The Clouded Mirror

There’s this object I own

An artefact, of sorts

Rather plain to look at

But the envy of lots

Don’t be fooled by its name

It’s not just a mirror, you see

Because it only shows

The very best version of me

The kind I want to be

The kind I want to look

The kind for which in my dreams

I am often, mistook.

And it’s not just me

My friends feel it too

One feels fairer, another, thinner

And one swears her breasts even grew.

And we stare at it for hours

Lost in a state of bliss

Because without that image

Everything feels amiss

Try and make us step aside

And you’ll see a state of despair

Because how we dream to look

Is all that of which we’re aware

We were told, after all

Since our very first birthday

That we want to look beautiful

And beauty only looks a certain way

So why would we bother

To even try to look otherwise

To be happy with ourselves

And treasure our bodies – what a vice!

To actually listen to that murmur

That’s coming from deep inside

Urging us to step away

And actually open our eyes wide

And see that what’s in the mirror

Is actually just a trick of a cloud

Blurring the image that is real

Of the one we should’ve been proud

But our response is outrage

Calling out the murmur on its lies

And we continue to gaze happily

While we drown it out with our cries

Because there’s a small secret, you see

That I haven’t shared with you as yet

We actually know all about the cloud

It’s kind of like our safety net

We put it there ourselves

To bring our ideals nearer

So we wouldn’t have to cringe each time

We decided to look at the mirror

Because each time we step away

Is a reminder of who we are

That we’re not good enough this way

That the journey ahead is far

And so we keep going back

To gaze and gaze all day

Because in that clouded image

We feel like we’re okay

Because the mirror doesn’t just show

The very best version of me

But the version the world’s convinced me

That shows how I ought to be.

I entered a writing challenge this week, wherein I was given a word that I had to weave into my writing. But the thing is, I knew what I wanted to write about long before I saw the word, because it’s something that’s been nagging me for a few weeks [*cough* years *cough*] now.

Acne.

Yea, I know. In an age where we’re faced with countless global problems encompassing humanity and our planet, the thing that’s been bugging me lately is the little pimple on my face. Okay, fine, it’s not really little. And neither is it singular. More like a break out. The kind that’s in [on?] your face. And a little hard to ignore. Because of the incessant pain. And also because it…you know…doesn’t look so nice.

So, for a little context – I’ve had acne problems well since my teenage years. It’s the kind of phase you realize isn’t actually a phase in your case – more like, a perpetual state of being. A partner in crime, if you like. A shadow. An incessant pest. The kind of friend you just can’t get away from. Okay, you get the picture.

And an occasional hazard of having such visible pimples on your face is that it comes up a lot in random conversations:

Me: Hi! How have you been? It’s been so long!

Other: Oh you poor thing. What happened to you?

Or

Me: Alright, let’s order some food?

Other: You’re getting a lot of pimples, you know?

While a lot of people limit themselves to random exclamations of pity combined with a look of being in pain themselves, some others feel that it’s their duty to give you advice on how to deal with acne: like that kind gentleman in Bhopal who stopped his scooter to ask me for directions, before sprouting advice on how to deal with the scarring; or the taxi driver in Mumbai who made me take off my ear phones so I could hear his remedy; or the fellow customer of a grocery store waiting at the counter line who thought it would be a nice way of passing time to hand out advice to strangers.

Hey, I’m not complaining. I live for this stuff – it keeps me laughing for hours afterwards. 

But see, the thing that a lot of people don’t realize is – telling someone a remedy for getting rid of the acne is also, in a way, telling them that they should strive for skin that is acne-free.

No, wait! Before you go all ‘duhh!’ on me, think about it. Yes, people should try to have clean skin, but most people who are prone to acne actually wash their faces far more often than others to strive for that cleanliness, which kind of takes away from the whole 'healthy skin' line of argument. So when you tell someone they should try everything possible to get rid of their acne, you’re really telling them – you’re not good enough the way you are.

Have you tried this product? It works really well. You’re not good enough the way you are. You’re going for a wedding? Make sure you put on some foundation and concealer. You’re not good enough the way you are. Hey did I tell you about this friend who managed to get rid of all their marks in just a few months? You’re not good enough the way you are.

And somewhere down the line, the person starts believing you. They stop looking at mirrors. They avoid posing for photographs. They’re afraid of drawing any kind of attention to themselves, because they think that the first thing others would notice about them is how hideous they look. Eventually, they’re even hesitant to be seen.

