Expecto 'Potter'onum!

I was six when I discovered him. He was hiding inside the closet, on a bookshelf in the spare bedroom, sandwiched between two dark blue paper covers. I couldn't understand much of his story, what he was trying to tell me. But I held on. It would be romantic to think that I never gave up trying to know him because it was meant to be...but it was probably because I was a stubborn girl and I kept trying to read, even what I didn't understand.

I was seven when I actually fell in love with him, which is strange considering that a lot of things in his life came in sevens, and so did I.

He was eleven at that time, with black hair and wide, curious eyes, and that strange mark on his forehead we never understood...He lived with his family and remained unloved until a certain giant barged into the little house upon the rock and presented the little boy his birthday cake, and handed him a life-changing, fate-altering...envelope. (The envelope which I'm still waiting for...I mean come on, I can't be a muggle!) The envelope which took him to Diagon Alley and to King's Cross, which took him to his destiny.
That envelope must have been pretty proud of itself.

Destiny, in other words, means Hogwarts.....the School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. It's where he met Ron and Hermione and Ginny and Seamus and Dean and Snape and Draco and the-one-we-must-not-forget, Mrs. Norris the cat. Oh, and Voldemort too. Who tried to kill him like once, or twice, or a gazillion times. Voldy sure liked killing.

My love managed himself through all that. He managed himself through fights and betrayals and deaths and hormonal changes of adolescence. He grew into a brave, selfless man, a man the world loved.
That I loved.

By now you must have guessed my first love: Harry Potter.

Come on folks, come get to know him, come meet him, grow up with him, and love him, just like I do, just like I did, just like I always will...  

Y I Loved IAYP

IAYP (The International Award For Young People) is a program started in the UK to encourage youngsters (14-25) to take up various activities. The levels (or prizes) are bronze, silver, and gold. There are slightly different requirements for each of them. For the bronze award, for instance, we 9th graders have to do social service, play a sport, and practice a skill for a set number of weeks under a teacher. One of the other elements of IAYP is adventure. To complete this part, our school took us (with Woody Adventure) to Ramanagar (yes, where Sholay was filmed) for 2 days and 1 night. We did many adventure activities, and pretty much had one heck of a time.

These were my thoughts on it...

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

The Suicide Point. A light blue sky streaked with fierce strokes of gold. Fanta. Chocolate. A dog named Gabbar. A lamb who was often chased by Gabbar. More chocolate. Muthu. Papanna. Rocks, boulders, stones, and trees. Shrubs. Tent. Bonfire. A village. Clapping, gupshup. Bus. Friends. Smiles...

And chocolate.

This is what the IAYP trip meant to me. Two days that I will remember forever. The 7^th and 8^th of October in Ramanagara belonged primarily to my class, 9F.

We had activities of all sorts – an 8 km trek, rappelling, ziplining, cooking chitranna (during which a bunch of us sat doing absolutely nothing and enjoyed that fact), a village interaction, all sorts of games…

The activities were challenging, taking their toll on us, both physically and mentally. While the trek left us sweaty and drained, the village interaction left us feeling sorry, a bit broken, for having discovered the pitiable plight of the poor in India. And most of them smiled through nearly every obstacle.

Those 36-odd hours affected most of us personally too. We felt an intimate connection with nature, fear, happiness, freedom, calmness, peace.

Besides tiring us out completely, the trip helped us bond. It brought us together in a way nothing else could. And for that, I'd like to thank IAYP for coming up with the idea of an adventure trip.

What I will always remember is the way we laughed, the way my friends helped me up every single time I fell (which was the norm), the way our secrets came tumbling out, the way we were all aware of the growing closeness between our classmates.

We were a family for those two days: Our classmates, our guide Shalini ma'am, our other instructors, Muthu and Papanna, Gabbar. Even the lamb. 

I'll end this article by recalling one of the many memorable moments of the trip. It was an hour or so before we left. I was sitting on a large rock, overlooking the dorm, with my friends. We watched the boys play cricket. The sun shone, the breeze was soft, and there was a bitter-sweet feeling in the air. I remember, at that very instant, feeling happy for no particular reason. Life seemed perfect, though it was so clearly not. I felt happy, despite all odds, and that's the best kind of happiness there is.

Thanks IAYP. 

