Tag: prejudice

On Looking Down, and Looking In

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

I met someone recently—someone I’d spoken to online—at a party I attended not long ago. In person, though, something felt immediately off. Not because of chemistry or the lack of it, but because of an almost compulsive need he seemed to have: to look down on everything around him.

The party wasn’t good enough.

The music wasn’t up to the mark.

The people weren’t interesting enough.

Nothing passed muster. Everything required commentary, and all of it was dismissive.

He told me he was 22. And instinctively, I wondered if this was an age thing. But then I stopped myself. I was once that age too. I don’t remember needing to belittle an entire room to feel significant within it.

What unsettled me more was the familiarity of it. I’ve encountered this posture before—among people I’ve known, been friends with, sometimes even admired at one point. A certain self-appointed elite, defined not by kindness or depth, but by what and whom they reject. How others dress. How they speak. What music they like. Where they come from. Everything becomes a metric for exclusion.

I’m not pretending I’m immune to prejudice. I’m not. I know exactly where mine lies.

I don’t tend to judge people by caste, class, race, or colour. But I do judge—quietly, perhaps arrogantly—on intellectual and emotional grounds. Empathy matters deeply to me. Curiosity matters. The ability to question inherited beliefs matters. And yes, I struggle with people who are blinded by unexamined faith or rigid dogma. That is my bias. I own it.

So the uncomfortable question arose: was I doing something similar to him, just dressed in better language?

I don’t think it’s the same. Or at least, I hope it isn’t.

Because there is a difference between choosing not to engage, and actively deriding. Between recognising incompatibility, and making contempt a personality trait. What I witnessed wasn’t discernment—it was dismissal masquerading as sophistication.

There’s something deeply sad about believing that to appear intelligent, dapper, or “above it all,” one must constantly signal what one is not. That one must shrink others to inflate oneself. It’s a brittle kind of confidence, and it cracks easily.

Perhaps age does play a role. At 22, there is often a frantic need to impress—by saying the right things, having the right opinions, aligning oneself with the “correct” tastes. Sometimes that performance hardens into habit. Sometimes it softens with time. I don’t know which way it will go for him.

What I do know is this: I don’t need to pull anyone down to feel whole. I don’t need to sneer at a room to belong in it. If I don’t resonate, I can simply step away—with grace.

We live in a world already cruel enough, stratified enough, lonely enough. Choosing empathy over elitism isn’t naïveté; it’s resistance.

And perhaps the real marker of maturity—emotional, intellectual, human—is not how sharply we judge, but how gently we hold our differences.

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.

My Kids Have Fur

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

The other day, I visited my cousin’s house, and once again, I was reminded of the silent wall that often stands between how people say they love animals, and how little they actually see them. I understand that in many families, dogs are appreciated—even adored—but rarely do they cross that invisible line that transforms them from ‘pets’ to ‘children’. But for me and my sister, that line was crossed long ago. Our dogs are our children.

We’ve made a conscious choice to not have human children. As a gay man, I never felt the inclination or desire for biological parenthood. Biologically, I cannot reproduce with another man, and philosophically, I am what many would call an antinatalist. I look at the state of the world, the cruelty, the suffering, the apathy—and I know I couldn’t bring another life into this chaos in good conscience.

Instead, I chose a different path: to love, nurture, and raise animals. Not just the ones at home, but also the stray ‘kiddos’ I meet on the streets. I feed them, care for them, look after their health, and do what I can within my capacity. My home, however, belongs to my three kids—my dogs. They sleep on the beds, lie on the sofas, and follow house rules. They listen, they understand, and they love. They are gentle, warm, kind, and patient—qualities we often hope to cultivate in human children. But with these little ones, it comes naturally.

That’s why it hurts when people fail to see the depth of that bond. In my residential colony, I am often pulled up for the smallest things—a drool mark in the lift, a strand of fur on a step, a missed spot I forgot to clean after a late night. People look at us with disgust, as though we are encroaching on their pristine human world with something unclean. It’s funny how tolerant we pretend to be of differences—until that difference is actually different.

Children from our building often play with our dogs. They’ve never been harmed. In fact, it’s the toddlers who embrace our dogs most naturally, without prejudice or fear. But the adults? They carry biases so deeply embedded, they don’t even realise how cruel they sound. “Every dog bites,” they say. Just like they say, “Every man is a predator,” or “Every gay man will try to convert you.” It’s this knee-jerk vilification—of communities, identities, or species—that reflects something broken in the human condition. J.K. Rowling’s comments about trans people trying to erase women’s rights is just one such example of this prejudiced, uninformed thinking.

During my cousin’s gathering, there was a small incident. My sister poured some used water—water that our dogs had drunk from—into a sink where used utensils were kept. The vessels were already dirty, but the reaction was instantaneous. My cousin objected. She didn’t want the ‘dogs’ water’ to fall upon the humans’ dirty vessels. My sister took offence. To me, it was understandably so. For her, our dogs are family. They share our space, our lives, our routines. They’re not ‘less than’. But I tried to mediate—I told her we were in someone else’s home, and we had to respect their discomfort, even if it came from a place of “othering”.

But it’s these little moments that sting. Like when my cousin, on hearing that my partner and I were also celebrating 25 years together, said, “Oh, but ours is official.” As though two and a half decades of shared life, struggle, and love somehow means less because we don’t have a marriage certificate. As though our relationship is a placeholder, not a permanent bond.

For many people, I suppose it will always be: Your dogs aren’t children. Your love isn’t real. Your life isn’t equal. But for me, none of that changes what is true in my world. My children have paws. My relationship, though unofficial in the eyes of the law, is rooted in commitment and resilience.

We must learn to see with eyes wider than our biases, to feel with hearts larger than our traditions. Because love—be it between humans or between humans and animals—is never less valid just because it doesn’t fit a template.

If you’ve ever loved a dog, or any animal, bird, fish, like a child, you’ll understand. And if you haven’t, I hope one day you will.