Articles – Page 27 – Hearts Still Care

Gen X

Published on February 6, 2025February 7, 2025 by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

Born in the hazy summer of ’75, I straddle two worlds. A world where whispered secrets in hushed tones were the currency of connection, and the digital roar of today. A world where a clumsy fumble for the right cassette tape was the soundtrack to a Friday night, and now, instant access to any song ever conceived is at my fingertips. This liminal space, this bridge between the analogue and the digital, has shaped me, challenged me, and ultimately, liberated me. But my journey has been deeply marked by personal struggles, too, struggles that were often silenced in the pre-internet era.

Growing up, life wasn’t always easy. Being different in a less accepting time meant enduring the sting of prejudice, the isolation of feeling like an outsider. My father, a man of the Boomer generation, struggled to understand my sexuality. His alcoholism fuelled a volatile temper, and from the ages of 13 to 19, my home became a battleground. Physical and emotional abuse were a regular occurrence, a brutal consequence of his inability to accept who I was. These were wounds, both visible and invisible, that I carried in silence. In my generation, such experiences were often endured privately. We believed, or were led to believe, that this was simply “the way things were.” There was no readily available support network, no online community to offer solace or share similar experiences. Interpersonal relationships were forged in the crucible of face-to-face interactions, often fraught with the anxiety of revealing my true self, a self that was deemed unacceptable by my own father.

It was my sister, bless her open-minded heart, who offered a glimmer of understanding. She recognised that my sexuality was not something to be controlled or condemned. The women in my family, too, showed a degree of acceptance, though often tinged with a grudging tolerance rather than the wholehearted embrace that Gen Z enjoys today. Their acceptance, while appreciated, lacked the open-minded celebration of difference that now seems more commonplace. It was a different time, a time when even well-meaning individuals struggled to fully comprehend the complexities of sexual identity. Even my sister’s acceptance, though genuine, proved to have its limits. Years later, in my 40s, as she prepared for her wedding, she asked me to hide my sexuality for the sake of her in-laws. This request, from someone I considered an ally, cut deeply. It was a stark reminder that even those closest to us can sometimes falter when faced with societal pressures. It highlighted the subtle but pervasive homophobia that still existed, even within my own family. It was a painful lesson in conditional acceptance, a reminder that the fight for true equality was far from over. It was a blow, a betrayal of sorts, that echoed the silent acceptance of abuse that I had witnessed in my youth. But in my 40s, I had found my voice. I had learned to value my authentic self above all else. I told her, with a firmness born of years of struggle and self-discovery, that if I couldn’t be accepted for who I was, I would not be attending her wedding.

Ironically, it’s technology that has, in many ways, given me my voice. The internet, for all its flaws, has provided a platform to connect with like-minded individuals, to find community, to celebrate diversity. It has allowed me to explore my identity, to find my tribe, to finally feel seen and heard. In my early 20s, as the internet began to emerge, I tentatively sought connection, a lifeline to others who understood. It wasn’t easy. Access to gay media, information about gay lifestyles, and a broader understanding of how inclusive work cultures should function was limited. But even then, the seeds of connection were being sown. I found support, albeit in smaller measures, and began to understand that I wasn’t alone.
This generation, Gen Z, with their fluid identities and fearless self-expression, inspires me. Their willingness to challenge norms and push boundaries reflects a world I longed for as a child, a world where difference is celebrated, not condemned. They are the change, the adaptation, and I admire them for it. While I know they face their own battles against bigotry – for prejudice sadly persists – the ability to find support and community online is a powerful tool they wield, a tool we lacked in my youth.

The Millennials, perhaps, are the truly lost generation. Caught between the analogue world of my youth and the digital explosion of Gen Z, they seem to be a transitional generation, navigating a world in constant flux. For those of us born in the mid-70s, the change was gradual. We adapted slowly, absorbing the new technologies as they emerged. We experienced the world before the internet, and we witnessed its birth and evolution. This gradual transition allowed us to integrate the digital world into our lives without losing touch with the values and experiences of our past. It also gave us time to process and understand the changing social landscape, including evolving attitudes towards sexuality and gender identity. My own journey of understanding and self-acceptance was intertwined with this gradual shift. Through my studies in psychology and English literature, I began to understand the importance of empathy, acceptance, and celebrating diversity, lessons that were often hard-won in my personal life.

My 40s, finally, became my decade. It was a time of self-acceptance, of embracing my identity without apology. The scars of the past, though still present, no longer defined me. I learned to set boundaries, to refuse to tolerate disrespect, to live authentically and unapologetically. This newfound confidence, this refusal to “take shit from anybody,” is a product of my journey, a journey that spans the analogue and digital worlds, a journey that has taught me the true meaning of resilience and self-love. It’s a journey that has also taught me the importance of forgiveness, not necessarily for those who have hurt us, but for ourselves, to allow us to heal and move forward.

We, the generation born between ’69 and ’82, are indeed a unique breed. We are the bridge between two worlds, fluent in the languages of both. We remember the crackle of the radio and the flickering glow of the television, but we also understand the power of the internet and the potential of virtual reality. We value tradition, but we also question and challenge, driven by reason and critical thinking. We have seen the world change dramatically in our lifetimes, and we have adapted and evolved along with it. We understand where we come from, and we have a unique perspective on where we are going. Perhaps, then, it is our generation that is best equipped to lead, to guide, to bridge the gap between the past and the future.

