Category: I Am

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…

Meredith Grey and Me

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

I just saw a Grey’s Anatomy promo on Instagram, and the caption read, Mother’s back. The image showed Meredith Grey standing, clothed in sombre colours, with a look on her face that seemed to say, I’m here. I’ve achieved it all, and there’s still more to come.

A few minutes ago, my niece—my cousin sister’s daughter—sent me a clip from the Grey’s Anatomy Season 2 finale, where Izzie loses Denny. She was in shock, exclaiming, Oh my God, you actually saw this as it aired for the first time on television! And it’s true. That must have been sometime in 2007. And here we are, in 2025, and Grey’s Anatomy is still running. It’s been thirty years of her life traipsing along mine.

I’ve watched Meredith Grey evolve—sometimes in dramatic leaps, sometimes in that slow, existential, placid kind of way. And I’ve always equated myself with her because I’ve had people like Cristina and Derek in my life. And then there’s Alex, George, and Izzie. They’ve come and gone. And she’s the last one standing.

Meredith Grey is a survivor. She is dark and twisty, hardened by life’s relentless blows, yet fiercely resilient. She starts out as the vulnerable girl who pleads, Pick me, choose me, love me, but over time, she transforms into a woman who declares, I want you in my life if you want to be in my life. But if I have to choose, I’m going to pick me, I pick my kids, and I pick what’s best for us, and I’m not going to beg you to love me. That evolution is hard-earned, built through heartbreak, loss, and self-discovery.

She has endured profound grief—the loss of her mother, her sister Lexie, her best friend George, and, most devastatingly, Derek. Yet, she has never let grief consume her. She moves forward, not because it’s easy, but because she must. She finds ways to turn her pain into purpose, becoming a leader, a mother, and a legend in her field.

Meredith is also someone who stands by what she believes in, even when the world is against her. She challenges authority, fights for justice, and protects those she loves, even if it comes at great personal cost. She is messy, flawed, and sometimes infuriatingly stubborn, but she is also brilliant, compassionate, and endlessly strong.

Looking at Meredith, I see pieces of myself. Like her, I have endured loss—people I loved deeply are no longer around. And yet, like her, I have continued to stand. I have faced rejection, heartbreak, and opposition, but I have also held my ground, believing in what is right and refusing to let the world define me. Meredith is about 48 years old and I am 49 as I write this. Our world views match: I still remember her advert on the bulletin board for a room mate. She had written “no pets” but had also said “absolutely no Bush supporters”!

Meredith has Cristina—the person who gets her, the one who tells her the truth no matter what. I’ve had a person like that too, the kind who shapes you and leaves an imprint on your soul. But just as Meredith had to let people go—whether through distance, death, or circumstance—I, too, have watched relationships fade. And yet, I remain, learning, evolving, growing.

Like Meredith, I have always been drawn to the dark and twisty parts of life, the raw, unfiltered truths that others might shy away from. I have seen the cost of being the bright and shiny one, and I know now that it is the dark and twisty ones who survive. They are the ones who understand the weight of loss, the reality of struggle, and the necessity of perseverance.

When I saw this new image of Meredith, I felt something—a kind of liberation, a kind of peace, if you could call it that. Of course, it’s dramatic. Of course, it’s meant for publicity. But looking at her made me feel like she’s arrived. And so have I.

I also feel that I stopped watching the series after she left in Season 19. I haven’t watched it since. But looking at this picture, I think—maybe I should go back and watch all the episodes where she’s still there. Because Meredith Grey’s story is not just a television script; in many ways, it is mine too.

Am I Gay Enough? The Side Debate and the Pressures of Conformity

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

I’ve been in a loving gay relationship for 25 years. I’ve been attracted to men for as long as I can remember—my first love was Superman when I was five. Yet, here I am, still having to defend my sexuality because I identify as a side. Apparently, for some, that disqualifies me from being “properly” gay. It’s absurd, but it’s also revealing. It shows how much pressure we, as gay men, place on each other to conform—not just to straight norms, but to the rigid sexual roles we’ve constructed within our own community.

Growing up, I knew that straight people expected me to conform to their world. They wanted me to be straight, to marry a woman, to have kids, to blend in. And when that failed, they at least wanted me to be the right kind of gay—either the tragic figure hiding in the closet or the overly sexualised stereotype. But what I didn’t expect was that, even after coming out, I’d have to deal with a different kind of policing—from my own people.

At some point, gay men started mimicking the worst aspects of straight culture, forcing labels on each other: top, bottom, versatile. As if our entire existence boils down to what we do in bed. It’s ironic—our community has fought against being reduced to just sex, yet we’ve turned around and done the same to ourselves. If you don’t fit into these roles, you’re treated as an anomaly, an incomplete gay man. Before I even knew what “side” meant, guys used to tell me I was into “body sex,” and I suppose that’s what they meant—that I preferred intimacy without penetration. But instead of that being just another way to be, it became something that needed justification.

When I first read the Huffington Post article in 2013 about sides, it was a revelation. Until then, I had internalised the idea that maybe I was broken, that I was missing some essential “gay” experience. Because that’s the message that gets drilled into us—not just from straight people but from within the LGBTQ+ community itself. The idea that real sex has to include penetration, that masculinity is tied to what you do in bed, that the spectrum of gay relationships has to mimic the dynamics of straight ones. And if you don’t fit in? You’re sidelined. (Pun fully intended.)

It’s exhausting to navigate a world where both straight and gay people are telling you how to be. Straight society pressures us to assimilate, while gay culture tells us to conform in a different way—be masc, be a top, be a bottom, fit into a category. If you’re anything outside of that, you’re made to feel less valid, less desirable, even less gay. It’s ridiculous. My 25-year relationship with a man, my lifelong attraction to men, my love, my desire—those define my sexuality. Not some arbitrary checklist of sexual acts.

The truth is, being gay isn’t about what you do in bed. It never was. It’s about who you love, who you desire, who you build a life with. And no one—not straight people, not other gay men—gets to tell you that you’re not gay enough.