Basically, you can be sure that their self-confidence takes a major hit.

All because of bloody pimples.

Sounds a little ridiculous.

But it hit me these last few weeks, when I had the worst break out of acne I’ve ever had, and I reached a point where I cringed if I saw a picture of myself, and even considered backing out of a sports tournament because I didn’t want people seeing me. That was next level. That, and a question my friend posed to me: “Well, as long as the pain goes down, that’s all that matters, right?” And I couldn’t respond – couldn’t say out loud that while it should stop mattering beyond that, the fact is, it doesn’t.

And that’s kind of when I realized how messed up it is to live like this.

Granted, sometimes I myself go around asking people for advice, or seeking sympathy for my condition, but unfortunately, I'm a product of this bloody world too. But these last few weeks have convinced me that at least now I know that this isn't what I need in my life. I need to not care about the marks. I need to be okay with how I look. I need to stop striving for an ideal of how I’m supposed to be. I need to just start being happy with who I am.

Okay, that one really does sound ridiculous. It’s ridiculous that being happy with yourself should be anything but a perpetual state of being.

But I’ve been having a lot of conversations with friends lately about physical looks, and whether it’s possible for us to not care about them. Fact is, I don’t think I’ve ever come across someone who isn’t conscious about some aspect of their body, or else doesn’t care at all about how others look. But I’ve met enough people to inspire the hope that it’s possible to get closer to that ideal. And that’s a place I know I want to strive towards – the place where I’m beyond caring about how I look, or how others look at me; the place where my confidence isn’t controlled by every little dot on my face, or flab on my thighs, or the tan on my skin.

Basically, the place where I don’t care.

The Creators

Hey you...yes you. The so-called creator. You think you're so great, sitting there, smugly, in all that glory, staring down at your handiwork? 

Well, let me tell you. You've got competition, buddy. That's right, there's a new player in town. And anything that you can create...I'll match and raze.


You created land...
I created boundaries

You created water...
I created dams

You created animals...
I created arrows, spears and knives

You created plants...
I created chemicals

You created air...
I created smoke

You created the forests...
I created the axe

You created bodies...
I created clothes to cover the shameful work

You created blood...
I created ways to burst it from its vessels

You created voice...
I created words to use and misuse

You created eyes...
I created the prejudice

You created death...
I created carnage

You created me...
I created you.

The Train

I couldn’t really think of a better title than this. You see, the train is a bit of a foreign object to me, the kind that you know you were once acquainted with, but which you struggle to connect with now. Until the age of 12, I travelled across the country by trains. Living in the south, and having relatives in the north gave my family enough of a reason to spend days and nights on this fascinating object. In the early years, I remember we used to travel by sleeper. I don’t remember much about those days, except that the moment we started travelling in the AC coaches, I remember missing the wind. So even though travel in the AC coaches was supposed to be a step up, to me, it meant giving up one thing that I had loved longer than I realized I did so.

In any case, that’s not to say I didn’t enjoy the train rides. Looking back, what I can remember is a multitude of random images and videos that are burned into my memory – learning to play and acing the art of playing rummy and other card games with the family; walking to the pantry car clutching tightly on to the cup of cup-o-noodles and asking for hot water; mami coming to drop us off at the Delhi station, and always with some delicious dinner to go; bhai and a friend of his lying down on the top berths eating moomphali (peanuts) by removing the outer shells, which they discreetly placed on top of the heads of unsuspecting passer-bys; crouching on the toilet and waiting to do my business while watching fascinatedly as the ground raced by underneath; mamma neatly laying out the bedding at night only for it to be a complete mess by the morning (or a few minutes); worrying every time pa stepped off on to the platform that he may not be able to get back on the train in time; jumping up and down the berths excitedly from different places; watching the rail tracks criss-cross as though they were moving with us; feeling extremely proud each time we successfully crossed that point where the two coaches are joined; watching pa stand at the doorway and hesitantly approaching him, only to be pleasantly surprised when he’d let me stand by his legs near the edge of the doorway, feeling like a daredevil.

And then suddenly, just like that, the travels stopped. We moved countries, and subsequently, also our mode of travel. At the age of 15 I took my first solo flight, and from then onwards, it seemed I never stopped. Travelling across countries, trains were hardly the most feasible option; yet somehow, we stopped travelling by them even when we came to India. I mean, yes, we could afford flights now, so it just made more sense to take those, but coupled with the limited time we always had, travel now became more about getting to the destination than the journey in between. Everyone was so busy with their lives that it never even occurred to us (or to me) that I could travel by train from one city to another.

