Category: Articles

The Weight Of Memory

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

I am preparing to move again.

Not just homes — but histories.

The new place at Yari Road sits with a strange tension in my mind. On the surface, it promises something better: more people with pets, more visible dog lovers, perhaps a more forgiving outdoor space. And yet, even before arriving, I can feel the resistance.

There are already rules. Pets cannot use the main lift. They must use the service lift.

I understand where this comes from. I have seen this mindset all my life — where certain bodies, both human and animal, are quietly assigned lesser spaces. Where presence itself becomes something to be managed, controlled, redirected.

And so I know this will not be a peaceful adjustment. It will be daily negotiations. Small confrontations. The quiet exhaustion of having to assert that my dogs belong — not just in my home, but in the world outside it.

Zuri is used to a garden. To open play. To a kind of freedom that roads cannot offer. Roads frighten her. And I cannot explain to her why her world must shrink, or change shape, or become something she must learn to endure.

I already feel the edge of that future. It sets my teeth on edge.

And yet, strangely, Yari Road also holds a past. A different one.

My dogs were once raised there. There is memory in those streets too. A sense — perhaps imagined — that they belonged there in a way they never quite did here.

So I stand between two uncertainties:
A past that holds love, and a future that threatens resistance.

And then there are the homes I have already left behind.

Amruttara — where I lost Bonzo, Rolfe, Diana. That space no longer exists. It has been erased, replaced by a tower. And now I return to that same ground, as if grief has been built over, but not removed.

Raj Mahal — where I lost Zoe. A home I will never step into again. Some spaces become sacred only after they are lost.

And here, in Savera, I lost Zach. And now Xena.

Perhaps they never truly settled here. Perhaps they carried another memory within them — of Yari Road, of a different beginning. I don’t know. I only know that this place holds their absence now, and it echoes.

And in the middle of all this is Zuri.

My living child.

I am taking her back to a place that once held life, but may now hold conflict. I ask myself: will this be good for her? Will she find ease, or will she inherit my unease?

And then, quietly, another thought presses in.

I want to bring home another puppy.

But where do I raise her?
In a place I am about to leave?
Or in a place I am not yet sure will accept her?

There is so much love in me. It does not diminish. It does not quieten. It simply waits — looking for somewhere to go.

And alongside it, there is something else. Not quite fear. Not quite anger.

But the knowledge that love, when it steps into the world, is often met with resistance.

This move is not just about space.

It is about whether love will be allowed to breathe there.

a Goodbye at Dawn

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

Today was the day I had been dreading.

The day I would take Xena to the sea—not as the living, breathing presence who filled my home, but as ashes held in an urn. It felt like I would be losing her all over again. For days, I had been sitting beside her—talking, crying, writing—trying to make sense of a silence that came too soon, violently, after Zach, whose absence I am still learning to live with.

And then came today.  

Her twelfth birthday.

A day I had always believed she would see in flesh and spirit—but instead, I carried her to the sea.

—

We left just before dawn.  

Geeta, Atif, Anand, and I.

There is something about that hour—the world not fully awake, the sky undecided between darkness and light—that feels like a threshold. It felt right for a goodbye.

We first thought of going near the crematorium at Versova, but life, in its quiet way, redirected us. A step too steep. A small hesitation. And suddenly, we found ourselves at the beach near what used to be Chai Coffee instead.

The sea was at low tide.  

The morning was still.  

And for once, the city was not loud.

—

We walked towards the water.

No ceremony. No performance. Just the four of us, and her.

We opened the urn. And one by one, we let her go.

Her ashes—her bones—her final physical trace—met the sea.

And something unexpected happened.

I felt… calm.

Not the absence of grief, but the presence of something deeper. A quiet rightness. The waves were gentle, lapping at our feet as if they were telling us of all the millions of times they had borne witness to this act. The sea understood the moment better than we did. We stood there, all of us in the water, and watched as she became part of something vast, something endless.

Anand pointed out how a small fragment kept returning with the waves, as though unwilling to leave just yet. And then, eventually, it didn’t.

It went where it was meant to go.

—

There was sadness, of course.  

But there was also peace. And strangely, there were smiles.

Because in that moment, I knew something with certainty—I had given her a life of love. I had given her comfort, dignity, and presence. She was at peace long before today, because she was with me.

And today, I gave her a different kind of peace.

The kind that comes when suffering ends.

—

We came back home.

There was no dramatic silence. No overwhelming collapse.

We spoke. We sat. I made fried eggs for everyone. Life, in its quiet resilience, continued. And then Zuri came to the door—alive, warm, waiting—and in that moment, I was reminded that love, even when broken, does not end.

It changes form. It redistributes itself.

And there is still someone here who needs me.  

And there always will be.

—

I do not feel like I have lost her again.

I feel like I have completed something for her.

Something difficult. Something necessary.

Something a parent must do.

And I know this much—I have been a good parent.

And she knew that.

Love Never Lets Go

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

Tonight is not the last night.

And yet, it feels like it is.

Tomorrow morning, at 6:30, I will take what remains of Xena — her ashes, the last physical truth of her presence — and I will give them back to the sea. I know what that means. I have lived long enough, loved deeply enough, to understand the symbolism of it. Release. Return. Completion.

But knowing does not soften it.

It only sharpens the ache.

This week, the world around me has been full of beginnings. New years, new moons, new prayers. Gudi Padwa. Navroze — my mother’s day of joy. Cheti Chand for Anand. The end of Ramzan for Arif. Eid tomorrow.

Everywhere I look, people are stepping into light.

And I am standing here, holding on to ash, memory and grief.

I am not untouched by the beauty of these days. I see it. I respect it. Somewhere within me, I even honour it. But I cannot enter it. I cannot perform joy when my hands are still trembling with grief. I cannot send out cheerful messages as though something inside me hasn’t been quietly breaking, again and again.

Because this is not just about tomorrow.

Tomorrow, when I let Xena go, I will also be letting go of Zack. Not literally — I know that. But something final will close. Some last physical tether will dissolve. And I will be left with memory alone.

People say memory is enough.

It isn’t.

Not in moments like these, when your body still expects to reach out and find them. When your hands remember the weight of them. When your eyes still search for movement that will never come again.

And the hardest part — the part I cannot seem to say out loud without feeling misunderstood — is this:

People don’t fully understand.

They try. They are kind. They say the right things. But there is always that invisible boundary. That unspoken qualification.

“They were dogs.”

As though love measures species.
As though grief asks for permission.

I have loved before. I lost Zoe in 2013, and it hollowed me out in a way I didn’t think I would survive. I remember believing, with absolute certainty, that I would never love another being the way I loved her.

But I did.

I loved Xena.
I loved Zack.

Just as deeply. Just as completely.

And now I grieve them with the same fullness, the same helplessness.

So when people don’t understand, it isn’t because they don’t care.

It’s because they haven’t stood where I am standing — holding the last remnants of a love that had breath, warmth, presence… and now fits into something you can carry in your hands.

There is a particular kind of silence that comes with this kind of grief. It is not dramatic. It is not loud. It does not always cry.

It just stays.

It sits beside you when you wake up. It follows you through the day. It lies next to you at night. And sometimes, it makes even the most beautiful moments feel distant — like something you can observe, but not touch.

I cannot make people understand this.

And perhaps I don’t need to.

Because love like this — the kind that does not diminish, the kind that dares to return again after being broken — is not meant to be explained.

It is only meant to be lived.

And carried.

Until, one morning, you walk to the sea…
and understand that letting go was never the point.

Only loving is.