Potterwatch!!

The news headlines on Yahoo (yes, I read the news on Yahoo. Go on. Judge me. But you know you do it too.) today flashed "JK Rowling reveals name of new book". Now I didn't know why it was such a big deal for the next book by Rowling would but of course be called "Harry Potter and the mid-life crisis" or something to that effect. I mean, c'mon!! Why would someone who has created and written Harry Potter even want to think about writing something else? It is officially the greatest, coolest, most uber awesome-st book series in the history of mankind. Who would be stupid enough to not want to continue such a stupendous level of brilliance? The answer to that is, JK Rowling. For apparently, her new book is called "The Casual Vacancy" and its about a seemingly sleepy little town in England where something sinister happens. Sure I'll read it. Of course I'll read it. But at the same time I will nursing the wounds on Harry and particularly, Draco's backs from where her knife stabbed them! A book about Muggles. Is this what the world has come to?! Sadly, Ms Rowling has moved on, as she should have. And I believe its about time I did too. Its about time I let go of Harry too. I understand where Rowling is coming from. Draco doesnt, but I do.

Any which way, this news bit is an addition to a series of Potter related thoughts that have been occurring to me. For instance, just last week I woke up randomly in the middle of the night around 3.am-ish. Actually, I didn't just wake up. I jerked into awakening and sat up gasping for breath. And the thought that was racing through my mind, the thought that had so violently shaken me awake was, " Johnny Depp should have played Sirius Black. Oh god, what have they DONE??!" Which is where I should probably interject that I was very unhappy with the casting of Sirius in the Potter movies. While reading the books, Sirius was one of my favorite characters and I absolutely adored the morbid, depressing way that he had been described in. Gaunt, with black eyes, a wild black mane, high cheekbones, hollowed out cheeks, bearing vestiges of great good looks and a perpetual haunted expression. That is a classically dark description and the Sirius in my head was none other than Welsh footballer Ryan Giggs. Sneer all you want, but you know as well as I do that he fits the bill perfectly. Specially the haunted expression part. Of course, I realized that the chances of brilliant acting skills manifesting in him just so my imagination is satiated but I hoped that they would find a suitable substitute. Instead they go cast what-his-name! Bloody ginger headed guy with perfectly permed hair, grey eyes and a general non-emaciated look about him. I hated that they made one of the strongest guys in the book look like a hussy and I hated that he couldnt even act to make up for what he lacked in likeness. Also, I pictured Sirius as being tougher. Like he'd break your neck if you looked at him funny. THIS guy looked like he was more likely to invite you to tea. 

Sirius Black in the movies was a disaster. And all these years, I was too upset by this to try and think of who could have done it better. But my sub-concious mind apparently cared more about what casting choices would have made the makers of an already multi-million dollar movie franchise richer. Yes, I am that concerned with the happenings of the world. And the answer to that question is stating simply and obviously, Johnny Depp. Let me begin by saying that Johnny Depp could play Catwoman and still be perfect for the role. There is nothing, I repeat NOTHING that Depp cant play to perfection. And he would have nailed the role of Sirius. He has the look and the accent down pat and besides, its how I always imagined Johnny would look like if he was on the run. And this has me so indignant that  I am unable to keep myself from imagining various situations wherein I travel back in time and across the globe to prevent the darned director of third movie from making such a catastrophic mistake. 

I found this online. Apparently, someone else shares my views. Ignore the subtext on the pic. 

And while we're on it, Nicole Kidman as Narcissa Malfoy. And that, is just plain obvious. And maybe, Adam Brody/ Elijah Wood as a younger James Potter and of course, Ian Mckellan as Dumbledore.   Come to think of it, I am not sure I am willing to let go of Harry just as yet. 

