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.
Hearts Still Care 