Due

Published on by Harpreet Chhachhia1 Comment

The seasons have left,
there are none for my future.
My measure stands bereft,
old wounds know no suture.

The leaves have crumbled
into a crypt filled with dust,
all of love lies jumbled
with loss, lies and lust.

It’s a mire of confusion.
What has life led me to?
It all seems like an illusion.
Who am I? Who are you?

The wind is still, the heat is here,
Hands take what they can.
I am left with what I think is fear
And no real measure of man.

My dogs die, like the seasons do,
Though I enjoy each most.
All that seems to remain true
Are the illnesses I guiltily host.

Regrets I have borrowed,
When I prided myself on having none.
And everything I followed,
Seems to in infinite circles run.

The sun now holds one promise,
maybe I yearn for him to be true:
somewhere, I will find my share of bliss,
sometime, I will be given my due.

6th September, 2018

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment
6th September, 2018: It’s a day to remember. It will be mentioned in history as another day that a people got their freedom. Their freedom to be, their freedom to love.
 
I expected this judgement? I don’t know. I have been disappointed before, so I reserved my happiness for when it would be allowed. It was. The five bench judgement marked my smile, my tears. It’s been a long road, longer yet for people who came before me and those who passed before seeing this day. I remember them.
 
This is a day to remember.
 
I wish all my fellow, Indian LGBTQ+ brethren a very heartfelt congratulations. We won, because the Supreme Court of India showed every hard-hearted person that love does indeed finally win.
 

Trojan

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

It’s all a matter of time:
Love evolves into honesty
And the tube light glare
Rips through at some point.
The thing that was once hidden,
Under the guise of empathy,
Lies naked for all to see,

Like a broken body after rape,
Open to the lenses of posterity
And a boggling public
That cranes to see which part
Was most abused.
The need to hide exists no more.
Justice demands sight and hearing.
A lynching is required.

Love is stronger than romance
And it can withstand a slap,
Or two.

Compromise is a grey area.

Love was not the same,
Either for Helen or Mumtaz –
Tom had jumped on a sofa
And after begetting children
Of blood, they say,
It all ended amicably.
I mean, the jumping ended.

I think myself grand enough
To think mine will last.
I shall let the Trojans in though;
Because I love horses.
(That is a different kind of love.)