family – Hearts Still Care

Support Structures

Published on June 3, 2025 by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

As I stand at the cusp of my fifties, I find myself reflecting on the arc of relationships that have shaped me: the people I’ve grown up with, the ones I’ve grown beside, those I’ve grown distant from, and those I continue to grow with. Most of them have been friends, some family, all deeply woven into the fabric of who I am. Because I’ve always loved with the entirety of myself.

For the longest time, I used to be devastated when relationships fell apart. I took every loss as a personal failure—proof that something in me had failed to be worthy of the love I so readily gave. But with time—and a great deal of heartbreak—I’ve come to see it differently. Now I know: I did the best I could. And so did they. No one is to blame. Life simply moved us in different directions.

Last year, I lost a 32-year-old friendship. It hurt, yes. But I don’t regret it. I stood up for who I am, for what I believe in, and I realised that I was not being treated with the respect I offered so freely. I had accepted my friend entirely, even her flaws. But she couldn’t meet me where I was. That wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t even hers. She simply wasn’t equipped to hold what I was bringing to the table.

Today, another moment came—and passed. An altercation with my partner, Anand, someone I’ve spent 25 years of my life with. We’ve seen some truly destructive storms together and somehow, we’ve always found our way back. Today was no different. He left. I felt the ache, but I didn’t crumble. Because here’s what I’ve learned: the things we believe will destroy us rarely do. The will to survive, to mend, to continue, is always stronger.

I saw it in myself. But I saw something younger in my family. As they watched the disagreement unfold, they became emotional, scattered, concerned not just for me but for him as well. That mattered. What is more important t o note: My family stood by not just me, but the man I love. And in that moment, I saw something I never expected to: the social scaffolding we so often deny queer people in this world—support—had quietly, finally, taken shape around me.

Even my other partner, (I am one in a throuple) asked me to call Anand. And I did. Not out of guilt or obligation, but because I knew there had been no malice in me, no cruelty and I wanted their anxiety to abate. What had occurred was a light-hearted joke misread, so I told Anand to come back if he believed in the word I gave him. And he did.

But it’s not just about that trivial argument. What moved me was everyone who stood by me and said: bring him back home. That’s what mattered. That home is not a place—it’s a choice people make, together, for one another.

In this Pride Month, I want to say this: queer relationships are not made of fairy dust and rebellion. They’re made of daily effort, missteps, recovery, repair. And while straight couples often have the privilege of familial support—two clans coming together to protect the sanctity of their union—queer couples are often left to navigate that terrain alone. When something goes wrong, it’s just the two of us, lost in a storm we’re often too young to steer through.

I see that now. At 50, I have an ingrained emotional sustenance I didn’t have in my twenties or thirties. Now I don’t need my family’s support. But standing slightly apart, observing with a kind of fourth-dimensional wisdom, I realise how rare and necessary it is that they choose to give it anyway.

That’s the heart of this. I’ve become my own person. I no longer need people to feel whole. But I choose them. That’s the truest form of intimacy, of maturity: to choose someone not from need, but from selfhood.

And to anyone reading this during Pride Month: remember that queer love thrives not just on passion, but on structure. On support. On society showing up for us the way it so readily does for others. When a queer couple falters, we too deserve a circle that rallies and restores, that says: bring him back home.

The Favourite

Published on November 29, 2024 by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

Growing up, I was incredibly close to my grandmother. I called her Dadan, an affectionate term for Daadi, which means grandmother in Hindi/Punjabi. She was my rock, my constant source of warmth and love. I was also the favourite of both my paternal aunts. The eldest, who had stepchildren, and the youngest, who had no children of her own, poured their affection into me. My youngest aunt, during her courtship days, often took me along on her dates. Together, we visited beautiful hotels and places, and those moments felt magical in my childhood. When she married, I was only six years old, and her absence created a void. I felt as though I had lost a cherished friend.

[l-r]Munni Pua, Dadan, Goodie Pua and me (in the corner)

But my grandmother, my Dadan, made up for that loss in every possible way. She loved me fiercely, making me feel like the sun and the moon in her eyes. I felt it too, deep in my soul. My cousins and sibling often claim, to this day, I was spoiled by her and my aunts. Perhaps I was, but their love shielded me from a harsher reality. My parents were far from ideal. My father was abusive, an alcoholic, and, from the age of 13 to 19, his physical violence escalated, fuelled by his hatred for my sexuality. My mother, meanwhile, was preoccupied with earning a living and running a household. She was emotionally distant, perhaps sensing that I was different and not the son she had envisioned. She redirected her energy towards my younger sister, Geetanjali, who, being four years younger, became the focus of her affection and aspirations.

When my mother left the joint family, taking me away from my grandmother, I was about to turn 13. My sister was barely eight or nine, giving my mother ample opportunity to mould her into the perfect daughter. I, however, remained the imperfect son—a reminder of the family my mother was trying to leave behind. I was the unique link between her new life and the one she had given up, while my sister became her connection to her own family. This duality shaped our relationships, and as the years passed, I felt punished for the love I had received from my paternal grandmother and aunts.

