Tag: family

Family

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

The other day I went to my partner’s mom’s home. She had invited me for Diwali, after 22 years of my being with her son. I sat with her over the season’s greetings and made small talk. After all these years, her acceptance should not have mattered much but it did. And today, after thought, I realized why it mattered.

I am a family guy. Always have been. Apart from not having a father in the real sense of the word, I have had a marvellous family. I grew up knowing freedoms. The right to choose, the right to be, the right to love. I was taught this by fierce women, in both my maternal and paternal families.

My grandmothers were Naseeb and Gai. The former a widow at 26, who raised four children on her own in the ‘50’s. The latter a Gemini who showed me what it was to love another man. My grandfather, Firoz, taught me what it was to be liberal, kind and loving. My aunts, Rajinder and Harwant and Zarine, were independent, free-thinking, caring women. The former two took the place of the father I never had.

My mother, Gaver, who single-handedly raised two children and made a home in the city of Mumbai. Something no one in the family has or since done. She educated us and molded Geeta and me into the people we are today. Free-thinking, free-willed people, who I like to think also have the compassion and the empathy shown to us by the earlier generations.

I will not forget Behram Maama, who taught me what it was to be a good father. Amarjeet, my chachu, who taught me resilience; because of his constant battle with schizophrenia and the final one he lost to throat cancer. He was a brilliant painter, despite being colour-blind.

I think back on my family and I am filled with separation anxiety. I had a full family, but in my generation I have a mere handful of siblings. I have gone through more than my share of loss. Since the age of 19, I have faced death and continue to face him – almost like a friend who comes calling after short intervals. For company, he has taken Mervin, Nana, Chacha, Bonzo, Dadan, Rolfe, Diana, Zoe, Maasi, Munni Pua, Goodie Pua…

My family has literally and metaphorically given me lessons about death and life. It has taught me how to be honest in order to live without added complications. It has taught me how to love – fully and completely – and what sin actually means. In truth, it would mean breaking a heart that loves you.

As I looked at my partner’s mother, someone who accepted our relationship after decades, I realized how lucky I have been to be a part of the family that makes me belong. In my family, acceptance was never a problem. Loving meant accepting. There may not have been complete understanding, in the truest sense of the word, but, despite that, there was never rejection. I was assured there was never any chance of it. My family taught me love. I am me because of them.

My family

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

You know, my family? Pretty awesome set of women.

My paternal gran was a refugee from Sahiwal, Pakistan. Her family lost everything in the partition. She married a promising engineer and had four kids. She was a widow at 26. She raised the children on her own, not wanting to return to Punjab from Mumbai, because she would have had to marry one of his brothers. She lived a lonely life and loved me to the core. I lost her in 2000.

My elder bua married a widower with four children. She was self-made, strong and never asked anyone for help. She became a widow after five years of marriage. She raised her step children and managed the household on her own. She battled depression throughout her life. She was the first one I came out to after my mom. She wrote me a letter and in it, she said I love you no matter who you love. I lost her in 2019.

My younger bua paved her own path. She never cared much for the world thought of her. She chalked out her own destiny. She never complained. She made her wins for her family and her losses her own. She loved once and wholeheartedly. She saw her husband through his worst and was with him til he died. After, she was lonely and devastated. She was a poet. She understood me in ways no one ever could or has. She was my father. I lost her in 2021.

My mom is naïve in the ways of emotion and she is who she is. She has no malice in her. She is self-made. She married at 19 and by 20 she began working and never stopped until her retirement. She did the best she could, having two children to raise on her own because my father stopped working when I was 2. She battled against his alcoholism and shattered dreams of love and fulfillment. She braved cancer and she built her own home. The only one in my family to do so. She accepted me for who I am without any altercation or drama. I came out to her at 16.

My sister, another woman who loves me to the core. She followed me everywhere as a child. She looked up to me and gradually after I told her to find her own path, began forging it on her own. She never looked back. She worked and she battled her own demons – always privately. Because she took after my elder bua – she never breathed a word about her losses or her sorrows. When she married she did it because she wanted to.

My maternal grandparents rocked. They were the only couple I saw the happiest in each other’s company. From them, I learned that true love did exist. The kinds you only read about in romance novels. They were open-minded and funny. I lost my granddad in 1995, and my gran mom in 2003.

My furkids – Bonzo, Rolfe, Diana, Zoe, Zach and Xena. The loves of my life. I lost Bonzo in 1996, Rolfe in 2001, Diana in 2005 and Zoe in 2013. They have been my children and I have wanted none of the human kind when I have them.