And so, here I was, a 25-year-old girl who had not only not been on a train for 13 years, but had also never done so alone. Basically, when the opportunity to change this cropped up, I jumped at it – both in fear and a determination to set things right. My first journey last month was about 28 hours, and I was travelling with a friend who resolutely refused to travel by AC, so after all those years, I found myself in a familiar and not-so-familiar bogie. The wind – it was just as I remembered it; the toilets – even more so; the hijra who lifted up her skirt when a passenger refused to hand out money – not so much. But over all, the journey was fun. I spent it in parts sleeping, looking out the window, reading a book and sitting on the doorway (which was a first!) with my friend as we chatted into the night.

But I knew that this was still the relatively easy part. I’ve spent the last year hearing a lot of friends recount what an amazing experience it is to travel by train, particularly alone. So I was determined to give it a shot. In an attempt to control my parents’ already rising heart rates, I decided to travel by AC instead of sleeper. I kept a book handy, charged up my laptop, picked the side lower berth so as to get the best window view, and made my way to the station. The train was, of course, delayed. And the station is hardly the same as an airport where you could just plop yourself on to an empty seat and read your book as you wait. Firstly, there isn’t anything that qualifies as a seat. Secondly, it was just so damn crowded! And everyone looked absorbed in conversations with either every single member of their family who had decided to drop them to the station, or busy with a phone. Option number two was closed to me since I had recently lost my phone. So, steeling myself, I found the place where my coach would stop, took out my book and tried to look as nonchalant as I could while standing in the middle of the crowd and reading.

When the train arrived, I’m proud to say that I was one of the first inside (no, I didn’t push anyone out of the way, thank you very much). It turns out that the fear of missing your train during the few minutes that it stops for can really pump your adrenaline. That and the huge family with over a dozen suitcases I saw making their way towards the coach. Inside, there was no place to put my suitcase, since the Indian railways seems to have an unofficial rule that each passenger must carry at least three suitcases as big as themselves. That was sorted after a few minutes of moving things around. Next, I settled in on my seat to look out the window, and instantly I knew something was wrong. I couldn’t see anything. Granted, it was dark, and the laws of physics would dictate that the window of an AC coach does not allow for gazing out at night, but even the few lights that passed by looked messed up. The doubt was confirmed in the morning, when I realized that my window was the one window on the coach (or the train) that was too messed up to see anything through. All you can see is glass. And tiny water droplets. To top off the journey, the berths next to mine (in the next cabin, if that’s what it’s called) were filled with a family consisting of seven children. That’s right – seven, and the oldest of the lot didn’t look older than six years old. Basically, when one started crying, the rest took it as their cue to follow. So the night was certainly musical.

But more than anything, I think the part that’s disappointing is that – I’m bored. I mean, sure, I exchange a few sentences with my other passengers occasionally (mostly to complain about how late the train is getting), and the rest of the time I’m trying to pass time with my book or my laptop. But still, the time is passing so slowly. I really don’t know what my friends were going on about when it comes to travelling alone by train. I suppose if you’re the more talkative type, then this grants you opportunities to start lifelong conversations with random people. But that’s really unlike me. So here I am, sitting on my berth, staring out at glass, missing the company – with my parents, with my brother, with my friend. Because, I really do have some great memories on the train, but most of them involved other people. Alone, all I care about is reaching home. All I want right now is the destination.

On a side note, I found that the one spot that has remained my favourite across these 25 years and sleeper / AC trains is the doorway, and standing there by myself, all I could think of were those times the much tinier version of myself would carefully sneak around pa’s legs, hoping I could stand there for as long as I liked.

Well, I suppose I can. The way this train is going, Bangalore isn’t getting here any time soon. 

