Memorabilia

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

I’ve lived fifty years now. And lately, I find myself drifting gently—sometimes with longing, sometimes with quiet acceptance—into the soft interiors of my past. Rooms, trees, dogs, balconies. I don’t just remember—I love my past.

It comes in flashes. Sitting in goodie Pua’s room, which once was mine. Me on the floor, a book in hand, staring out at a distant building, the same building I used to gaze at as a child, wondering what life would become. There was a hush to those hours. A small stillness, and a vast world just beyond.

I think of Bonzo, my first dog. Amruttara. His head in my lap, and Jim Reeves crooning through the speakers. “Put your sweet lips a little closer to the phone…”—a soundtrack to a time when love felt near, and sorrow hadn’t yet introduced itself.

There was the balcony. That sacred space. My chacha painted his bold, brilliant works there. My grandmother and I sat in wordless rhythm. From there, I watched kestrels fly, tracing circles in the sky for what seemed like hours. Below was Guru Nanak Park, where trees held my childhood laughter like old secrets.

I was taught about Christmas by my closest friends—all girls—who showed me how traditions bloom when shared. I belonged, even if I wasn’t born into their stories. I had my gang too—two Muslim boys. We played without borders. Our games were pure mischief and sunburnt delight.

Then came school. That raucous theatre of growth and crushes and petty fights and stolen glances. Vignettes of benches, chalk dust, and shy grins.

I could go on. I do go on. Because memory doesn’t end—it spills forward, uninvited but always welcome. And then come the losses. The quiet absences. So many deaths. Yet I don’t write this to mourn. Everyone loses. Some have lives infinitely harder than mine. But still—I feel deeply. I remember deeply.

Now, at fifty, a strange quiet has come over me. Not sadness exactly. Not peace either. Something like a hush. A knowing.

I’m still learning things about myself. I haven’t stopped. I still draw attention; I’m still attractive to men. But more than that—I’m aware now that nothing lasts. Everything simply becomes more. I am becoming more.

And yet—I am tired. The body reminds me of its mortality. Aches linger longer. Exhaustion settles faster.

It reminds me of Mary Carson’s words to Father Ralph in The Thorn Birds:

“How unfair, how goddamned unfair it is that the body must age while the heart stays so young. Still wanting, still feeling, still yearning.”

That’s me. Still wanting. Still feeling. Still yearning.

And then, books—my old companions—have come back into my life. I’ve started reading again. And I’m in awe. Words pierce me in ways they didn’t before. Or perhaps, I’m just more porous now. I wish I had never stopped writing. I love it. It’s where I meet myself most honestly.

Sometimes, in reading, I stumble upon truths that feel like echoes of my own heart. Like this, from Marcel Proust:

“The past is hidden somewhere outside the realm, beyond the reach of intellect, in some material object…which we do not suspect.”

For me, that object might be a book spine, a balcony railing, the fur on a dog’s head, or a patch of sunlight on a floor.

Or this, by Joan Didion:

“I have already lost touch with a couple of people I used to be.”

And indeed, I have. But not with sadness. Just a quiet nod to all the Harpreets I’ve been.

And finally, this line by James Baldwin speaks to the weight of remembering:

“You think your pain and your heartbreak are unprecedented in the history of the world, but then you read.”

Reading, remembering, writing—they make me feel less alone. They remind me that while time may take, it also deepens.

And in all of this reflection, perhaps one of the most important things I’ve learnt is this: I no longer owe anyone an explanation. Not for my life, not for my beliefs, not for who I love, or how I live. I should’ve learnt this when I was younger, but back then I was still trying to prove something to the world—that people like me exist, that we matter, that we deserve to be heard. I wanted to prove that we belong.

But now I see it for what it was. Most of the people who tried to drag me into arguments weren’t interested in the truth. They were interested in control. In power. It wasn’t the content of the argument that mattered to them—it was the fact that I reacted. That I gave them my energy.

Now? I don’t.

There are many arguments not worth having. And silence, I’ve come to realise, is golden—especially when you’re surrounded by those who have no intention of listening. Many people around me are naysayers. Not sceptics—scepticism is curious. These people are dismissive. They’re already decided on their truths—whether about religion, sexuality, science, history, or faith.

I don’t have the bandwidth anymore. Nor the energy. And most certainly, not the inclination to engage with these fucktards.

I’d rather sit with a book. Or with my memories. Or just quietly breathe, knowing that I’ve lived fully, fiercely, and without regret.

I suppose I am someone to be feared and loved. Feared, because I’ve lived, and survived, and carry a quiet intensity. Loved, because my heart has never shut down, not once, despite all it has seen.

I may be growing older, but in so many ways, I am only now growing into myself.

Love Languages

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

There’s a peculiar kind of grief in being surrounded by people you love and yet feeling untouched — not emotionally, not intellectually, but physically. For those of us whose love language is physical affection, the need to be held, touched, kissed, cuddled — is not a luxury, it’s a lifeline. Without it, we don’t just feel lonely; we feel withered.

I have always wanted to be held. Not just in fleeting embraces or in transactional foreplay, but in the quiet, steady ways that bodies communicate love — arms around shoulders, limbs entangled in sleep, breath synchronised in the hush of night. I fall asleep best when someone’s hand is atop my body, not in lust but in love. And yet, despite this deep yearning, I find myself in relationships with men who either cannot, or will not, offer that kind of touch.

It’s a cruel mismatch. A man whose language is touch falling in love with men who speak love in acts, or words, or in silence. And when you are six feet tall — tall enough to be imposing — it becomes even harder to fold yourself into someone’s arms and feel held. When the men I love are shorter, smaller, more delicate, they assume I am the one who will wrap them. I must become the blanket, the protector, the pillar. But I ache to collapse into someone too.

So then, there’s how I look. There’s a particular injustice in gay culture — assumptions wrapped in desire. Because I am tall and masculine-presenting, most men assume I’m a “top.” But I am not. Nor am I a “bottom.” I’m a side — someone who doesn’t enjoy penetrative sex but cherishes all the other physical intimacies: the grind, the kiss, the sensuality of skin on skin. And for the longest time, there was no ready vocabulary for all of that. So I get approached by men who want to be topped — who want from me the very thing I don’t find natural to give. They long for the same care and physical affection I do — to be cradled and dominated in a way I cannot perform without a deep dissonance.

And now I find myself in what many might envy or judge — a polyamorous relationship with two men. A throuple. But love doesn’t multiply without friction. One of them is deeply sexual. He identifies as versatile, but prefers anal sex. He tries to meet me halfway, because he loves me. I see that. But still, there is a chasm between my need for slow, non-sexual physicality and his need for release. And try as we might, love doesn’t always stitch the gaps between bodies.

My other partner, meanwhile, doesn’t like touch at all. His love language is acts of service. He’ll run errands for me, cook, fix things, do what needs doing. But in bed, he shrinks from closeness. And it is agonising to be in bed with two men, night after night, and feel untouched. To feel like a satellite in the very centre of love.

People think polyamory solves problems of lack. That if one person can’t give you something, the other will. But life and time touch all forms of love. What if the very thing your soul craves most — to be held, to be touched — becomes absent? And what if the only thing you are left holding is your own longing?

I don’t know if all relationships will end in heartbreak. I hope not. I believe I am loved. And I love them. But love feels incomplete, when your primary language is unheard. When you’re the one always reaching out, and no one ever quite meets your arms halfway.

There’s a wound in this. It bleeds in silence. And it aches most not in rejection, but in the quiet lack of reciprocity. Touch, for some of us, is not foreplay. It is prayer. It is home.

And I wait to be let in.

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.