The moment I decided to put up my article on stray dogs, I knew dissenters would follow. I was expecting it. And of course, they did come — one in particular on Instagram telling me that I speak only on “neutral” issues, that I avoid the present government, that I don’t comment on the geopolitical world.

I told him what I’ve come to understand in my 40s: I must focus on the things that matter to me most. I cannot scatter my energy across every possible cause. My agenda is clear — to fight for the rights of the gay community in India, to speak against animal abuse, and to lend my voice to those who have none. These are not “neutral” issues to me; they are deeply personal.

I have heard the inane arguments before — If animals matter so much to you, why don’t you take them into your home?

The same logic could be applied to humans: just because I offer food and clothing to a homeless man does not mean I am obligated to house him and pay for his living expenses. Life has afforded me only so much to give. If I were a man of immense wealth, I would do more — perhaps build shelters for the stray dogs, fund hospitals for them, as Ratan Tata has done. But I work with what I have: my voice, my words, my compassion.

As for politics, I have my beliefs. I have been a liberal, a leftist, a pacifist — but these are not labels I wear on my shoulder. I do not need to shout my political alignment to validate my morality. I know where I stand. But political debate rarely brings me peace. It is not that I shy away from confrontation — I have had plenty of heated political arguments — it is simply that I choose to focus on what affects me directly, where my voice can matter most. Whether that is for children in war zones, women, for queer youth, or for an abused animal, I want my words to be intentional, not scattered.

Right now, it is the Supreme Court ruling on stray dogs in Delhi that consumes me. The idea that during two months, these dogs will be rounded up from the streets they know, stripped from the people they trust, and thrown into overcrowded, cruel make-shift shelters — it shakes me to my core.

Scrolling through Instagram, I see protests, petitions, and beautiful stories of street dogs and the humans who care for them. One reel broke me: a dog runs happily to greet a man with food, tail wagging, free and trusting. Then, the voiceover reveals that someone poisoned the dog. I thought of my own fur-kid. I thought of the grief that sits like an old scar in my body, sometimes quiet, sometimes throbbing. This day, it surges. I can not breathe.

And yet — I still speak.

I speak because silence is complicity.

I speak because what is real to me matters, even if it is not “real” to someone else.

To those who say I avoid “real” issues: my reality is different from yours. I wish we lived in a world where we could respect that — where our differing realities could exist without hate. But hate is precisely what I am seeing now. People openly say they would kill dogs; some claim they already have.

Where does this hate come from? It feels pathological. Learning Psychology in College, I was fascinated by serial killers — I wanted to understand the machinery of cruelty. Now, I see similar patterns in the way people, from behind anonymous screens, unleash venom on the defenceless.

There are facts and figures that prove how non-dangerous street dogs really are. But when hate takes root in the human mind, facts become irrelevant.

And so here I stand, like King Théoden at Helm’s Deep, looking out at the darkness and wondering — what can you do in the face of such hate?

I don’t know if the courts will be swayed by protests, petitions, or the quiet persistence of Satyagraha. But I do know this: I will keep speaking. I will not let fear or hate dictate the worth of a life.

Because the moment we abandon compassion, we abandon the very thing that makes us human.