I can go on and on about the rest of the tribe. My cousin sister, Natasha, who stood up for me at weddings and get-togethers, my jeej, Ignatius, who accepted me without an eyebrow raised, my niece, Danica, who has been my friend more than my niece, my maasi, who loved me like a son.

Finally, my partner, Anand. He and I don’t see eye to eye on everything, except the things that count. He stuck with me through thick and thin and showed me that marriages are not made by rituals and paperwork. The testament of love has to be unspoken and realised solely on emotion. There is no mountain that I shall climb where I know he will not follow. There is no tragedy he will go through where I won’t be there holding onto his hand. Love is not easy. But love is also not a fantasy. It does exist, even in the bitterest of lows and the cruelest times.

This is my family. If you knew us when all of us were together, you really could understand what it means to be a family. Now that I have lost so many over time, few of us remain, but yea, if you are included in our fold, trust me, you will know what it is to be loved.

Love Is Love – Except When It Isn’t…

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

I take to writing on Word once again, after a long sabbatical. I had my heart broken early last year. Being gay, the world tends not to really see things in terms of heartbreak for people like me. Most of the world, at least. In more ways than one, I suppose, gay boys don’t have hearts to break because we have better sex lives than most straight people? But then I am generalising as well, and, as a dear friend likes to tell me, ‘stop playing the victim’. So, I shall end victimhood here. Or maybe not.

I come from a family where my sexuality doesn’t seem to bother anyone anymore. Everyone who sees us walking in Pride Marches together says we are all lucky indeed. True, we may be. But when you look closer, you see a lot of things that lurk beneath the surface. And they tend to come out when there is a straight marriage involved.

My sister has always been conservative. She supports right-wing fundamentalism and has a deeply moral streak. She has been supportive of the LGBT cause only because I identify as a gay man. She loves me. Truth be told, my way of being has always irked her because she likes being private, while I like being public about my thoughts and feelings. When it comes to pass that she is planning to wed, my mum gets ecstatic. She wants ‘the only wedding she will ever see’… Unfortunately, if I plan to wed, I must emigrate to a place where gay marriage is legal. Therein itself lies the rub.

In order for my family to truly see me, I cannot talk about people being killed in our community, or about my struggles with my father on a personal front. A father who beat me regularly for being gay and who went out of his way to bestow gifts on my sister, who pleased his straight, masculine heart. No, I cannot make them understand this. I cannot make them understand what it feels like when a man dumps you because he doesn’t have the courage to stand by you against his own family. I cannot make them understand that when my friends live their lives and talk about them with me, there is a difference between being at home and coming home. I cannot explain to them why gay constructs are not the same as straight constructs. How can I explain to them exactly how it feels when society refers to your partner of twenty-odd years as your friend, and you can just nod? Why even bother at this point?

So, when people say how lucky I am, I just nod.

I wish I could explain how it feels when your sister hasn’t spoken to her intended husband about your lifestyle. In essence, about who you are. I won’t even get into how it feels, in general, when your sexuality has to be explained to a stranger and his family in order to gain approval before pending nuptials. I will get into the fact that my sister refrains from mentioning it until I ask her to. Of course, I could just shut up about it and let the other family think I am straight and my partner is ‘just a friend’. I could continue to nod. But then, I wish people would just fucking stop saying I am lucky.

Then, of course, there are moments of envy. I am human. I feel. I wonder why my partner was never given the importance due to him. Why would he, who has taken care of me, my mother, my sister, my aunts and his family, never be given even an ounce of what my straight brother-in-law would be given? Because we didn’t sign a piece of paper? Because we didn’t turn circles around a pot with a fire? Because we didn’t garland each other? I have seen marriages and I have seen marriages. I have seen straight people cheat on one another; I have seen them abuse each other. I have seen them rip the hearts out of each other’s chests. But it’s all okay when they do it. The trick is to do it secretly. The trick is to attend functions and bear sons.

Relatives shall descend en masse. They will wish and they will bless. There will be fixed deposits broken. There will be an outpouring of celebration. There will be food and drink. But through it all, I know I won’t be one of them. I was not one of them when I had my heart broken; I will not be one of them when their hearts merge. People say all love is the same. Love is love. It is true. It is. But my love, by default, was no cause for celebration. Unfortunately, not even by the men I have loved. So that is it.

However, that being said, all I want is for my sister to be very happy. It is not her fault that I am gay. It is certainly not mine, or, for that matter, anyone else’s. So, I shall stand where I am supposed to stand, be happy for my sister, and I shall smile. If that isn’t luck, maybe I do not know what it means to have it.