Whims of March

Its that time of the year again! When the cold lull of winter slowly bids goodbye and the the sky is no longer grey. The birds come out and the weather begins to play hot/cold with you and you suddenly realize that you dont have any proper spring outfits in your wardrobe. Everything is either too warm or too flimsy. But the sky is blue and every breathe of air makes you feel like Nature is on a Wrigley addiction phase. And children are annoyingly chatty again and all the puppies that were born in the winter are now bitey tweens (or whatever you choose to call that phase where they are too skinny to be cute and too puny to be scary). And I dig out floral stuff from my closet and everybody is dressed in a bright contrast to the gray vision that the last few months have been. Fervently agreeing to this sentiment is the cover of Vogue looks like a balloon party and everything inside is a delightful splash of colors that make your eyes water with joy and your heart rejoices that winter is finally, finally gone ! Back in school these days went by in a flurry of anxiety and anticipation of the end of the final term exams, which would inevitably bring with it the throng of children with orange lips and tongues, sucking on ice lollies and wandering about the city like the destitute. Though things have obviously changed now, in that I no longer like ice lollies but the sense  of unbridled freedom remains unchanged. There is this inexplicable, unfathomable comfort of the 90s that I feel again. Of that time in my life when worries were limited to quiz scores and the cute boy who lived down the street and suddenly everything I see becomes a Jason Mraz song and all I want to do at the end of the day is eat chocolate, watch Friends and pretend that they never went off air.

 Every year in March, the weather leads me to believe that things are finally about to change. For the better. That this will be the year that I finally get what I want and that life would stop sucking so much. And even if it doesn't, I will be fine. Because March will come again. 

Ghosts of Christmas Past, Present and Future - Bah! Humbug.

Christmas has always been a big deal around the Udaikumar residence.Why, however is one question I cannot for the world of me answer. I mean, we are not Christians, neither have we ever lived in a Christian neighborhood, my sister and I did not attend a convent school (although we sometimes like to pretend like we did and put on fake accents and come up with ridiculous etiquette rules and embarrass our dad in public!), we did not know much ( read - ANYTHING) about the festival and I am certain that if any of our elderly relatives read this post about a festival belonging to another religion, I would be disowned and written off from all of their wills. (But that is a risk I am willing to brave, specially since none of them even know where the start button on a computer is).
However, every year me and my sister would unfailingly have sleepless nights instilled by the excitement that was Christmas. We would take out the little fake Christmas trees (two of them, to avoid conflict) that our folks had bought us, no doubt to shut us up, and the little stick candies and the little stars and the little ball-things and the streamers and the little twinkle lights and basically every form of miniature festival decorations that a festival-decoration store would proffer. Then we would sit down and chalk out a decoration plan which would dictate where what sparkly midget-y thing went and after a long discussion, come to a conclusion that we both found agreeable. That is to say, my sister would ignore all my ideas and then threaten to bonk me on the head with my tree if I didn't do as she said and I would meekly agree. Nevertheless, what followed was always pure, unadulterated fun. Even the multiple death threats that Deepa would casually and consistently keep throwing my way. Once the tree was done, we'd get out the cotton. Because Christmas in Calcutta had to be a white one. It just HAD to, okay? So on went bits and balls and flakes of fake fluffy snow. And the twinkle lights. This entire exercise would take roughly 3 to 4 hours, after which we would spend another half hour sitting back and admiring our handicraft. After that, we would not know what to do. So we would leave the thing and go eat dinner and the decorations would stay there gathering dust till March, when more death threats would ensue, this time from Mom and we would put it all away. But it was the most wonderful time of the year, the one festival where we could do whatever we wanted with no parental interference.
This year, Christmas was a subdued affair with my sister sitting in a different continent and me being 20 something and supposedly, too old for miniature decorations. Instead I just cooked a dinner fit for a small army of extremely hungry midgets and we all sat down and ate like it was The Last Supper itself.
Alas, another tradition falls prey to Change. We take it in our stride and move on. Maybe someday, chancing upon a box of dusty old decorations in the attic and smiling at what was and accepting that it never will be again.

Borrowed.