Muerte

I’m scared. I’m scared and insecure and bundled up in worries. I’m scared to death…of death. It’s really rather a morose thought: Death, but it’s always been there, always at the back of my mind. Unfortunately, it’s the ultimate truth, the final destination. If there’s one thing every single living thing has in common, it’s that they die.

Maybe it’s because of the way I think, of the constant plots that I work up. I don’t know, but whether characters in a story live or die, the narrator is always there, the creator is omnipresent, and infinite – always existing. So how is it, that I, or anyone for that matter, how can we disappear? We are the narrators of our own story, how can we…end?

It’s the most troubling question, and unfortunately, the most unanswerable one. The truth of death is, we don’t know what it is till we face it, and after that, there’s no going back. Literally.

I’ve driven myself to tears, to hysterics thinking about it. Panic swells and overwhelms me, and I have to fight it down. Force away a fear, a fear which may never leave.

I guess that’s why I read books. They’re my safe haven, my escape. I’ve passed half sleepless nights re-enacting parts of Harry Potter in my head, that’s the only thing that calms me. Harry Potter is my home and in ways I’ll never leave, because I’ve latched a part of my own being onto the hope that magic exists, and that goodness does too, and that one day goodness will prevail over evil. After all, as Richard Castle said, “The one reason to believe in magic is that if you don’t, you’ll never have even the slightest hope of finding it.” Or something close to that at any rate. But maybe there’s another reason I like fictional characters so much: thinking about them means not analyzing my own life, my own fears. And sometimes, thinking outside the self is a relief.

I’ve thought and thought again about writing this, and I decided too, because along with all the good and fun in this world, the bad, the dark cannot go unacknowledged.

I don’t really know what this is about. There’s no point…exactly. There are times when I imagine dying, and as scared as I am of the whole concept, the only thing I really want is to die happy. And that’s going to happen. I’ve got a great family, friends, so much beauty and love surrounding that I can’t really stay caught up thinking only of death. There are certain moments which make me smile wide and think, ‘this is what I want in life. And I have it.’ It’s a nice thought to have. It’s happy, and sweet, and hopeful.

Gone Viral

Dear Dr. Y. Rus,

It was on Wednesday, I caught the bug,
Downstairs, at the pool.
My throat hurt, but I gave a shrug,
This had happened before, I was cool.

It ached more than I'd like to admit,
Every time I swallowed.
Every morsel, every bit,
And a fiery pain then followed.

Through Thursday too, it persevered,
This aching throat of mine.
But it ebbed, as the night drew near,
And I hoped that I'd be fine.

Yet on Friday, we had school till 4,
I got a bundle of bad, bad luck.
Around 12, maybe a little before,
It was then that fever struck.

I trudged my way from class to class,
My head felt like it was on fire.
I must have looked one sorry lass,
Shivering, small, and tired.

At home, at seven, I hit the bed.
With a temperature of one oh two.
By Saturday morning, I must say, my head,
Was feeling too good to be true.

Saturday passed by passably well,
Today's Sunday, and my nose is blocked off.
And there's not a thing that I can smell,
And now I have a persistent cough.

But I know this virus will quickly leave,
I will not let it hover.
And with the relief that I receive,
I'll thank you for helping me recover.

From,
Priya.

*Response*

Dear Priya,

Thank you for your wonderful letter,
And your pleasureful rhyme.
I'm sorry to see you're getting better,
Oh well. Until next time!

Love from,
Dr. Y. Rus.

He Whodunit

He duct tapes himself onto a chair,
He doesn't like being called a kitty.
He lives in a stylish, sweet new place,
In the middle of New York City.

He's a 'catch', a dude - at home and work,
Coolness filled to the brim.
He's a dad, but here's the fact:
His daughter takes care of him!

He might call himself, a 'ladies' man',
Wedding bells have rung, of course.
Twice in fact, but the sad tale is,
Both ended in a divorce.

He might seem childish, immature,
But he's famous, now there's a twist...
He's got the talent, got the smarts,
He's a mystery novelist!

He shadows a very pretty cop,
In the station and on the streets.
The detective's name: Kate Beckett,
She was the muse for Nikki Heat.

At first, they totally hate each other,
Then a friendship slowly blossoms.
And then of course, it turns to love,
Their relationship is awesome!

