We started with one dog, one bad night, and one question nobody had answered.

His name is Leo.

At home, we call him our Art of Living. It started as a joke, but it stuck — because nothing rattles this dog. He doesn't bark unless he absolutely means it. He greets strangers like long-lost friends. He sleeps where the sun is warmest, eats what you give him, and somehow turns even the worst day into a softer one. He is, in the most literal sense, the calmest soul in our house. The kind of dog you forget can be hurt — because he never makes a fuss about anything.

That was the problem.

We had just moved to Bangalore. Brand new flat, brand new pin code, brand new everything. We hadn't met our neighbours. We didn't know which of the corner shops stayed open late. We hadn't yet found a vet, a groomer, or even the route to the closest 24-hour pharmacy. Everything was a Google search away — and Google, as anyone who has looked for a vet at 11 PM in a new Indian city already knows, is not actually a friend.

Then one evening, late, my wife and I noticed Leo wasn't quite himself. He was lying down a lot. Eating, but slowly. We almost missed it — that's the thing about Leo, he just doesn't complain. When we finally checked him properly, we found it: a deep bite wound, hidden under his fur, bleeding badly and already infected. Some dog had got to him during the day and we hadn't seen a thing.

It must have happened hours ago.

I want you to picture what came next, because anyone who has loved an animal in an unfamiliar city in India already knows it. We didn't have a vet's number. We didn't know which clinics were open at night. We started calling people we barely knew. Google was no help — half the listings were wrong, half were closed, half didn't pick up. My wife was holding Leo, trying not to cry. Our son was just a few kilometres away, asleep at his boarding school, blissfully unaware that any of this was happening — and somewhere underneath the panic, a quieter ache was already beginning: he had only just left home, he loved Leo more than anything, and we were going to have to find the words to tell him. I was scrolling, scrolling, scrolling.

And then came the second wave of panic: his vaccination records. Where were they? In a folder somewhere. In a WhatsApp message from months ago. In a paper slip from the pet store. In an email from a vet we'd never see again.

We needed them right then. We couldn't find them.

Leo is fine now. He's resting next to me as I write this. But that night changed something. I was about to take a sabbatical and travel for a year. I cancelled it. I told my wife I needed to build something instead.

Because if it was this hard for us — two people who think of themselves as organised, internet-savvy, capable adults — what is it like for the 70% of Indian pet parents who are first-timers? What is it like at 11 PM on a Tuesday in Indore, in Kochi, in Bhubaneswar, in any of the cities our country is full of, when your dog is hurt and you don't know who to call? What is it like when there's a child somewhere who loves that dog with all his heart and trusts that the grown-ups have it under control?

That question became Petrāah.