Category: 2025

Bitter Old Man

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

This evening, something happened that got under my skin more than I care to admit. I was down in the compound with the kids — by which I mean my dogs — playing a relaxed game of fetch like we’ve done since 2019. These are kids I’ve raised with care, consistency, and love. They don’t bark at passers-by. They don’t jump on people. They’ve never soiled the compound. We play in our little side of the compound, stick to ourselves, and co-exist.

It was a typical Mumbai evening — humid, a little breeze, people walking their toddlers and taking their usual rounds around the building. No one had a problem. Not one. In fact, a little girl toddled around us, giggling as she watched the dogs run. Her father smiled, unbothered. That’s how it usually is. That’s how it’s always been.

Until one man decided to ruin it.

He marched up to me — no greeting, no civility — and barked, “According to the law, you need to leash them.”

I looked him square in the face and said, “Don’t talk to me about the law. If you have a problem, then tell me you have a problem. Don’t hide behind rules no one else is quoting.”

This wasn’t about the law. This was about control. About bitterness. About some misguided belief that age entitles you to command people in their own homes. He claimed to be a dog lover too. I told him not to lie to himself and certainly not to me. I directly told him, if you have a problem be honest and tell me and when you are here, I shall keep them on a leash. I did so. Until he left the compound, after bitching to everyone around who would offer an ear. 

You cannot call yourself a dog lover and come up to someone who has raised these animals with care and discipline — someone who’s down with them every single day — and throw regulations in their face without context or conversation. I don’t owe you silence when you cloak your prejudice in legalese.

Let me say it plainly: I live in a city that is barely functioning. The road outside our gate is covered in garbage, broken tiles, and makeshift construction. Pedestrians walk in traffic because footpaths are non-existent. When the street lights didn’t work for months, nobody cared — until I personally called the BMC to get it fixed. That’s the real danger in this city. Not my leashed or unleashed, happy, well-socialised dogs.

But somehow, people like him don’t raise a voice when civic authorities fail us. They stay quiet when the street floods or the drain overflows. But the moment a dog runs free and joyful — my dog, with me right there supervising — they come out of their holes, quoting imaginary laws and feigning concern.

Let’s get something straight:

I have lived through years of irresponsible pet ownership around me — people who abandon their dogs when they move, people who beat them, chain them for hours, or never walk them at all. My dogs are family. I treat them like children. I clean up after them. I invest time and affection into their wellbeing and how they interact with the world. There is no “law” in this city that does more for these animals than a single responsible human does — and I am that human.

And yet, the one thing that triggered this man? Seeing joy. Seeing love. Seeing a safe, beautiful moment that had nothing to do with him.

I will not allow the fearmongering around rabies to be weaponised against every pet parent who’s doing their best. Yes, we need safety. Yes, we need awareness. But let’s not pretend that the hysteria online about dogs is based in facts or care. It’s based in fear. And fear is a poor excuse for cruelty.

I’m not here to be lectured by people who don’t pick up after themselves but have the audacity to pick bones with me.

So to the people like him: No, I won’t apologise for raising loving dogs in a city that desperately needs more kindness. I won’t apologise for giving them space to run, to play, to live.

And I certainly won’t take lectures from a man who’s blind to the real chaos around him, but sees a problem in a moment of joy.

If you’ve got something to say — say it with honesty. Don’t hide behind laws you don’t understand.

And don’t you dare call yourself a dog lover.

The Mirrors In the Mahal

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

A friend of mine is doing a show, and he has asked me to perform to two songs. One, of course, is a Sit Down qawwali — but the second song is a dance number. Basically, it’s a courtesan’s number, it comes from one of my favourite movies. You guessed it. It is picturised on one of my favourite actresses, Madhubala. It is sung by one of my favourite singers, Lata Mageshkar. It is composed by one of my favourite composers — Naushad Sahab.

When I see it on screen, it reminds me of a revolution. It reminds me of how love conquers all. It is the song that led me into the revolution of being proud of who I am, being proud of the men that I fall in love with.

It’s basically been an anthem since — I can remember — in terms of identity, in terms of a reaction against hatred, a reaction against bullying, against prejudice and against my own dad at times. I used to dance to this when I was young, wearing a ghagra, and thinking that I was Madhubala, standing up for my lover and my own love.

As I grew up, I realised that it’s a feminist song. It is a song where a woman reclaims her own agency, and says that I don’t care what the world says to me, I have to live by my own beliefs and by the virtue of my love. As I grew, and I grew into my own homosexual identity, I realised that this is the song that empowers. It’s like a gay anthem, obviously. And so it’s like talking about the closet. It says:

प्यार किया तो डरना क्या?

It says:

पर्दा नहीं जब कोई खुदा से, तो बंदों से पर्दा करना क्या?

These words are epic. These lyrics are epic. These lyrics resound in my own head and in my own heart. It brought in its own life lesson on love. Or rather, how it ought to be. It taught me about the Self. How one should see one’s self and be true to it. 

So when this opportunity came to me, I jumped at it. Then, I thought that I could not do it — because there are so many hitches, actually. There are so many things that keep me second guessing. 

I used to be a Kathak dancer. But I stopped dancing because my left knee just gave out in 2010. And now, of course, I can’t dance on it. My orthopaedic surgeon has told me — when I went for a check-up — that I shouldn’t be dancing at all. I also have a rotator cuff injury in my right shoulder, since months which is excruciatingly painful.

I have mentioned all of this to my friend who is hosting the show — who’s doing the show. He gave me an option to drop out but he also believes in me. And I mean, there are those who love me — who said that I shouldn’t be doing it, because of the pain, because of what I may be going through, and because of what I may go through after the show.

