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.

My Children

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They are my children — each four-legged canine.

I am human; they aren’t, but they are mine.

Each came to my life, made it softer;

Each has brought its share of love and laughter.

Each pup has known my embrace and promise,

And saved the hope life wanted to tarnish.

They shone — white, or fawn, or tiger brindle —

Each brought a flame that’s forever kindled.

They pulled me back from death, I confess, twice;

Leaving them without me was not a choice.

So they stave my depression with their walks;

Most nights, they engage me in play or talks.

Xena is the smartest, Diana the kindest;

Rolfe often brought my temper to the test.

Zoe, my shadow, I loved the very best;

Bonzo was my first, and Zach’s my first-born,

And each passing gets my heart ripped and torn.

I lost my faith in God when Zoe died,

And when death comes to each, how I have cried.

They taught me early how grave loss can be,

And death seems now almost like family.

My kids have helped build all my empathy,

And love, and valour, and brave sympathy.

They have no clue of hardship, death, and life;

They have indirectly taught me a stray’s strife.

I see and judge the world through their pure eyes,

Because no one in it ever lies or dies.

I give them all the love I have and can,

And each of them makes me a better man.

Noise and Smoke

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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.