This guy himself is pretty good,
He's paid to think like a villain.
And often, it's through his ideas,
They catch the guy behind the killin'

By now you would have geussed who he is,
He adds lots of humor to a hassle.
'Awesome' describes him fully,
He's Richard, Richard Castle.

 

Pigeoned out on Diwali

I’m grey and white; I live in a group,

On ledges and railings, I leave pieces of poop.

I’m the urban bird; I’m so very cool,

I eat what I want, and I drink from the pool.

I got all the strength; I got all the might,

I got no fears…except for them kites.

And the only other thing, which don’t make me so jolly,

It’s this time of year, during Diwali.

It’s not the poojas or the diyas, man,

I can deal with them, yes I can!

No it’s actually them evil ear attackers,

We call ‘em bombs, and you call ‘em crackers!

Whether it’s here at home, or out on the roads,

They’re so loud, my head explodes.

So when you folks start to burst them about,

Well, it’s natural that we freak out.

What starts with a BANG! And ends with a BOOM!

We’re sure these noises will lead to our doom.

So we do whatever we can,

To escape those wicked fireworks, man!

We fly away from the balconies thinking, ‘what the heck?’

And bury our heads deep into our neck.

Our behavior just gets stranger and stranger,

When we’re convinced we’re in mortal danger.

Then we’re no longer the cool flying dudes,

We’re scaredy cats, afraid to intrude,

In the joyous celebrations, the fiery weather,

We’d rather just sit here, and peck at our feathers.

BOOM! BANG! There's another one!
Later dude, I gotta run!

Social Service

Darkness. Born with darkness, living with darkness. Those of us who have been blessed with vision, no  matter how blurry, can’t really imagine how it must be to be blind. But the students I visit nearly every week at Samarthanam, have lived, and will live their entire life in darkness.

Samarthanam is a trust fund for the disabled, located in Jayanagar, Bangalore, very close to my house. I first got familiar with it last year, when I started recording audio books with my father for the blind students. It was easy, but time-consuming. Later, for the IAYP programme at school, I was required to do social service for one hour every week. So this July, I started volunteering at Samarthanam. I’ll be honest, it was a real burden for me. Whenever I went to Samarthanam with my mom or dad, lots of other volunteers would already be there. But finding available English-medium students wasn't very easy. Not all the students were quick learners, but the ones who were, surprised us time and again with their swift understanding and strong memory. It’s funny how we always talk of the poor in India, and never once stop to think of the disabled, and how hard it must be for them.

It’s hard for us too. We, their teachers or readers or guides. I’ll be completely truthful. I’m so much more comfortable in Samarthanam than before, and yet it’s something of a chore, because teaching isn’t easy. It’s not as simple as just going to that place, grabbing a book, and reading to the blind students…... It’s going to that place, taking the book the student wants to study from, sitting with them, and explaining – whether it’s Science or History or English. And this makes all the difference. Half the difficulties arise because of their blindness. How do you explain something like History to these students? It means nothing to them but dates and names and wars. They can’t imagine what could have happened; it’s not even applicable in their everyday lives. Don’t even get me started on diagrams and maps, they’re impossible to deal with!!

The other part is my own huge challenge - my inability to communicate properly in any Indian language. I speak to the students in a fragmented Kannada, a tortured, broken Hindi. After one hour of reading and explaining, my throat is parched, not just because I voiced out so many words, but because of the effort it takes to try to explain facts or complex topics or even other words, in languages I barely know. It’s exhausting, I’ll be completely upfront about it.

But I think that the biggest lesson I’ve learned through this all is that donating money for charity, is not the same as spending your time, pouring in your heart, giving your full 100% to doing some social service. There are times when I’m so frustrated with myself, I want to just drop this thing and walk away, but probably the only thing that stops me is that this is compulsory. And chatting with them, that’s my reward. Chatting is fun, it’s easy. But the last 15 minutes of chatting only comes after 45 minutes of teaching. That’s when I learn about them, when they become my friends, not my students.

So what’s the moral of the story? Well, there isn't one…exactly. I haven’t learned to love social service. I have learned to respect and like the differently-abled people, yes, but there’s been nothing life-altering. But maybe that’s it, maybe this social service will get me a good grade, and a few good friends….