The End of May

It's that time of the year again, with June and school just around the corner. A new year. New teachers. New books. A rush to the bookstore. Carefully going over the required booklist for bhaiya, and then the same for me. Counting the number of sheets we'd need to cover the books. Oh wait, they come in already cut up smaller sheets now. And they look different. More...orangy than brown. Why'd they have to change it? Oh but....this might make covering the books much easier. And we need to decide our stickers. Uff there are so many options. I don't know which one to take. I pick some at random. I don't like making decisions. And we need some pens. Yes, this is the second year my class will be writing with pens. That means I can buy the micro-tip pens like bhaiya. No more of those ink pens. Thank god, they used to be such a mess. Back home, the four of us get together. We have a big job ahead. I hate doing this, because it means school is starting. But it's also so much fun to do this every year, and the books smell so nice. I don't know whether I actually enjoy this or not. Mamma is in charge. She begins by taking a book and placing it over one of the sheets. The sheet is a bit too big, but mamma says she'll just fold it. No point cutting so much. I remember in the earlier years mamma had to spend so much time cutting those big brown sheets. She aligns the book carefully, then opens the front cover. Folds the side. Then opens the back cover. Folds the side again. She closes the book and holds it with her left hand, picking up the scissors with her right. She quickly cuts off all the corners in a neat diagonal shape. Next she cuts the inner side, but this is a little harder. I know. I tried last year but kept doing it wrong. After cutting it, she passes it to us. Pa has gone out of the room because of a phone call. I let bhaiya take the book, because I don't like folding the edges. Somehow they always get bent at the wrong places. I watch him carefully fold the inner flaps between the outside cover, and then breathe in relief as the hard part is over. Now he just has to fold all the outer remaining flaps inside. That part is easy. Even I can do it. But I cut tape and hand it over to him so that he can stick the flaps. Mamma has already started on the next book. She tells me that I could try to do the fist part - placing the book on a single sheet and folding the sides. This will help her go faster. I try to do that. The book keeps slipping every time I fold it from one end. I stick my tongue out in the side while trying to concentrate on the task. I had just finished folding one side before mamma takes it from me. She had finished her part already. Disappointed, I take the next book, trying to g a little faster. This time, I'm able to finish my job before mamma. But bhaiya is having difficulty cutting tapes by himself. So we decide to leave that part for later. Pa comes in, but seeing the big pile of books we have already finished, goes out again. Finally the pile grows larger, and then there are no more textbooks or notebooks left. Mamma looks tired. She says the rest is for bhaiya and me. I don't mind. The remaining part is fun. We break for lunch, and then the two of us come back to finish the job. I cut the tapes, he sticks them on the books. When that is done, we separate our stack of books. He takes his stickers, and I take mine, and both of us quietly try to put the stickers clearly in the centre of each book, without letting it tilt on any end. And finally, only one thing is left. Bhaiya picks up a pen, and offers one to me. This year mamma won't be filling in the stickers for me. I take the pen and carefully start writing my name in capital letters, silently admiring my own handwriting. It feels strange to write the class and section - it makes me feel so much older than I am. We check the lists before writing the titles on the notebooks. All the writing takes a long time, but finally, we both are done. We stack up the books neatly, and pick up all the pieces of paper lying around, throwing them in the bin. The bed looks clear. And the books look so nice sitting on the table. Oh but school is starting. I wish it wouldn't. I wish we could just do this ritual every year and not have to actually go to school afterwards. 

Low

There’s a feeling. Of something heavy weighing you down. Of a thick suffocating cloud that refuses to allow any light. You know you’ve done something wrong. Idiotic, actually. The kind you never thought you would do, or at least, hoped you wouldn’t, though in all fairness, you probably never even considered the possibility of the situation before. You’re disappointed, angry, upset, and to top it off, dreading making the call telling your dad what you did. Knowing he’s going to be all of the above, and more so. It doesn’t matter if you’re 18 years old and have missed an exam because you saw the wrong schedule, or if you’re 25 and have left a ridiculously expensive phone in a cab while roaming around in a different city by yourself. In both situations, you can’t help but going over the past, second by second, thinking of every little thing that you could have done differently, but didn’t. Or looking towards the future, wondering if there’s the slightest chance that you might luck out, and your mistake might be made up for. Hell, the rational side of you knows it’s not the gravest of situations – in hindsight, it might even make a good story to tell. But in this moment, when all you have is the heaviness and the thick clouds, the only thing that sounds even remotely tempting is burying your head into a pillow and hoping to wake up to a better scenario.

The Happy Place

It was cold, not such that it had you shivering from head to toe, but enough for the three-year-old girl to be bundled into a knitted, pink sweater. She picked at it uncomfortably, as she gazed out at the big lake around her. Boats dotted her vision, moving slowly across the water as the grown-ups who sat in them huffed as they pedalled.

On her own boat, her parents sat across her, pedalling the boat with an unhurried ease, while her dad kept one hand on the long stick behind. On her right, her older brother chatted away excitedly. The four of them were on their way to Mussourie, a few hours away from home, and had stopped for boating on the lake that had become customary to these trips.

