Tag: Fear

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 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.

Another Life Lost

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

Earlier this week in Mumbai, Raj, a 32-year-old chartered accountant, died by suicide after enduring eighteen months of harassment and blackmail over a private video. The police confirmed that two individuals extorted over ₹3 crore from him by threatening to circulate this video. He was made to steal from his company and deplete his personal savings. His sister later revealed that the blackmailers humiliated him repeatedly, questioned his sexuality, and used threats to break him down emotionally. They even forced him to bear the burden of an SUV registered in his name, demanding EMI payments. The mental torture pushed him to a point where he could no longer carry on.

What the news report fails to mention — and what is so often left unsaid — is that the “private video” was of homosexual sex. Raj was not just blackmailed. He was targeted for his sexuality. He wasn’t just defrauded financially. He was hunted emotionally. And despite having made three complaints, the police failed to act.

This is not a new story. It’s an old one, a painful one, and an increasingly familiar one. I have heard it too many times in too many ways. Gay men being blackmailed for being in the closet. For wanting intimacy. For trusting someone. Sometimes it’s the hookup itself. Sometimes it’s someone pretending to be an ally. Sometimes it’s a calculated setup involving the local authorities, with “sting” operations meant to trap and extort. Always it ends in shame, silence, or something worse.

Before Section 377 was read down in 2018, the law was a weapon used to blackmail closeted queer people. After 2018, society simply adapted its weapons. The fear remains. The shame remains. The vulnerability remains. The closet has become a trap — not a refuge. You go into it to feel safe, and someone finds a way to reach in and destroy your life.

Our society demands silence from gay people. Families force their sons into marriages to preserve reputation and lineage. Parents say, “Have a child, and everything will be fine.” They don’t care that someone else — often a woman — is being lied to. They don’t care about the happiness of their own child either, as long as he conforms. The pressure is relentless. And so people remain in the closet. And those in the closet become easy prey.

I have seen my friends suffer. Some have been assaulted. Some emotionally manipulated by men who disappeared after sex, leaving behind guilt and self-hatred. Some took their lives. Loneliness is the most silent killer in the queer community. As we grow older, it intensifies. And when loneliness meets blackmail and social shame, it often ends in tragedy.

I was brave enough — if one can call it that — to have come out at sixteen, with some family support. Not everyone gets that chance. Not everyone is believed. Not everyone is safe.

We keep asking: why do we need Pride marches? This is why. We need Pride because Raj is no longer alive. We need Pride because someone, somewhere, is being threatened tonight for just being who they are. We need Pride because even today, seven years after Section 377 was scrapped, queer people are still being criminalised — not by the law, but by society.

We need authorities to stop being complicit through inaction. We need them to do their job. If a person files three complaints and nothing is done, who is responsible for the outcome?

This has to end. I wish — deeply wish — that every queer person finds the strength to be proud, to live truthfully. But I also understand the fear. The shame isn’t theirs — it belongs to a society that hasn’t learnt how to love its own children for who and what they are.

Until that day comes, we must keep fighting. For visibility. For justice. For those who didn’t survive. For those still too scared to speak. For Raj.