her iconic pose in The Seven Year Itch, mesmerised by that iconic moment—the white dress billowing around her, the radiant smile on her face. Back then, she seemed like a goddess, the epitome of beauty and joy. But as I grew older and learned more about her life, I realised how much that single image had cost her in reality.

That made me think about how much we, as individuals, shrink ourselves, twist ourselves, and dim our own light to fit the expectations of others. Earlier this week, a friend of mine—who once directed me in a stage musical—told me about a party he attended. There were Millennials and Gen Z boys raving about me, reminiscing about my performance in that play. The way I looked, the way I carried myself, the way I commanded the stage—those were the things they remembered most vividly. And it struck me, because I have never seen myself the way others apparently do.

For so long, I have felt like I wasn’t enough—not tall enough, not sexy enough, not thin enough, not thick enough. Always not enough. I have spent years looking in the mirror and seeing only what I lacked, never what I had. And I know this feeling has seeped into my relationships as well. I have always felt like the subordinate one, placing my lovers on a pedestal, convinced they were cooler, more desirable, more worthy than I was. My love for them made them grander in my eyes, while I shrank in my own.

Watching Marilyn’s documentary, I wondered how much of our self-perception is shaped by the expectations and judgments of others. She was adored, desired, envied—yet also ridiculed, diminished, and underestimated. Her beauty, her sensuality, the effortless way she captivated a room—she owned it, yet was punished for it. Even in 1962, when she filmed a nude scene for Something’s Got to Give, it was considered scandalous. And yet, decades later, it still holds power, still exudes that intoxicating mix of vulnerability and confidence.

In some ways, I see myself in her. I came out at 16, unapologetic about who I was. I have always flaunted my truth, never hiding my relationships, never pretending to be someone I’m not. I have loved openly, fiercely, without shame. And now, in a polyamorous relationship, I continue to live my life on my own terms. And yet—yet—that old, lingering feeling of inferiority remains. That quiet, insidious whisper that I am still not enough.

So I ask myself: How much of me have I given up to meet the expectations of others? How often have I dimmed my own brilliance to make others comfortable? How many times have I tried to fit into spaces and relationships that were never designed for me in the first place? And more importantly—why?

Marilyn was a woman who lit up the world, even as it tried to break her. And maybe that is the lesson here. That no matter how much the world tries to shape us into something smaller, something quieter, something more palatable—we have to fight to be ourselves. We have to own our space, our beauty, our chaos, our truth.

Because if we don’t—if we keep cutting ourselves down to fit inside someone else’s frame—what will be left of us in the end?

The Paradox of Belief

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

As a child, religion was joy. It was something to be celebrated, something woven into my life through festivals, rituals, and shared experiences. I had Christmas at school, Eid with friends, Diwali with family, Navroz from my mother’s side, and Gurpurab from my father’s. Each festival felt like an invitation to something bigger—a collective celebration of faith, culture, and belonging. Ganpati and Krishna were my favourites, deities I connected with through dance and devotion. Religion, in those days, felt vibrant, inclusive, and full of life.

Then, in 2013, I lost my faith. It had been unraveling for years, but that was the moment I could no longer hold on to it. I had believed in the ideal of God, in the idea that faith encouraged kindness, humility, and service. But as I looked around, I saw how rarely people lived by those principles. The more I questioned, the more I realised that religion—at least in the way it was practised—was not about morality, but control. It was about rules, about dictating who was accepted and who was condemned.

I still love the festivals; I still appreciate the philosophies embedded in different traditions. But I no longer believe in God. Instead, I have come to see atheism as its own paradox—a rejection of faith that, ironically, requires belief in the absence of divinity. In some ways, atheism becomes a religion, too.

One of the things that has always troubled me is how religion, once a search for meaning, has become a rigid structure—a system of laws that offers certainty to those who seek it. Structure is comforting; it provides uniformity, allowing people to live without questioning too deeply. But should faith be imposed? Should we be forced to follow beliefs that we do not hold in our hearts?

In Hinduism, the Bhagavad Gita says:

“Karmanye vadhikaraste, Ma phaleshu kadachana.”

“You have the right to perform your duty, but never to the fruits of your actions.”

This suggests that faith is not about rules, but about action—about doing what is right without attachment to reward or punishment. It is a personal journey, not a rigid doctrine.

Yet, for many, religion has become an obligation. It demands conformity, punishes dissent, and divides people into “believers” and “others.” I have seen it firsthand—in the hostility between Hindus and Muslims, in the weaponisation of faith in politics, in the way people are judged based on their religious identity rather than their character.

Even in my personal life, I have encountered this prejudice. Friends have questioned why I am in love with a Muslim man. Family and friends have warned me against involving myself with a Muslim household, insisting that “they” will never accept me. I am quite certain they are right and that I won’t be accepted. So, hatred is not exclusive to one group—I have seen the same prejudice mirrored in the Muslim world. It is exhausting, this endless cycle of division.

I often think of a scene from Anne of Green Gables. In it, Marilla tells Anne to kneel and pray. But Anne, with all her youthful sincerity, asks:

“Why must I kneel? Why can’t I go into an open field, look at the sky, and feel a prayer instead?”

That, I think, is the crux of what I believe. Faith—if it exists—should be personal. It should be something we define for ourselves, not something imposed upon us.

But the world does not see it that way. We live in a time when faith is rigid, where people demand uniformity, where questioning is met with hostility. And I find myself deeply disturbed by what this means for the future.

Still, the world will survive. It always does. And in the time I have left, I can only hope that humanity finds a way to embrace both reason and faith—not as weapons, but as paths to something greater than hate. But I doubt that will happen…