Apart

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

Love grows over time, it deepens with age,
It rises like mountains touching the sky,
Its rivers meet oceans, quiet and dark;
None seem to mind, or ask of it just why.

But as the waters delve and the peaks soar,
Distances widen, far out of arm’s reach;
They say, that is how true love ought to be;
They say, who do not do; but seek to teach.

Time lengthens, and our bodies grow apart;
Love takes for granted how fast the years run;
Soon, distances charter space and black holes,
While I become the moon, and you, the sun.

Home Away From Home

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

When my buas were alive, I had homes outside of my own to go to. My bedroom just got painted over and the last time that happened, I had stayed in Munni Pua’s (my elder bua) house for a fortnight. She took care of me like the parent she was to everyone she knew – I shall admit that I was beloved by both my aunts. They replaced the need of a father figure, which I never had.

I would just have to tell them I need a place to stay and they would open up the doors to their homes and let me stay for however long I wanted to. If I needed a piece of furniture stored temporarily, Goodie Pua (my younger bua, who was really the man of the family as I grew up) would tell me, “send it over to mine, I have ample place to keep it.” And when I would visit her home, the same piece of furniture would be placed in her home as if it belonged there beautifully.

I miss them. Not only because I feel like a great part of my life was shaped by their presence, but because I miss their love and affection. I could joke with them, be chastised by them, love them and be loved by them. I had family! I had someone, in my extended family, I could count upon to help me at any given time. Right about now, I feel quite alone and secluded. That is the price of age and death, I suppose.

All mentors and guides have to fall away sometime, in order for one to find strength and solutions from one’s own self. But I am human, after all, and when I see my best friend having two homes, my lovers having two homes, it sometimes hits me that I now just have one, and my whole world resides in it. It is not a very great comfort and at times, of late, I miss having a larger family.

My greatest fear, let me tell you, is dying alone. With no familial support or person who cares sitting by my bed as I breathe my last. It’s not death that scares me then, it is just the thought of having no one saying they love me in my last moments. I was there as the older generation grew older and needed help in their final moments. I wonder who will be around when it is time for me to get help.

I have seen my family contract – with people falling away to death or distance. The people I loved the most have passed on and now I am left with a handful of people that I can truly count upon.

Life has shown me that I need to be aware of mortality and it is the greatest leveller in this world. I do not regret anything – I am merely sitting here, thinking, of the losses that I have garnered since the age of 19 and wondering upon the pros and cons of having a large extended family. Perhaps this is why the human race wants to procreate and see their offspring procreate some more. But that would seem to be a selfish reason to have children.

Of course, I am also a believer of bonds that are not linked by blood. It is not necessary that I have to be born into a family to call it mine. I can create my own family… and over the years, I tried to assimilate a tribe of my own. Mostly through the route of friendship, I have developed a kinship with many – but as I look back on the most recent experience of mine, no one really called me to their home and said, “stay here until your house gets painted.” That makes me think more and miss my aunts most.

I am not a believer in an after life, but I shall safely say, they have left an indelible impact on my life on this earth, and they are terribly missed, and remembered every day through the calls of my heart.

Albus Dumbledore and Michael Gambon

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

The decade of 1997-2007 was a lovely one. Predominantly, because two of my favourite fantasy book series came into dazzling light. The Lord of the Rings that I had loved since childhood became the spectacular movie trilogy and the Harry Potter series breathed life into the fantasy genre and brought a whole generation back to reading. They took the world by storm.

As I read the series, with intermittent gaps of years at a time, every book release became a phenomenon. There were two characters that I adored and fell in love with. Hermione Granger and Albus Dumbledore. I am gay and was considered a bookworm by all of my peers. Two things that didn’t sit well with them and so my schooling years were filled with – you can guess it. So these two characters seemed to call out to all of those insecurities and experiences.

Hermione, being who she was, got accepted within the first year itself…and her angst was related more to being a regular teen girl whose feelings were misunderstood often by the men she loved. So over the progression of the books, Dumbledore became a favourite. In The Order of the Phoenix, he rejects capture and disappears with Fawkes. “Dumbledore’s got style,” says Shacklebolt.

I smiled. I knew then that this wonderful man was gay. By the last book, it all became quite clear what Grindelwald and he shared was not just “bromance”. They had been lovers. The character took on added significance as he was not all light and twinkles. His character became human, rife with flaws and mistakes. It spoke of the promise of betterment.

In the movies, Richard Harris didn’t quite sit well with me as Dumbledore. No offence to any fans of Harris out there, but that is just my personal opinion. He was too classy, and too proper for Albus Dumbledore whom I always pictured as quirky but brilliant. So when Michael Gambon stepped into Albus Dumbledore’s shoes, I was overwhelmed. He was brought in, what also happened to be my favourite book of the series, The Prisoner of Azkaban, which also happened to be directed by one of my favourite directors, Alfonso Cuarón.

Michael Gambon brought to Albus Dumbledore’s character all that it was missing. The beaded beard, the lopsided hat, the flowing robes, the wink in the eye and the absent-minded whimsicality of the principal I had become so very fond of. It is no great surprise then that apart from Harry, Hermione, Ron, Luna – he was the only other adult character from the Potter series that I chose to sketch. It also became a seminal work because I finished it, when I lay awake during the terror attacks on my city that lasted for three whole nights.

It stands as a testimony to the sacrifices of those many who were and are innocent in the schematics of world politics and blind faith. Dumbledore stands as that man who believed in something and who loved, and then had his beliefs corrected and resurrected. He loved once and loved wholly. He never killed Grindelwald in the epic battle that we shall never see on the big screen or read about other than a few lines in passing in the series. But I understand what the character himself must have gone through. Because cataclysmic heartbreaks with a revolution in faith form a hard road to walk upon.

I am not surprised he had all the three Deathly Hallows in his possession and never used them – he just passed them on. Willingly. He lived a life, which may not necessarily have been complete or even satisfactory – but he made his peace with it and more is to the point, he lived it with a new purpose. And when it was time to let it all go, he did so, on his own terms. Just such a brilliant example to learn from.