50’s

Published on February 4, 2025 by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

I’m looking forward to my 50s, perhaps because my 40s were the decade in which I truly began to live. It was in my 40s that I confronted my insecurities, endured heartbreaks, and experienced immense loss. I lost many of the people who truly loved me, and I nearly lost myself during the pandemic. I faced grief. I faced death. I faced the difficult truths of who I am, what I deserve, and what I can and cannot tolerate.

My 40s taught me that life is beautiful—even in its darkest moments. And if there is one thing I am utterly certain of, it is that nothing lasts forever. Everything is transient. And I don’t just mean happiness fading; even sadness must eventually leave to make space for joy. Life moves in cycles. That, I think, is the greatest lesson of the past decade—the understanding that permanence is an illusion.

I once believed that some things would always hold, while others would inevitably fall apart. But I have come to realise that even truth wavers with time, space, and circumstance. Life, by its very nature, is constantly evolving—and so have I. That is why I look forward to the next decade, because I know I will keep evolving. I am not someone who remains stagnant or gives in to complacency.

I have come to understand that the things that truly matter are not grand achievements but the small moments that bring joy. Whether it’s love, relationships, something abstract or something tangible—like playing a video game, walking on the beach, or simply stroking the head of a pet as they rest in your lap—if it brings you happiness, then it is worth embracing. It has never been the big things that mattered most. I learned this long ago—not just in my 40s, but through a slow and gradual process of self-awareness.

The things I have worked hardest to achieve—genuine human connections, staying true to myself, and being honest with the world about who I am—have always been the most important to me. I began that journey at a very young age, and by the time I reached my 40s, everything started falling into place.

Now, as I step into my 50s, I feel assured of who I am. And yet, I know I can still become better. That, perhaps, is the most exciting part—that no matter what life throws my way, I will rise above it. I will endure it. And I will grow from it.

The Favourite

Published on November 29, 2024 by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

Growing up, I was incredibly close to my grandmother. I called her Dadan, an affectionate term for Daadi, which means grandmother in Hindi/Punjabi. She was my rock, my constant source of warmth and love. I was also the favourite of both my paternal aunts. The eldest, who had stepchildren, and the youngest, who had no children of her own, poured their affection into me. My youngest aunt, during her courtship days, often took me along on her dates. Together, we visited beautiful hotels and places, and those moments felt magical in my childhood. When she married, I was only six years old, and her absence created a void. I felt as though I had lost a cherished friend.

[l-r]Munni Pua, Dadan, Goodie Pua and me (in the corner)

But my grandmother, my Dadan, made up for that loss in every possible way. She loved me fiercely, making me feel like the sun and the moon in her eyes. I felt it too, deep in my soul. My cousins and sibling often claim, to this day, I was spoiled by her and my aunts. Perhaps I was, but their love shielded me from a harsher reality. My parents were far from ideal. My father was abusive, an alcoholic, and, from the age of 13 to 19, his physical violence escalated, fuelled by his hatred for my sexuality. My mother, meanwhile, was preoccupied with earning a living and running a household. She was emotionally distant, perhaps sensing that I was different and not the son she had envisioned. She redirected her energy towards my younger sister, Geetanjali, who, being four years younger, became the focus of her affection and aspirations.

When my mother left the joint family, taking me away from my grandmother, I was about to turn 13. My sister was barely eight or nine, giving my mother ample opportunity to mould her into the perfect daughter. I, however, remained the imperfect son—a reminder of the family my mother was trying to leave behind. I was the unique link between her new life and the one she had given up, while my sister became her connection to her own family. This duality shaped our relationships, and as the years passed, I felt punished for the love I had received from my paternal grandmother and aunts.

At the time, I couldn’t understand any of this. All I knew was that I wanted to maintain my bond with my grandmother and aunts, but distance creates rifts in even the strongest relationships. Back then, mobile phones weren’t available, and my home life became a nightmare of abuse and violence. After a particularly horrific incident, where my father nearly strangled me, my mother finally decided to pursue divorce. This further deepened the distance between me and my paternal family.

In my twenties, I reconnected with my eldest aunt. By then, I was navigating the aftermath of a failed relationship and battling severe depression. Our bond took on a deeper, more complex meaning, rooted in shared pain and an understanding that transcended words. But by the time my grandmother passed away when I was 25, I felt as though a part of my heart had been burned away, leaving a scar that would never heal. She had been more of a mother to me in those formative years than my own mother, and her absence left an aching void.

Now, as I look back, I realise that my grandmother’s love was the anchor that held me steady. With her gone, and both my aunts having also passed away, I feel as though I have lost the last remnants of unconditional love in my family. Today, it often feels like my mother and sister are united against me. While this may not be entirely true, the feeling of alienation is overwhelming. It’s as if the familial bonds that once nurtured me have unravelled, leaving me adrift.

I wish I could remember more vividly the years between one and twelve when love and warmth surrounded me. Perhaps those memories would balance out the lack of affection I feel now. But dwelling on the past serves little purpose, except to remind me that, for a time, I was truly loved, cherished, and cared for. That knowledge is both a comfort and a sorrow, a bittersweet reminder of what I have lost.