For the Love of Harry Potter

My childhood owes a great deal to the masterpiece by J.K. Rowling, the Harry Potter series. It’s quite an irony (but then life’s full of them) that when I first got the ‘Harry Potter and the Order of Phoenix’ and the ‘Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince’ as gifts, I decided to stow it way in a cupboard considering it a drab gift. Little did I know the blessing that came with it.

‘Do not judge a book by its cover,’ or, in this case, ‘Do not judge a book by its size,’ for big as it may be, the Harry Potter books are full of excitement, fun and emotions which will never bore you (trust me, this is coming from someone who’s read the books for not less than seven times). So many people I come in contact with and who do not share my love for this, often look at me incredulously and say, “I’d never read those books. I’ve watched the movies already.”

“Movies!” I scoff. Movies aren’t even close to comparison to the books. Granted, the beginning four movies are pretty decent, but after that, the movies fail to meet the expectations and the standards of the book, which has a striking complexity expressed so simply. People who have watched ‘Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince’ do not even know what happened in the movie, and mind you, that book is one of my favorites in the series. I have CRIED when Dumbledore died (oops, spoiler alert?). The movie also fails to do justice to the intricate plot, one close to being flawless.

But then again, to be fair, one cannot deny that the movies have been a sensation. Highly entertaining, with all its flaws of course, but which movie has ever fully done justice to any book?

I wish I could ask everyone to read the books, but sadly, it is their own personal choice.

I can only say, please don’t throw away this lifetime by blatantly ignoring masterpieces like the Harry Potter books. Life is too short to live without magic.

My friend asking if she should cast the Imperious curse on those who don’t want to read.

So when I do meet people who share this love with me, it feels so great because there is a whole other WORLD we share together; the world of wands and hippogriffs and Hogsmeade and magic and so much more! There is simply too much to talk about.
Which is why, my best friend and I decided, we would go to a Harry Potter themed restaurant in Bangalore, the only one existing as of now. It was not the food we were interested in (shocking considering that both of us are such huge foodies), but the love for Harry Potter in itself.

It is called ‘Two Friends Cauldron’ located in JP Nagar Bangalore. It is not big nor striking to look at, I’d have preferred a more impressive entrance, but it’s what inside that counts right?

The café is small, bright and cute (a dark setting would have suited the mystery too), not perfect, but not bad either. The entrance is adorned with the lock opening charm ‘Alohomora’, and then in you go.

The walls are decorated with either Harry Potter quotes, potions and elixirs, or the Marauder’s map.

However, it was the Menu that stole the show. Creatively named, anyone would want to try it all.

Sorry, couldn’t take a picture of everything!

The food was pretty average, except for the Treacle Tart which I did like (we had ordered Butter Beer, Lasagna and Treacle Tart), but we were hungry and all that mattered was that it all went in, including the scraps.

The Treacle Tart

But what struck me most was not the place or the decorations or the food, it was the people in the café. It wasn’t hard to see that all of them present there belonged to the fandom.

Now let me ask you a question. Have you ever been to a really pretty restaurant and you’re dying to take a picture, but you’re afraid people will judge you? Fear not, for if you belong to this fandom, no one will ever judge you for wanting to take a picture with a wand and a Sorting Hat (a stick and a ridiculous looking hat to the layman). In fact, the fandom helps each other for the same. Nobody cares how ridiculous you look because everyone is just as ridiculous as the other.

And this was how it was in the café as well. So we went around the little café, wearing hats and robes by turns, posing with wands and helping strangers pose with theirs, all the while thinking, “What a wonderful, big family this fandom is.”

Because at the end of the day, it doesn’t matter whether you’re old or young, black or white, or whatever barrier you choose to build with your differences. All of it breaks when you love one thing so fiercely, when we have shared laughter and tears together along the journey of the seven books.

We all have been there in Hogwarts, shared all of the magic and the ups and downs together, and just as Albus Dumbledore would put it: Of course it all happened in our heads, but why on earth should that mean that it is not real?

A proud Hogwarts alumni. Like, follow, share if you belong to the fandom!


I bleed, watch the skies turn scarlet. Wonder in pain, the feeling is overwhelming as it drips deep within, giving rise to plants of black from just the eyes of my infinitive rain.

