I was born into a family of women. Strong, resilient, extraordinary women. My father was a nonstarter—an abusive alcoholic who checked out of his responsibilities early. My paternal uncle, a brilliant painter, struggled with schizophrenia and spent most of his life lost in his own world. Neither of them held jobs. The real backbone of our family was my aunt, Harwant Kaur.
And before her, there was my grandmother—a woman who knew struggle from the moment she was born. She lost her family and home to Partition, only to marry a man who could never truly love her. My grandfather, a chemical engineer, had been married before, and when his first wife died, his grief never left him. My grandmother was left in the shadow of that loss. She gave him four children, but when he died young, she was just 26, left alone to raise six children with nothing but sheer determination.
Her husband’s property was taken from her by her own relatives. She fought for years in court while her two daughters—Rajinder and Harwant—held the family together from a young age. These women didn’t just survive; they built a life from nothing.
My mother followed a similar path of resilience. She married my father at 19, and within a few years, her dreams were crushed under the weight of his addiction. He lost his job, never worked again, and she became the sole provider for our family. But unlike the generations before her, she made a different choice—she saved, she invested, and she bought a home in Mumbai. She was the only one in the family who took that financial leap, ensuring that we had a roof over our heads.
My sister, too, grew up carrying the weight of our family’s trauma. She married late in life and tried hard to fit into a society that often demands more from women than it does from men. But through everything, she stood by me. I am gay, and I chose to live life on my own terms. I came out at 16 to my aunt and my mother, and by 19, the entire family knew. If it weren’t for their support, life would have been much harder. They loved me unconditionally, and that is a testament to the kind of women they were—women who gave love despite their own battles, who stood by their family even when life gave them every reason to walk away.
Today, my mother is the only surviving member of that generation. She has made her own mistakes, as we all do, but she gave us a home and security in a world that offered her none. I only wish people today were more aware of the psychological effects of abuse on children. She tried her best to protect us, but I still slipped through the cracks. I manifested my pain as depression and anxiety, but I survived. And through it all, these women remained my strength.
Beyond my immediate family, my world has always been full of women. My extended family consists mostly of cousin sisters. I have no cousin brothers, except for those who are three times removed. So, I have always seen the world through the lens of women—brilliant, gracious, strong, determined, independent women. They taught me how life works.
Growing up, I didn’t just admire them—I wanted to be them. As a child, I dressed up in women’s clothes, put on makeup, and embraced femininity. I wanted to be interesting. I wanted to be strong. I had no male role models to look up to, no one to shape my understanding of masculinity. Instead, I saw these empowered women around me and thought, This is who I want to be.
At the same time, I longed for the love of men—because I was gay. It took me years to unlearn the rigid ideas of masculinity and femininity that society imposed on us. I realised I didn’t have to choose between being strong and being soft, between being masculine and embracing the femininity I admired. I could simply be me. Fluid. Beautiful. Whole. And I understood that gender roles were nothing but illusions—because the strongest, most “manly” people I had ever met were women.
Even in the world of cinema, my inspirations were powerful women. Marilyn Monroe, Sophia Loren, Gina Lollobrigida, Asha Parekh—women who defied expectations, who owned their space, who lived on their own terms. Even today, I find films without strong female characters dull and lifeless. Ocean’s 11 and Ocean’s 12 were only interesting because of Julia Roberts and Catherine Zeta-Jones. Julia Roberts remains one of my favourites—an epic woman in every sense. Marilyn Monroe shaped my ideology of beauty, elegance, and tragedy. And then there was Princess Diana—a woman I adored, who captivated the world and paid the price for being extraordinary. It always struck me that so many empowered women lead tragic lives, and I’ve often wondered why.
I think we, as a society, need to be kinder. We need to stop assigning rigid roles to men and women. There should be no rules dictating how a man should behave or how a woman should live. The lines between masculinity and femininity need to blur because, in truth, we are all fluid in our own way.
The women in my life have done everything men were “supposed” to do—and they did it beautifully. They ran households, fought battles, made sacrifices, and carried entire families on their shoulders. If strength is defined by resilience, then women have been stronger than most men I’ve ever met. And I hope that in my own way, I have lived up to their example.
So, on this Women’s Day, I honour them. I honour my grandmother, my mother, my aunts, my sister, and every woman who has shaped me. I honour the women who inspired me, the ones I grew up watching on screen, and the ones who continue to challenge the world.
And I honour myself—not because I give them all the credit for who I am, but because I, too, have fought my battles. I have faced my own demons, stood my ground, and remained true to myself. Yes, I have been shaped by the women around me, but I have also built my life through my own character and my own determination.
Women have spent generations fighting for the right to exist beyond definitions, beyond limitations. And I celebrate them for it. Because, truly, without them—where would humanity be?
Hearts Still Care 