Category: Articles

An Animal’s Agony

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

can’t unsee what I’ve seen. A cow’s head crushed with a gas cylinder. A dog tied to a moving vehicle and dragged until its cries fade into silence. Boiling water poured over a cat as laughter fills the background. A leopard beaten to death by a mob. None of these images leave me. They live behind my eyelids, replaying every time I try to sleep.

I don’t look for them. The algorithm finds me — because it has decided I love animals. And it’s right. But it’s also cruel. Loving animals in this world means being shown their pain again and again. It’s a punishment for empathy. The very thing that makes us human becomes the source of our deepest anguish.

People say, “Don’t watch those videos.” But ignorance isn’t a cure. Because somewhere, right now, a creature is being tortured for no reason other than human apathy — or worse, amusement. We share this planet with them, yet we act like landlords who believe in eviction by extinction.

And this is what breaks me: the lack of outrage. The absence of mass grief. We weep for war victims, for political tragedies, for celebrity deaths. But when an animal screams, it echoes into a void. There are no protests, no vigils, no breaking news alerts. Only a few of us stay awake at night, clutching our hearts, wondering how humanity can be this numb.

I know — the world is cruel in many ways. There are bombs and gas chambers, rape and murder, children dying of hunger, queer people shamed and driven to suicide. Humanity has fallen before; it will fall again. But how far do we fall before we admit that we’re broken? That our capacity for destruction has outgrown our will for compassion?

It’s not just about animals. It’s about us. What we manifest when we refuse to care. What we become when we scroll past cruelty as if it’s another meme, another clip for engagement. We cannot expect a peaceful world when we thrive on violence — even the kind we consume in silence.

I don’t have answers. Only sleepless nights. And this constant question: When will we rise?

When will we take responsibility for the world we’ve built — for the pain we inflict, directly or by indifference? When will empathy stop being an inconvenience, and start being our instinct again?

Because if we don’t learn to protect the voiceless, we will lose our own voice one day. And the silence that follows will be the sound of everything beautiful dying.

Noise and Smoke

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

The evening sky glowed. Then the air thickened.

Each year I brace myself for the onslaught. I can almost feel it before the breeze shifts — that moment when the last sparkle dies out and the air turns heavy, coarse, irritable. The night when celebration becomes assault. The festival of lights is meant to uplift; for me, it often signals a descent into discomfort.

This year, with the Supreme Court of India easing the ban on fire-crackers and permitting “green crackers” under stipulated windows, I hoped for the best but feared the worst. The data have shown me fear was justified.

When “green” isn’t green enough

The idea behind “green crackers” is solid: less noise, fewer harmful chemicals, lower immediate emissions. According to experts, they reduce particulate emissions by around 30-50 % compared with conventional fireworks. 

But—and this is a big but—the real world hasn’t cooperated. Enforcement is patchy, bursting continues outside the permitted hours, and even at 30% less the residual emissions are still very high.

In cities like New Delhi the numbers speak loudly. The particulate matter PM₂.₅ levels have soared: one report flagged spikes of up to nine times the national standard on Diwali night.  One analysis found ambient PM₂.₅ and PM₁₀ to increase by 2-6 times versus normal levels. 

And for me, that means a proper struggle: wheezing, heavy lungs, scratchy throat, the constant fear of the next asthma flare-up when the air turns toxic.

The human and animal toll

My allergies flare. Cats hide under the bed, ears flat, quivering at the noise and smell. Dogs shiver through the bursts, pacing. Many times running away from familiar territory to strange ones where they are attacked and/or beaten. Some times to death. To them it’s chaos — fireworks that should sparkle become thunderous and frightening.

Beyond my home: emergency rooms are filling. In Gujarat, for instance, burns cases rose by 53% during the festival period.  Fire-service and police records report fires caused by fire-crackers, injuries, trauma. 

And the air? It becomes an agent of harm. Fine particles penetrate deep into lungs. One study tracking personal exposure during fire-cracker bursting found PM₂.₅ levels reaching 4 860 µg/m³ to 64 500 µg/m³ during individual cracking events. (By comparison, safe annual average limits are in single digits per WHO guidelines.) 