A hurricane rises wiping anything but me, I watch the horizon crumble like pieces of pie and blend into realities with illusions of grey perfectly like a wizard at play in an ingenious ordinary, captivating everyone in close sight. I can smell the rain hitting the ground casting me hollow.

I’m petrified, nor do I breathe neither do I blink. I just stand still and watch the skies change it’s hide to all of it’s infinite shades leaving me in a state of befuddlement and a lifetime of deciphering the unknown. Seasons change and tables turn leaving me, here always.

Just like Old Times

It was a beautiful day out. She was wearing a white floral dress embroidered with red flowers and was hopping around with sunshine in her hair. He was dressed smart and handsome as always, with his shirt sleeves rolled up and his hair slick and tidy.

The two of them made a pretty picture as she put her arm around his and he whispered something in her ear to make her laugh. Her laugh was like a jingle of bells and his smile stretched right up to his eyes, his youthful face lighted up with happiness at the sight of her.

And then, she woke up. Right in the middle of the night, she woke up from her bed with tears in her eyes. She put her head down and cried.

It had been this way for a long time now. She couldn’t get her mind off him. How could she when she knew that he was out there somewhere fighting for his life?

A type of rage took over her. Damn you, she cursed. Damn this war. Damn you and your patriotism, she thought, but it was a weak accusation for she could never get angry at him for long, and although she missed him, she knew it would have been selfish for her to tell him not to go to war, for had she been given the chance, she would have done just the same.

She peeped out from the curtains. The sky was grey and dismal and even the day smelled of war and death.

Sometimes troops came into Yugoslavia marching on, and they rested there. Vanida knew it well because she would often go to the mountains to look at them, searching for him in the crowd. It had been six months already, but never had his troop come in.

“Promise me you’ll forget about me,” he had said, always being the selfless hero that he was.

Bullshit. As if she could do a thing like that.

But could he? She bit her lip. It didn’t matter anyway. Whether he still loved her or not, she was one hell of a stubborn girl and she wouldn’t let go until she was absolutely sure he didn’t want her anymore.

She had a piece of bread, she made sure to save some, because food was always hard to find in times of war. She then marched out as usual, towards the mountain trail. She didn’t need to take water (she had scarcity of that too) because there would always be trickles of it running from the mountains.

One hour and a half later, she had reached the familiar barbed fence. The army had set up tents there and her eyes very quickly surveyed the ground, she had done this every day for the last six months, without any luck, but love raged furiously in her heart and refused to be extinguished by time and routine and the dark villain called war.

And there, her breath stopped.

She could have recognized him from a distance, anywhere, anytime.

His broad shoulders, clad in the army uniform, boots dirty, a cap on his head. He was turned sideways, talking to a troop member. His moustache had grown and his face was covered with black dust. He looked tired and a lot more serious, but this was still the man she loved.

For a moment, she just stood there, soaking it all in, his movements, the twitch of his hands, the seriousness in his face, the shape of his cheekbones. It was as if he knew that she was there, when Klahan sharply turned his head and saw her across the field. A thousand emotions flitted through him. For six months all he had seen was death and war, and the sight of her was pure love and beauty. He had dreamt of her, every single night as the sound of bombs reminded him of what lay ahead the next day. Sometimes during the war, he’d see her, clicking her tongue at the sight of his blood, putting a bandage over his wounds and scolding him to be more careful. Although the blood still bled, he felt better just at the thought of her. Then sometimes he’d wonder about whether she had forgotten about him. He hoped she did. She had always deserved better, at least that’s what he thought. And now, he was too wounded by war to ever come back.

All of this just lasted a second and reality set in. She was here. What was she doing here? It was not safe for her. He frowned and then quickly turned and walked away. Perhaps, she had come to see him, and she’d go way once she saw that he wasn’t interested in talking to her.

But, he underestimated how fierce and determined she could be. As soon as he turned away, a kind of a reflex movement caught hold of Vanida. She had seen the look on his face when he’d seen her. It was one of pure longing and helplessness and it was at that moment that she knew, that he hadn’t stopped loving her. She lifted her long skirt, jumped over the fence and ran across the field until she reached up to him.

He turned quickly for war had made him alert, horrified at the reckless thing she’d done.