"Why can't we get all the people together in the world that we really like and then just stay together?  I guess that wouldn't work.  Someone would leave.  Someone always leaves.  Then we would have to say good-bye.  I hate good-byes.  I know what I need.  I need more hellos.  "


~Charles M. Schulz

In Memory of Memories

When I was about 7 years old, my father gave me something very special. He was cleaning out his study and in what was, I am now sure, an attempt to keep the household pack rat a.k.a me busy and out of his way, he gave me a folder. And told me that I now had a special place to keep everything that I saw worthy of being preserved in there. It was a black leather Rolls Royce folder with red trimmings and a severely weather beaten look about it. I dint care that it was a hand-me-down. (being the last born, my life has been a series of hand-me-downs. In fact, I go into shock most of the time my folks buy me something new.) I had a useless folder ! I was important! Yay!

My dad's diabolically awesome plan of keeping his 7 year old from touching his stuff that he didn't need anymore worked like The Elder Wand. I promptly went to my closet and filled my folder with things that I thought I couldn't live without- my very first birthday card (featuring super cute teddy bear carrying overflowing basket of hearts, reading "Happy birthday Kutty. Lots of love, Appa.), a class note from my then best friend asking if I wanted to trade my lunch with hers, a candy wrapper, a new, unopened packet of syringes given to me by a friendly doctor ( I was a very sick child and was in and out of hospitals most of my childhood. This guy probably thought the best way to cheer me up was by giving me a gift that would serve as a constant reminder of the pain that I would forever associate with hospitals. Idiot.). 

And thus was born tradition. Over the years, every time I saw or found or made something that I knew I would want to save for later or to show my great-great-grandchildren, it promptly went into the Folder of Memories. Letters from friends, the first story I ever wrote, my prize winning essay collections, the pendant that I found on the street once, the cover of the first edition "Rebecca" that I found in a second hand book store, a HelpAge India volunteer certificate, an Anti AIDS band, a ribbon, an earring, a faded picture of a pre teenaged, pig tailed African girl dated 1967 in the copy of "To kill a Mockingbird" that I had borrowed from a circulating library, my David Beckham Stalker Collection ( a collection of over a whopping 700 newspaper clippings of everything that had his picture/name on it. I had Glenn-Close-from-fatal-attraction potential), my very first fountain pen ( another hand-me-down from my grandfather), a bus ticket from my last bus ride with my best friend in college before I moved, a wooden key chain with my name carved on it, and so on and so forth.  I knew that it was a bunch of worthless bric-a-brac but I also knew that it would be the first thing to go into the suitcase when I pack for Noah's Arc - 2012 Edition. I would occasionally but regularly go through it and for just a moment become the girl who put all that stuff together. The girl who is still part of me but who I will never be again. 

A couple of years ago, I moved back into my parents' house after graduation. It was then that I realized that my Folder of Memories was missing. I frantically searched everywhere before coming to terms with the heartbreaking reality. My Folder was gone. Without a trace. And I might never see it again. I was crushed, and still am. I guess I am just putting a word out into the void, the one where all missing things find refuge. I am telling some little girl's lost stuffed animal that if he finds an old, beaten up, black folder which is bursting at the seams, could he please ask it to come back home? Another little girl misses it. 

Playing House!

As most of my Post-It writing goes, this one too is being typed out from the comforting confines of my bedroom. Call me lazy and it an excuse but I find it near impossible to make sense out of anything when I am not at home. And home is precisely what this entry is going to be about. Except not Delhi-home where my parents live and where I have surprisingly been for the majority of this semester- happily, uncaringly and stupidly screwing up my attendance in the process. But I'm not, I repeat NOT getting into that right now. That or the fact that I have allowed myself to be denied attendance for some lectures that I actually HAD sat through. Sigh. The injustice of it all. Anyway, before I find myself veering so far away from the original topic that there is no point of return, let me get to the point. A bunch of girlfriends and I, have rented a house out for the semester. You know, just because!

