Took me long enough...

I was probably eleven or twelve when my entire school, both my closest friends included started going on and on about Harry Potter. They talked about muggles and you-know-who… scars and cloaks… about moony and prongs… it made no sense and I felt curious. But more than that I felt this strange detachment, this resolve that I would never read Harry Potter. I would feel left out, yet weirdly self-righteous. That it was somehow an insult to be one of the zillion kids reading Harry Potter.  

I think in the eighth or tenth standard, one of my most dearly loved teachers gave us an English project… we were divided into different groups and had to illustrate our group’s theme somehow.. with charts… skits…the works.  I was in the group of people who had either not read Harry Potter or hated it. It was a tiny group, who were clueless about what to do. We had to talk about the villains; I spoke about you-know-who, Lord Voldemort. Somebody wrote a page, and I read it out. Very consciously trying to just recite the text word by word and not understand a word of it. Some people came up to me and asked whether I had been in some sort of a trance. There was a group of my friends, who had enacted Snape and Lockhart’s duel.. and it had become an instant hit, re-enacted multiple times for different teachers and students. I thought they were hilarious, but most of it made no sense to me and I preferred it that way. I could neither understand my detachment from these books… nor explain it.

Didn’t watch the movies either, was forced to watch one when I was about sixteen… Harry Potter and the Goblet of fire. Again, consciously ignored most of the movie, paid attention only to Cedric Diggory.

Over the years however, I understood my antagonism towards the world… I realise I have this weird thing… some sort of possessiveness or jealousy over the books that I read.. I understand now that I did not want to read those books then because my friends spoke of them with such familiarity that it instantly made me shut them out.

So, last year I decided out of the blue, that I would read Harry Potter. Most of my generation, and the previous and the next had already read them, watched the movies and moved on. Those who didn’t, show a similar detachment as mine. I felt maybe I could now indulge my curiosity.  I just finished the seventh book. Deliberately taking breaks and reading other books, to prolong reading the final book. The journey has been incomparable and inexplicable.

As I devoured the pages I had bits and pieces of my school-life fall into place. Pallavi and Aanchal… Moony, Padfoot, Prongs suddenly made sense. Zoya as Lockhart and Palak as Snape played out that very duel in my mind.

I could not count if I tried to, the number of books I have read; but although quite different, the best of them could not compare to the world that I became a part of.

I cannot help but wonder whether I would have found the world more magical as a twelve-year old, less touched by reality or do I appreciate the magic a little more now… as the world grows more real ?

Although I might be a little late in saying this, Thank You J.K. Rowling