Panting, she reached up to him. He immediately caught hold of her arm and brought her inside his tent.

“What are you doing?” he whispered furiously at her.

“Oh please. It’s not as if this is the enemy troop. No one will harm me. I think, I’m much braver than you, even though you’re off to war,” she said proudly.

She had a point but what she didn’t know was that the Captain had given strict orders that no visitors would be allowed inside. But she didn’t need to know that.

“Of course you are,” he smiled, letting her win without letting her know, like always. “You’re my fierce little bull.”

She smiled too, and this moment was so beautiful that it broke her. She fell into his arms and cried.

“I miss you.”

“I miss you too, every single day.”

“When will you come back? Please come back,” she whimpered as he took her in his arms and stroked her hair.

“Soon, I promise. As soon as the war gets over.”

They stood that way for a while, embracing each other, until Klahan had to unwillingly break the silence.

“You have to go now. It’s not safe here.”


“These are drunk, angry soldiers, Vanida. Enemy or not, there are no friends here. And for a pretty girl like you, it’s especially dangerous.”

“I’m not afraid. Not when you are around.”

He smiled and stroked her chin. “I know, but you still have to leave.”

“Are you chasing me away?” she pouted playfully, just like old times.

“Ah, never in my life,” he played along graciously as he carefully drew her out of the tent. They were holding hands, and for that moment, both of them felt that they were home, in a world full of chaos.

“Come on,” he walked her through the empty field, thankful that no one was around. Her bright imagination drew flowers in the empty field, the sun in the dismal sky. She imagined wearing a pretty dress and she imagined walking past the beautiful field of daisies as her lover escorted her back home. Just like old times.

They reached the fence and he helped her jump over it.

“I love you,” he said.

“I love you too.”

They leaned in for a kiss, warm, soft and passionate. One they’d remember for eternity.

He stroked her hair.

“Come meet me whenever you can,” she said. “Tonight, if you can sneak out.”

“I’ll try.”

“Do you know where I live?”

“I’ll find you, love.”

“Write me letters too.”

“I will.”

From a distance, he heard some shouts.

“Quick, the boys are out,” he said.

She nodded, gave him a peck on his cheek and smiled. He smiled too, her favourite kind of smile, the one that reached his eyes.

As she left the place, she knew his eyes would follow her until she disappeared. That would be his way of making sure she reached home safe.

His heart swelled up with love for her, and when he walked back to his tent, he found his strength renewed.


Almost an hour after Vanida had left, the troop was called to order.

“There’s a war we must go to,” the Captain bellowed. “The British have invaded Poland, and they have sent urgent messages for us to leave immediately. They need our help.”

Half an hour later, the troop was ready with everything and they started their march forward to Poland. Klahan was among them, and he marched with a heavy heart.

He imagined her walking by his side as they marched and he promised her that he would meet her soon.


Back in home, Vanida hoped he would come that night. She cleaned her little cramped up place of a house, wore the best possible clothes, put on the earrings that he had given her that she had carefully kept inside her drawer. She even risked to go out to fetch some butter from the local salesman who’d carry out his business secretly in the ground floor of a nearby building.

“Lovely day, isn’t it?” she chimed, buying the butter even though it cost her a fortune.

He looked at her as if she had gone mad and she left the place, with a skip in her steps.

Then she waited. She waited till hours ticked by. And she waited.

And waited.

And waited.

And waited.

The next morning, she woke up with a neck cramp. She had fallen asleep on the table. The bread had gone stale, the butter was still unopened.

She quietly put the plates back to their places again. She undressed and took off the earrings, put them back in the drawer.

Something must have come up. Maybe that was why he couldn’t have come, she consoled herself.

Then she rolled herself up into a ball in her tiny bed and stared at nothing. Everything was quiet, and death chose this moment to whisk her away. It came dressed as fire and a loud noise. At one moment, everything was quiet, the next, a bomb had landed, turning the town into dust, and her heart into ashes.

A hundred miles away, he promised her that he would meet her soon.