As she listened to her brother going on and on about his own skill with pedalling the boat (he had done it for a minute at the max), she tried unsuccessfully to enjoy the wind and the water. Finally, feeling that enough was enough, the girl decided that it was time to speak up for herself. Plastering a frown on her puffed-up cheeks, she folded her arms for extra effect, and heaved in annoyance.

“Even I want to pedal,” she said.

Her parents looked at her in surprise. “But you’re too small for this,” said her mother, while her brother sniggered on the side.

“You let bhaiya do it!” she persevered. “Even I want to try.”

“But – “

“Sure,” her father said, cutting off her mom’s objection. Her mother looked surprised, and was about to say something again when her dad gave one of those grown-up looks that she seemed to understand.

“Really?!” the little girl asked, trying to mask her nervousness in excitement.

“Yes. But you’ll have to switch seats with me,” her father said, and proceeded to show her where to place her footing as the two of them carefully switched seats with each other.

As she plopped down on to the seat of power, she suddenly wasn’t too sure about what to do. Her mother, who was now sitting next to her, spoke up.

“Okay, now put your feet on the pedals. And start moving them forward, like this,” she said, as she continued pedalling calmly.

Following instructions, she put each of her buckled shoes on the pedals, and then pushed.

And pushed some more.

And a little more.

But the pedals wouldn’t move. Not even when she scrunched up her face from the effort, and put out her tongue in the unconscious way she always did when trying to concentrate on something.

The pedals just wouldn’t move.

Trying to ignore her brother’s snigger, she glumly looked up at her dad. Thankfully, he wasn’t laughing. “It’s okay,” he said gently. “It takes a lot of strength. You’ll be able to do it when you’re a little older.”

And with that, he took over the pedals from his own seat, and motioned for her brother to take over from her mom, and the two started pedalling the boat in reverse.

Turning to her side, she pretended to look at the lake as she fought off the urge to cry, as the feeling of uselessness spread all over her, ringing deafeningly in her ears. In fact, it took her a couple of seconds to realize her father was talking to her.

“What?” she asked, turning in front.

“Can you turn us a little to the left?” her father said. “We’re getting a little close to the edge.”

Confused, she asked him how.

“That stick,” he said, motioning to the stick behind her that she had noticed earlier. “It’s for navigation. Turn it towards you.”

Turning sideways, she put her hand on the navigation stick and pulled it towards her, half expecting it to stay where it was. To her surprise, it moved easily, and slowly, the boat also started to turn.

“You mean I can control where we’re going with this?” she asked, as the smile slowly started to find its way back on her face.

Her father nodded, explaining how the direction of the turn would depend on which side they were pedalling from.

The three-year-old nodded as she listened. “So, you mean that if mamma and I were pedalling, I would have to move it in the opposite direction? Hmm…that makes sense.”

Then, as though suddenly remembering her own age, she turned to her mother and asked her if she wanted to navigate. Smiling, her mom shook her head slowly. “Why don’t you be the navigator today?”

The words seemed to drop a load of responsibility on her, but for once, instead of feeling like shirking away, she sat up straight. Now this, I can do. With a big smile on her face, she turned to the other three passengers. “Alright, I’m going to get us to there,” she said, pointing to the far end of the lake with one hand, while the other firmly moved the navigation bar in the proper direction.

“And after that, pa you tell me where you want to go, and I’ll take you there. And bhaiya, you tell me where you want to go, and I’ll take you there. And mamma you too,” she rambled along.

“I’m the navigator,” she said proudly, oblivious to the tired looks exchanged by the others. This was going to be a long day of pedalling.

**************

A friend of mine once told me, maps were my happy place. Looking at maps, figuring out directions, and navigating from one point to another – these are all things I love doing. Sure, the most I’ve ever put this in practice is at amusement parks and the occasional (alright, once in a lifetime) walking tour of Montreal city with a friend. But the simple fact is, I like knowing my bearings, and the best way for me to do that is by looking at maps. Even when going on road trips, I love being the navigator, which is why I was very annoyed when the GPS came out. [Of course, it might be worth mentioning here that I have major motion sickness issues, so technically I can’t even look at a map while in the car, making the whole navigator role quite pointless.] Although, I have to accept now that the GPS allows me to understand maps in an entirely new way, which is exhilarating in its own way.