Those particles carry metals, sulphur-dioxide, nitrogen-oxides. For vulnerable people (asthma sufferers, children, elderly) the risk is stark. Sounds frightfully personal to me.

My plea — for the sound of silence and clean air

I ache for a lighter sky. For the moment when celebration does not come at the cost of my breath or my pets’ comfort. When a festival doesn’t mean I spend the next two days in a haze of coughs and half-open windows.

I understand traditions matter, joy matters. But surely they matter less than basic rights: to breathe, to live without fear of lung constriction or silent harm.

I write this to say: yes, green crackers might help somewhat, but we need stricter compliance, fewer bursts, earlier windows. We need enforcement, but more deeply we need empathy — for those whose bodies oppose the smoke, whose animals dread the acoustics.

If you celebrate: try shimmering lights instead of booming bangs. Spare a thought for the dog cowering in the corner, the cat who won’t come out, the neighbour whose lungs are already tired.

Let’s light the sky — but let’s also clear the air.

Becoming Charlotte

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

So, I’ve just returned from the doctor. Diagnosis: vertigo.

I suppose it’s been coming. I’ve been running non-stop since July — organising the talent show, editing videos, coordinating graphics, managing everything down to the last detail. Add to that the preparations for Mum’s home, the interiors, the errands, the hours of standing and walking, and you’ve got the perfect recipe for the world literally spinning around you.

Yesterday, while putting up Diwali lights, the room suddenly began to tilt. My balance went, my blood pressure dropped, and I had to lie down, feeling as if gravity had decided to play games with me. I took my fluids, rested, and eventually felt better. But this morning, it happened again — so off I went to the doctor, and there it was: vertigo, my uninvited festive guest.

As I sat there, I couldn’t help but laugh — the kind of quiet, knowing laugh that comes with age. You see, for years I’ve imagined myself as Carrie Bradshaw — the free-spirited, stylish writer from Sex and the City, twirling through life in fabulous shoes and clever words. But apparently, I’m not Carrie anymore. I’ve become Charlotte.

Charlotte, with her house, her husband, her children, her dog — the woman who found meaning not in the city’s dazzle but in her home’s quiet rhythm. She used to seem naïve to me, a bit too proper. Now, I see her differently. She’s the one who stayed grounded. She’s the one who built something that lasted.

It’s funny how growing up changes the lens. We stop chasing glamour and start craving peace. We stop looking for the story’s hero and begin to value the ones who hold everything together behind the scenes.

I used to think being a Gryffindor was the dream — all courage, drama, and heroic flair. I loved the idea of it. In my twenties, Gryffindor felt like home — the house of Dumbledore, the house I believed even J.K. Rowling herself would be sorted into. That world shaped my imagination, fuelled my creativity, and gave me a sense of belonging when I needed it most. But as I grew older, something changed. When I saw Rowling’s transphobia emerge in 2019, the world I had held sacred began to crack. It felt like watching a piece of my youth crumble — the very magic that once inspired me revealing its darker corners.

Yet, perhaps that’s what growing up really is — learning to see hate for what it is, prejudice for what it is. I realised that maybe a Hufflepuff would have recognised this truth from the beginning — that kindness and empathy matter more than hero worship. The illusion of the flawless hero shattered, leaving behind something steadier: practicality, wisdom, and compassion.

Maybe that’s what life teaches us when it makes us dizzy — literally and metaphorically. That balance matters more than bravery. That it’s not about shining constantly, but about being there when it counts.

And honestly, as I start my medication and take a deep breath before the next round of festive madness, I realise something: I’ve built a life with roots. A life where, when I fell, four people rushed to help. A home where family still asks what I want for breakfast, because I am not up to making it myself. A circle that cares when I’m unwell.

For all the spinning, the world has never felt steadier.

Here’s to the Charlottes, the Neville Longbottoms, and the Hufflepuffs among us — the ones who may not seek the spotlight but who make sure the lights stay on.