Our still-unnamed house ( shocking, I know! Specially with my habit of naming every tangible thing around me), is simply beautiful. We are eleven of us living together so basically it is less of a house and more of a sprawling mansion. At the price of an apartment, by the way. You got to love non-metro cities, if for no other reason than for being real estate heaven!! And its a blast, living together in a place of our own, and I really do not need to tell what kind of fun I am talking about. Still, I thought it'd be funner (if thats not a real word, it should be!), if I listed out the more awesome aspects of Maison a la well, us! And since I have finally accepted the fact that it is impossible for me write in any other forms but lists, I am thrusting yet another one upon you.

#1. As houses go, ours is huge! And the genius who built thought it fit that a house this big deserves a closet-sized toilet. One in which you are sure to suffocate to death if you stay there long enough. Also, one where you have so much elbow room that if you happen to move even a little bit, you wont have any elbows left. We do have other toilets in case you're wondering. Other erstwhile functional toilets, that is. Need I say more?

#2. I did not realize until I came home (Delhi-home this time) how much I love dry bathroom floors. For those of us who did not know I have a borderline psychotic problem with wet stuff - wet/moist skin, damp clothes, monsoon etc. I cant stand any of it. Living in a house with ten other girls in the hottest city in the country ( Guys, reign your imaginations in, will ya?!) and hence the land of multiple showers everyday, guarantees that the bathroom floor is perpetually wet. And since wet pyjama hems count as damp clothes, lets just say the results get neurotic!

#3. We have an epic specimen of a maid. She comes for about 5 days a month, asks for an advance on her salary and then disappears off into what I can only imagine is some sort of alternate maid fun zone universe because she becomes literally untraceable ( we havent ruled out the possibility that she might be a supernatural creature). And the 5 days that she does turn up on, she spends them acting like she owns the place. AND she leaves out the corners while cleaning.

#4. We have garnered a trusty, loyal following of perverts. We have pervert who hides out in the construction right opposite our place and keeps peeping in the house. We have middle aged pervert neighbor who's perpetually in disturbingly tight shorts and who, like some ugly, transvestite Juliet is always on his balcony which offers him an unobstructed view of virtually every room in the house ! We also have crazed psycho-stalker who might be reading this so I am not going into details. But lets just say it gets life threateningly creepy.

#5. As a general rule, big houses are spooky. Ours specially so, with weirdly timed power cuts and dead pigeons, yeah plural, on the terrace. But having lived in a haunted house earlier (thats a story for a different time), this doesn't bother me as much as it should.

#6. We are eleven girls living under the same roof. Eleven. So as far as squabbles go, ours are epic. EPIC. But alls well that ends well. !

#7. We have a fully functional kitchen in which no one thought to stock anything other than tea bags, coffee powder and dietary supplements that no one seems to take. We however, end up eating oodles of junk food, which will explain my recent chubbiness.

So here's me signing off, hoping my housemates dont kill me for this when we get back. I love you guys. You make my day everyday!. 

Finding Lost Kryptonite

When I was in the 8th grade, we had english lessons that were devoted solely to poetry comprehension. And we had this wonderful english professor who belonged to that rare class of teachers who believed that knowledge extended way beyond text books. And she would give us the most beautiful poems to analyse.

On one such fateful afternoon, she gave us this poem to well, comprehend. Over the years, with my degenerative memory and the general tendency of Time to sieve out memories, all I could remember of that marvellous piece of literature was that it had someone called Lucy who died. And today, after so long, I finally happened to chance upon it. And all thanks to none other than Mr Wordsworth !! I thought I would share it here. So Behold world, the 3 stanza wonder that had eluded me for so long ::

"She Dwelt Among Untrodden Ways"

She dwelt among the untrodden ways
Beside the springs of Dove,
Maid whom there were none to praise
And very few to love:

A violet by a mosy tone
Half hidden from the eye!
---Fair as a star, when only one
Is shining in the sky.

She lived unknown, and few could know
When Lucy ceased to be;
But she is in her grave, and, oh,
The difference to me!

Happy Reading!!