Author: Harpreet Chhachhia

Just me and nothing else but.

The Many Faces of Anxiety

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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.

Superman

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Light Restored: David Corenswet’s Superman Shines

I went to the first-night late showing of Superman with zero expectations—especially not expecting anything from star David Corenswet. But from the very opening, the film radiates light in a way Henry Cavill’s brooding take simply never did. Cavill’s Superman was relentless, vicious, bleak—more dark Batman than hopeful beacon. Corenswet, on the other hand, embodies everything good Superman should be: optimism, warmth, light.

From the start, the film introduces Superman at his most vulnerable—hurt, uncertain—and brings in Krypto, his loyal super‑dog, at just the right moment. Krypto’s entrance is delightful: “the canine sidekick steals the show, and his goofy interactions with Superman will resonate with anyone who loves dogs”. It was a moment that brought me—and, I suspect, dog lovers everywhere—to tears of joy.

Corenswet as Clark Kent / Superman reminds us of a young Christopher Reeve: dimpled, earnest, charming. He truly “soars as the Man of Steel”  , balancing vulnerability with heroism, sunlit goodness with real human emotion. As one review put it: “David Corenswet is just right for the dual role”.

Nicholas Hoult as Lex Luthor brings a modern tech‑tycoon je ne sais quoi—smart, menacing, magnetic. Many critics praised his turn, though some felt his performance didn’t match Gene Hackman’s classic menace.

The supporting cast includes: Rachel Brosnahan as Lois Lane: vibrant, sharp, independent. Critics say their chemistry is one of the best since Margot Kidder. Jimmy Olsen – Skyler Gisondo. Guy Gardner / Green Lantern – Nathan Fillion – is always a pleasure to watch. I couldn’t help remember him in Firefly. He’s back to his forté. Hawkgirl – Isabela Merced – brought in that element of darkness whereas Mister Terrific – Edi Gathegi – was indeed terrific. I liked the inclusion of Metamorpho (substance-shifter) – Anthony Carrigan – it brought in someone we hadn’t seen in the DC verse so far. These characters, dubbed the “Justice Gang” in a nod to the Justice League, provide depth and interactivity— and though some critics found the ensemble slightly overloaded – for me, it was just right. 

Director James Gunn steers Superman away from darkness. Thankfully! The film bursts with colour, lightheartedness, and earnest hope—exactly what the genre needed, described as a “colourful, breezy reinvention”. One critic noted the tone rejects “grim and gritty” in favour of “empathy… a radical tenderness over traditional machismo”.

The story skips a long origin arc and jumps into Clark’s life as a reporter and a hero. The film is tight, fast-paced, and brings back the classic John Williams–inspired trumpet theme—rejuvenating that sense of nostalgia I felt as a child growing up with Reeve.

Yes, there are a few hiccups: Some plot lines feel overcrowded—global politics, misinformation, and pocket-dimension mayhem. And let’s not forget the white man protecting the brown population from imperialists is an age old-trope that doesn’t sit well with me but even the CGI quality varies, especially in later action scenes.

Despite the missteps, Superman is an earnest, uplifting ride. It’s a heartfelt tribute to the Christopher Reeve era—sunlit, moral, full of hope. As one critic said: “I went into ‘Superman’ with low expectations… this reboot… is infused with heart, humour and a fresh optimism that the franchise desperately needed”.

So, if you’re longing for the Superman of light and goodness—not darkness and cynicism—this Superman is your film. It wants us to believe again—and it succeeds. This Superman is light reborn: hopeful, sincere, and undeniably fun. If you’re tired of the brooding, Nolan‑style heroes, let Corenswet’s Superman carry you back into the sun.

Another Life Lost

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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.