Tag: Fear

When the Body Breaks Before the Heart Does

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

I am afraid of losing Xena.

And my body knows it before I allow myself to say it aloud.

We have organised our lives around her illness. Anand and I orbit her like anxious moons — checking tumours, adjusting dressings, watching if she paws at the wound, fitting the cone, giving  her with food, measuring medicines, studying her eyes for discomfort. Love has become vigilance.

And now I have fallen sick.

Acid roars in my stomach like a pit of hellfire. It burns up my chest as though grief is rehearsing its entrance. A cold sore blooms at the corner of my lip — a painful eruption that feels like accusation. As if my body is saying: you cannot control this either.

I hate the helplessness.

I hate that my immune system falters under fear. That I am shivering while she lies there with a body at war with itself. I can take paracetamol. I can swallow an antiviral. I can ask for help.

What does she do?

She paws at the tumour that offends her skin. She endures.

I just lost my son. And I am strangely relieved that I believe in no higher power to blame. There is no heaven to petition. No prayer to bargain with. There is only flesh. Biology. Cells that turn rogue. Love that cannot prevent it.

But hell — hell I feel. It sits in my gut, acidic and churning.

I hate death not because it exists, but because it rarely comes gently. It arrives dragging pain and anticipatory grief behind it. It makes you rehearse goodbyes before they are required. It makes you ill before anything has even happened.

And still, she eats. She looks at me. She responds. She plays.

So perhaps this sickness is not prophecy. Perhaps it is fear trying to outrun reality.

I am trying my best. This has to be enough?

Pride Is A Protest

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

I am a citizen of India.

January is Pride Month in Mumbai. There will be marches, talks, performances, and celebrations across the city. And yet, if I am being honest, pride does not come easily to me anymore.

I feel unsafe.

I feel unseen.

I feel neglected — not only as a gay man, but as a citizen.

When I was growing up, I loved this country deeply. I carried a fierce sense of patriotism. In my twenties, after completing my Master’s degree, I had the opportunity to move abroad. I chose not to. I stayed back to take care of my mother, and because I genuinely believed India would grow into a place where people like me would belong fully. I believed I would rather be a first-class citizen here than a second-class one anywhere else.

I am fifty now. And very frankly, I am beginning to regret that decision.

In 2018, when Section 377 was read down, I was 43 years old. That means that for most of my adult life, I lived in a country where my existence was criminal. Legally speaking, I have had barely seven years of not being considered a criminal. Seven years is not liberation. It is survival with paperwork.

And even today, that legal change has not translated into lived equality.

I cannot open a joint bank account with my partner in most Indian banks. I cannot nominate him. I have no legal standing if something happens to either of us. He won’t be considered “next of kin” to wean me of life support – if it ever comes to that.

Civil unions are still being fought for in the Supreme Court. Marriage — entangled as it is with religion — feels like a distant and almost irrelevant dream.

So I ask myself: what does citizenship mean for someone like me?

I pay my taxes. For things I sell; for things I buy. I vote (with no hope). I follow the law. I live in a home I inherited — thankfully — because renting is almost impossible. As a gay man, doors shut quietly. As a single man, suspicion follows. As a single gay man with dogs, the conversation ends abruptly. Even families face illegal discrimination in rentals every day, and nothing happens. The law exists only on paper.

I have three dogs. They are my children. I cannot have children of my own, and I have chosen animals — gentler, kinder, better beings — as my family. My youngest was rescued from Chennai, with nowhere else to go. None of my dogs have ever harmed anyone. They have never bitten a soul. They ask for nothing except play, food, and love.

And yet, even this is contested.

The Supreme Court has now turned its gaze on stray dogs — and on those of us who care for them. Feeders are harassed. Compassion is criminalised. Care is framed as inconvenience. I walked in protest on the 4th of January because silence, in moments like these, is violence.

At the same time, women in this country continue to be brutalised with terrifying regularity. Worse than the tapes are the cover ups that follow. Sickening. Children are raped and murdered. Just today, I read about a five-year-old girl assaulted and thrown from a building “for fun”. How does one carry pride alongside that knowledge?

Then there is the city itself.

Mumbai is choking. Pavements are blocked. Roads are gridlocked. Pollution is relentless. I cannot breathe properly. Last month alone, my medical bills crossed ₹10,000 — for chronic throat infections, doctors, medication. I am grateful I had my tonsils removed, or I would likely be hospitalised again. Delhi gasps for air. Indore reels under water contamination. Everywhere, the basics of life — air, water, safety — are compromised.

So I ask, without irony or melodrama:

What am I paying taxes for?

I have no civil rights as a gay man.

I have no health security as an individual.

I have no legal framework that protects my family.

Every day, I read something that scares me into wondering why I am still here.

And yet — I will celebrate Pride.

Not because I feel safe.

Not because I feel protected.

But because Pride has never been about comfort.

Pride is the hallmark of courage.

Before 2018, we lived in fear — but we lived like freedom fighters. We fought knowing exactly what we were fighting against. After 2018, the struggle did not end; it simply became quieter, more bureaucratic, more gaslit.