I remember telling a cousin once that I first need an aerial understanding of my whereabouts before I can figure out the street level directions. A frequent hazard of operating in this way is that I often talk in north-south-east-west while others talk in left-right. It’s made me realize how few people really understand directions in this manner. A friend once told me that wherever we face is north, and east, west, and south change accordingly [I swear I felt like throttling the friend at this point]. I find myself surprised that most people don't actually look at the sun to figure out which direction they're heading in on a regular basis (yes yes, I do that. Get over it). 

I'm not sure why I suddenly chose to write about the incident above. I think it might have something with constantly being met with incredulous expressions from people saying 'You mean you actually know directions?!' Or it might have a little something to do with a friend recently asking me to talk about something that I'm actually good at for a change. Or it might have something to do with gazing out at a lake here in Bhopal and the many pedal boats floating around on it. 

The Acceptance Letter

Dear Ms. Mittal,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.

Term begins on September 1. We await your owl no later than July 31.

Yours sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall,

Deputy Headmistress

I stared at the words, clutching tightly on to the sheet of paper in my hands. I read the letter over several times, fixating on the first few words. It’s not real. You know it’s not real, I told myself over and over again. But even as I repeated the words, I couldn’t help but feel a surge of excitement, and perhaps, a surge of hope.  What if…? No, it can’t be. But what if…? I bit my lips in an attempt to keep myself from squealing out loud, not out of concern for my fellow passengers, but to conceal this very important letter from everyone else. Of course, I didn’t realize that at the same moment, my brother was sitting on another berth of the train and reading a very similar letter addressed to him.

It’s been…maybe 13 years since this incident happened, since that 12-year-old version of me found a little envelope tucked into my bag on the train to Bangalore. My family and I had just spent a few days in Delhi with my cousin and her family, and were making the customary 2-days-2-nights journey back home. I had just been about to settle down with the fourth Harry Potter novel (having recently discovered the series), when I saw the envelope containing two letters. The first was, if I may take the liberty of calling it that, my Hogwarts acceptance letter. It was a good thing I opened that one first. The second was a letter from my cousin – a fellow Harry Potter enthusiast – explaining how she had always wanted to receive such a letter ever since she started reading the books, and that she thought my brother and I might have liked to get one too. I looked over at the berth on the side, and saw my brother grinning away at a piece of paper in his hands.

Now, those who’ve never read or enjoyed reading the Harry Potter books may not truly understand the significance of the moment. It’s just a bunch of kids trying to make themselves a part of some fantastical world. Well, yes, it is. But there’s a lot more to it than that. I know every person who has enjoyed these books would have had his own reasons for doing so. For me, I think the reasons had a lot to do with the idea of extraordinary – magical – things being possible in the life of an ordinary kid. And that’s what we all were. Ordinary kids. With ordinary problems. Stuck in an ordinary world. And these books took us into a world that was narrated to us from the point of view of a kid who was just as baffled and confused and scared as any of us, and over time, as this other world become more familiar and started to make sense, we fell in love with it. At least, I did.

And because this was a world that was knowable only to wizards and witches, of course it was entirely possible that it really did exist, and we muggles were just never aware of it. So that letter, that acceptance letter, was not so much about being told that you possessed magical powers (though that bit was cool too), but more about receiving an invitation to officially enter into this world that we loved, this time, not through someone else’s eyes, but our own.

I’m rambling, I know. But these books have that effect on me. As someone who has read all the books a countless number of times, jumped at the chance of answering any and every Harry Potter quiz out there, written an entire philosophy term paper based on these books, and proudly accepted the title of a Heek (Harry Potter Geek), I [and maybe the people around me] have to accept occasional hazard of being unable to stop talking about the books once I start.

But I’m not sure why I’ve been itching to write about this incident in particular for a while now. In all honesty, I’m quite sure I’d forgotten about it. Most likely, so have my brother and the cousin who gave me this letter. But recently, I heard someone say that it might be interesting to write something about the Harry Potter books in a children’s magazine, and all I kept thinking was – what else is there to be said that hasn’t been said already? And just like that, this memory resurfaced. [Perhaps it was prodded by a recent conversation with my brother on these books, or the fact that I recently travelled by train in India after almost 12 years].

It’s a memory that is simultaneously and bizarrely very personal and possibly far more universal than I can fathom. I mean, who knows? Maybe I’m not the only person to have dreamt of receiving the Hogwarts acceptance letter. And maybe I’m not the only person who ever did.

:D