There could be further knee damage. There could be further damage to my shoulder. But I seriously feel that I need to jump at this chance — in the sense of this particular song — because it’s something that I lived by, you see. It was something that brought meaning to my formative years. 

And I’ve seen the show on stage — Feroz Khan’s Mughal-e-Azam — that tours the world. And I’ve always loved the way the song has been choreographed. I’ve seen it twice now. And it’s epic — the way they do this song. It’s such a spectacle to love up to in entirety. 

Of course, I could never match up to the choreography. So I did the choreography myself. I’ve been practising for the last three weeks. And I told my friend that I may not do it — give me a few days. He’d given me about a fortnight to think about it and rehearse and see if I can choreograph it. And I have done so.

Initially, I thought that I would ask somebody else to dance the pure dance part before the number starts. But then I decided that that would be cheating. I had to do it myself. And I really have put in my time, my effort, my entire heart into this.

And I don’t know how it’s going to be — the show is in ten days — but I am preparing a costume, and I’m preparing the choreography. Even today, I rehearsed and I tweaked a little bit of the dance movements — to suit the fact that I can’t do 27 chakras in one go. But I managed to pull in about nine of them in the piece within the piece.

And my body doth protest. Right now, my neck is hurting, my knee is hurting, and my shoulder is hurting. So I’m in pain. I’m also very anxious — wondering whether I’ll be able to pull it off on stage, and wondering whether I’ll be able to, you know, live up to the beauty, the sheer magnificence of the song.

I’m going to try my best. And then, of course, let the chips fall as they may. But I just wanted to put this out there — as to why I want to do it, and what drives me to do it despite the problems that I’m facing. And I think it’s a chance for me to be beautiful, and proud, and magnificent — through the pain.

That’s why I’m doing it.

The Many Faces of Anxiety

Published on by Harpreet Chhachhia1 Comment

I didn’t set out to write about anxiety today. But like most days that begin gently and gather weight, yesterday left me with a churning restlessness I couldn’t shake off. And now here I am, trying to name it.

It began with animal abuse videos flooding my Instagram feed—violent, horrific glimpses into a world I wish didn’t exist. I know we’re all supposed to just scroll past or log off, but I can’t. That’s my weakness, maybe. I can’t look away when animals are in pain. I shared many of those videos to my story—perhaps to shake others awake, perhaps because I didn’t know what else to do.

In India right now, there’s been a surge of hostility towards stray dogs, after a tragic incident where an athlete and animal lover died of rabies—because he didn’t take a post-bite vaccination. That one lapse has turned into widespread panic. Dogs are being relocated, mistreated, even culled. And while his death was tragic, it was also preventable. But instead of addressing that, society’s instinct has been to punish the voiceless. It’s breaking my heart.

On top of that, I’ve been rehearsing for a dance performance—something very close to my heart. A friend invited me to perform two songs I’ve loved since childhood. One of them being physically gruelling as it involves about 6 minutes of continuous dancing – and I’ve poured myself into it: choreographed it, envisioned it, even arranged for the costume. But my body… it’s starting to feel like it’s turning on me. My right shoulder’s frozen, and after Saturday’s long rehearsal, my left knee’s in real pain again—echoing an old injury that once had me limping for months. It frightens me that my mind is dancing ahead, full of rhythm and joy, while my body is buckling, unsure it can carry me through.

I felt like Mary Carson from The Thorn Birds, bitterly remarking to Ralph that it’s God’s final cruelty—to give us hope and desire, while letting our bodies decay. I understand that sentiment too well today.

I’m going to see my physiotherapist again, hoping for answers or at least reassurance. But the truth is, I’m scared. I’m anxious that I won’t be able to perform, or worse—that I’ll damage my body even more trying to prove something. My family doesn’t want me to do this. But I do. I want it so badly because I know I can do it well—if only my body holds out.

Then, as if all that wasn’t enough, I ended up scrolling through old photos—of people who are no longer in my life. And the weight of those absences returned, quietly and cruelly. Some losses never announce themselves again—they just slip back into you, uninvited, and take up space.

The day was dark, grey, and rainy. And I felt that same heaviness. A familiar bleakness.

I’ve written so much about anxiety on this blog before, and yet, here I am again. Because anxiety is not a one-time visitor—it wears different masks, speaks in different voices, shows up at different doors.

But what I do want to say—what I need to remind myself of—is this: sometimes, anxiety walks hand in hand with longing. With courage. With hope. When you’re anxious about doing something, and yet you still want to do it—and you try anyway—that’s the human spirit. That’s what matters.

I just hope I don’t end up hurt. And I hope I don’t hurt anyone else while trying. So I’ll move forward—but with care. With awareness. With as much wisdom as I can muster.

And if you’re feeling like this too—heavy, restless, caught between desire and doubt—please know you’re not alone. Some days will be like this. And that’s okay.

…

I must add this note: I finished writing this post a few minutes ago and I went on Instagram to check up on messages. The first picture, I happened to see was a quote from a page I follow. I must share it here.

I take this as a sign from the universe. This quote speaks to the essential truth of transformation: that before renewal, there is pain. The imagery of “rising from the ashes” is that of the myth of the phoenix, a magnificent bird that dies in flames and is reborn from them. It so happens I have it tattooed on my left arm. Kalen Dion’s words remind us not to romanticise the rebirth without acknowledging the fire.

Suddenly I find the quote being a balm for the anxious, grieving, aching, and the hopeful me — and in fact, all of us who are in the middle of our fire. It says: Yes, you’re hurting now. But you won’t be ash forever. You’re becoming. Stay brave.

And I intend to.