At the time, I couldn’t understand any of this. All I knew was that I wanted to maintain my bond with my grandmother and aunts, but distance creates rifts in even the strongest relationships. Back then, mobile phones weren’t available, and my home life became a nightmare of abuse and violence. After a particularly horrific incident, where my father nearly strangled me, my mother finally decided to pursue divorce. This further deepened the distance between me and my paternal family.

In my twenties, I reconnected with my eldest aunt. By then, I was navigating the aftermath of a failed relationship and battling severe depression. Our bond took on a deeper, more complex meaning, rooted in shared pain and an understanding that transcended words. But by the time my grandmother passed away when I was 25, I felt as though a part of my heart had been burned away, leaving a scar that would never heal. She had been more of a mother to me in those formative years than my own mother, and her absence left an aching void.

Now, as I look back, I realise that my grandmother’s love was the anchor that held me steady. With her gone, and both my aunts having also passed away, I feel as though I have lost the last remnants of unconditional love in my family. Today, it often feels like my mother and sister are united against me. While this may not be entirely true, the feeling of alienation is overwhelming. It’s as if the familial bonds that once nurtured me have unravelled, leaving me adrift.

I wish I could remember more vividly the years between one and twelve when love and warmth surrounded me. Perhaps those memories would balance out the lack of affection I feel now. But dwelling on the past serves little purpose, except to remind me that, for a time, I was truly loved, cherished, and cared for. That knowledge is both a comfort and a sorrow, a bittersweet reminder of what I have lost.

Heteronormativity

Published on February 18, 2024June 21, 2024 by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

Yesterday night, I was having a conversation with a friend and my mother and partners were present, too. I mentioned how different the relationship between my mother and my partner was when compared to my mother’s relationship with my grandmother, my mom’s mother-in-law. I told her how differently your son-in-law treats you as compared to how you treated my grandmother.

And she instantly retorted, without a moment’s hesitation, or concern for feeling or reality, “He is not my son-in-law.”

“Huh?” I was shocked. “Then what is he?”

“Your partner,” she snapped back.

Of course, in my head, a relationship that has lasted through twenty-five years amounts to more in my head. For me, marriage is not a piece of paper or standing before any god and promising to be together. It is love and concern that keeps us bound together. Unfortunately, a heterosexual mother wont really understand that.

I immediately wanted to retaliate. “Your daughter’s marriage that has barely passed two years of age amounts to labels and tags and, more importantly, respect, but my relationship that has seen us struggle to be with each other despite all odds, family, work, staying apart and then together after 6 years, coming out as a couple, standing up for each other, making our own lives together, braving hurdles of conflict and affliction, deserves nothing?”

But all I told her was, “my sister has a husband since two years because they are “married” and my relationship of 25 years is nothing?”

I haven’t been able to look at her since then. But it is not just her. It is my best friend who has suddenly become closer to my sister because they have the similar bond of talking about their husbands – which I could never have. Despite the fact that all my relationship secrets she has been privy to, she won’t ever be able to understand – because we don’t base our judgements of equality on love itself, but on gender, on sexual orientation, on what society expects of us.

Maybe someone with a deeper understanding of how things are and what emotions truly mean to someone, may get it. May. But then even if they do, they won’t really understand our throuple. Because polyamory is still a far way to be understood even by the gay community itself.

Today I woke up and read a post by a gay friend. He is one of my oldest friends in the community, and he had a post about gay marriages and in the comments section someone mentioned if it was possible in India. He replied with a list of couples and neglected to mention my name with my partners. Of course, it is because he sells the idea of gay marriage. I don’t fit the bill with two partners.

Don’t get me wrong, I am not against gay marriage. You see, my point is I am not against any marriage of any kind. If there is love and concern and respect, any relationship between people is a marriage to me. But when the gay community falls back upon a heteronormative standard, it seems ludicrous.

We are not the same, we are different. Our sexuality ranges a whole spectrum of colour. We are gays, lesbians, bisexuals, trans, pansexuals, demisexuals, non-binary, sapiosexuals, asexuals, and a host of others. How can we fit ourselves into the normative standards of man and woman? We are not as simple as that. If any relationship can be simplified, that is.

I do not think that the human race is equipped to understand differences. Even if they accept them to be socially cool, they will never really understand them. Because you see, people do not understand love. If you get the nature of love, you will accept it in any form.

Most people understand what is different, because all of those differences cater to the five senses. Love becomes an abstract concept that can only be felt. And the brain insists that there is only one kind of abstraction. The way someone looks at a dark person or an over weight person and forms an idea of what he or she or they must look like. People look at love as they grow up and think that’s the way all love should be.

In order to simplify things, they actually create chaos. Accepting all forms of love becomes so simple. Love is love, after all.

This also then brings my self to my attention. I got stuck on a label, too. A “son-in-law”, what is that but a heteronormative label. And technically, though my mother didn’t say it in this way, she is right: He is my partner. Not any son by law, because neither does the Law accept our relationship in this country, nor does she treat him like a son. The sad part is that he treats me like his husband and lover and treats her like she is his mother.

And that is what shall keep us together for another 25 years.