There is also something quietly sustaining about being part of a tribe — of walking alongside people who feel empathy, who understand why these fights matter. Marching together, standing in peaceful protest, reminds me that I am not entirely alone. That there are others who see what I see, feel what I feel.

I just wish we were enough to bring about real change.

Life feels bleak right now. I am filled with trepidation about what we have done to our world — and to one another. And yet, I am clinging to a fragile hope that things may still get better. I have to believe that they will. Because without that belief, resistance itself becomes impossible.

So this January, I will march.

I will protest.

I will ask for rights — for myself, for my community, for animals, for those who cannot speak.

I will do what I have always done.

Because Pride was never a party.

It was a demand.

And it still is.

Fear Is Not Justice

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

Monday, 11 August 2025 — the Supreme Court of India has ordered that all stray dogs in the Delhi–NCR region be rounded up within eight weeks and placed into shelters.

Eight weeks. Two months.

Anyone who loves or works with street dogs knows what this means. It means these fur-kids will be ripped away from the only streets, corners, and human connections they know. It means they will be shoved into overcrowded, filthy shelters run by corporations and municipalities that see them as a burden, not a life. It means fear, disease, abuse, and death.

I have seen how dogs are kept in Mumbai’s pounds. The conditions are appalling. They are treated like refuse, not sentient beings. And now, the same fate awaits thousands in Delhi.

I’ve seen this cruelty before

I can’t read this ruling without my mind racing back to the first dog I ever rescued.

I was seven or eight when a young white pup with brown markings wandered into my compound. She was small, shy, and beautiful. I gave her shelter in an abandoned car, fed her, and let her roam free when I was inside my house. She became part of the little group of dogs that hung around the building corner.

One afternoon, I heard her yelping. I ran to my bedroom window and saw the municipal van. Men had caged her and were lifting her into the back. I was eight years old — I didn’t know how to fight them. And then she was gone. I never saw her again. That helplessness burned itself into me. I still feel it. 

I had named her Diana.

Years later, I rescued another — a fawn-coloured pup with a stubby tail and the gentlest green eyes. He had wandered into my housing compound, where the security guard was beating him with a stick. I scooped him up and took him home. He was affectionate, trusting, full of fleas and love. I named him Bilbo. I already had two dogs then and my home was small, so I found a friend to adopt him. Giving him away was like tearing a piece of my heart out.

We have to remember:

Rabies doesn’t just happen.

Dog bites don’t just happen.

They happen because we — humans, governments, societies — have failed.

Because vaccination drives are abandoned halfway.

Because sterilisation projects are underfunded and poorly executed.

Because the budgets meant for animal welfare disappear into corrupt pockets.

We create the problem, and then we punish the victims of our neglect. And now, an entire population of innocent dogs is about to pay the price for decades of human carelessness.

When one dog attacks, the response shouldn’t be to round up every dog. That’s the same flawed thinking as branding all men violent because some commit rape, or branding an entire religion dangerous because of one extremist.

It is bigotry applied to animals. It is fear driving policy. And fear rarely chooses the right path.

The easy way is always the cruel way. There are other solutions. There always are.

• Mass sterilisation drives done properly and consistently.

• Continuous vaccination programmes.

• Feeding zones where dogs and people can safely co-exist.

• Shelters that are humane, healing spaces — not prisons of neglect.

But these require work. These require compassion. These require the slow, difficult path that governments rarely take because cruelty is easier. Cruelty can be done quickly, with a press release and a photo op.

I’m not even from Delhi, but this ruling has left me shaken and deeply sad. I’ve seen what happens when bureaucracy decides that an animal’s life has no worth.

I’ve lost hope for the system. I’ve lost hope in leaders. I’ve even lost hope in many people I once loved. I know there are protests, petitions, people fighting — and I am signing them, I am adding my name — but inside me, hope feels like a very faint and dying ember.

The truth is, the world has taught me that humans can live through genocides, the slaughter of innocents, and barely blink. If that is true for human lives, how much hope can I have for animals?

If this ruling were truly about public safety, it would start with fixing the systems that failed. It would start with funding sterilisation and vaccination programmes properly. It would start with auditing the budgets already spent — and stolen.

Instead, this ruling chooses the laziest path: punish the innocent because the guilty are untouchable.

We do not cull all men when women are raped. We do not round up all children when one commits a crime. But we are willing — in the blink of an eye — to round up all dogs when a few incidents occur. That is not justice. That is cowardice disguised as governance.

And let us be clear: fear is not a reason to abandon compassion. Fear is not an excuse to brutalise the defenceless. Fear should never be the guiding principle of a civilised society.

If you have power, you have a choice:

You can use it to protect the voiceless, or you can use it to destroy them. History will remember which you chose.

So, I will speak. I will speak for Diana. I will speak for Bilbo. I will speak for every street dog in Delhi and beyond who will be torn away from their familiar lives, confused, terrified, and caged.

It was never their fault. It was ours. And no court order will change that truth.

If I cannot stop this, I can at least refuse to be silent. Because silence, too, is a cruelty.