Beauty in Imperfection

His overgrown hair filled with knots of simplicity and ignorance within them. Small strands of them scattered over his face, marking coordinates for bombs of sweat to drop on during the day. A cupboard exploding with small things, a few tasked and others with none. Dusty frames with fresh memories captured within, some with fungus flooding on them, drawing new streams of parasitic rivers on the deserts of time.
The dinner plates on the study table lie desperately unattended with hardened remains of the soup and bread crusts, a usual supper from last night.
He wakes up wiping the perfect dream off his face and splashes the cold waters of reality on the eyes. A toaster with black taped wires, leaking electricity like rumors lies shattered and defeated, blackened with heat on the kitchen counter. He plugs the two pins hanging threateningly, like a cobra’s fangs ready to strike into the half burnt socket. He turns the smashed switch on and the magical device sparked to life, the cold white washed lanky slices of bread hop in and transform into hot strong tanned ones.
He carefully takes out his precious bottle of butter from his old empty fridge, he twists the lid open and a very sweet fragrance fills his stomach with satisfaction. He spreads the butter carefully, not using anymore than required (one extra small scoop for every two slices.). He takes bite and a smile of satisfaction and simplicity marks across his face, one so pure and genuine. He savors the meal and empties a cold glass of water at one go to finish it off. He then closes the butter lid very tightly with all the might in him, like it held treasures inside.
He looks at the mirror and put on his clothes, a very thin shirt one aged with time and a dirty jeans with holes as work rewards in a few places. He slip his old tired feet inside the muddy boots and looks at his humble house, one he could call his entirely. He smiles at himself with pride, strokes his long moustache and marches off to work. The Room awaits him patiently as it’s master walks forward to reality.

Writing words

When words breathe, writings come to life. To write is to leave pieces of your mind in pieces of paper, blots of ink on machines. To write is to expand your filter of thoughts and invite the readers into the abyss of your mind. To write is to chase the horizon without truly reaching the oasis of the transparent translation of your feelings into words.
Yet, to write is to live through words for words are immortal.

So when there are people special enough in my life, to whom I want to express my feelings so fluently it blows them away, I fail. I fail, because in spite of my incessant trials, I cannot express more than what the words allow. I fail because the words made from the twenty-six letters in the alphabet are not enough to explain the zillion feelings and sensations and colors in the magnificent creation. I struggle like an amateur trying not to drown, or a person trying to wriggle out of metal chains and coarse ropes, and yet I fail.

And here is where I find myself helpless for I am nothing but a slave. A slave to the master who was supposed to be my servant, a slave to the crippling cage that limits me and won’t allow me to meet the people I love as a totality of who I am.

Sometimes, Actions come to my aid. When words fail, Actions point at me and beckons me to come by its side. “Look,” it says, “here’s a rose for your lover,” or, “See, here’s the empty kitchen to make food for your mother.” Actions are indeed very dear to me, so powerful, buzzing with energy; raw, strong and bold. I quite admire actions, for when words fail, as the phrase goes, actions do speak volumes louder than words.

Because you see, just when I feel my emotions swelling up like a tide at its peak, almost drowning me in its waves and I want to let it out, let it flow like rives, crash like waterfalls, lakes and oceans, words leave me in a dry desert, the oasis still very far away. Words abandon me in a land of drought, and I collapse defeated in the powerful arms of Actions, for words may be sweet but actions define us better.



It wraps itself around me and creates more to its kind. I cannot decipher what is encoded deep within it, something shouting about it’s presence from all of it’s multiple spectra, yet so obscure so far away.

It leaves me in a state of mind that I do not recognize, something mysteriously ordinary like it’s dubious existence. It washes me off my feet and rises like the tides of spring after a moon full meal, into a realm of blue illusion perfectly blended with the warm purple hazes (masquerade of reality).

This something captivates me, it’s sole presence grabs me by the neck and casts me away to an angle of invisibility. It intrigues me and I fall into accord to it’s inaudible flute, now I wonder in retrospect with glasses of ulterior and allow myself a drop of laughter. One only meant for me as I have mapped the algorithm for the factor unconscious. Exclaiming itself finally from within ZEPHYR.

All kinds of Beautiful

Here’s to the girl with the long hair cascading down to her waist like a waterfall, the girl with the slim waist, to the girl who can pull off high heels, short dresses, makeup, and red lipstick and breaking hearts.
Here’s to the girl who cannot tell the difference between eye liner and mascara, who couldn’t care less, who shows up at places in sweat pants and messy buns, the girl who sticks by her friends even if the whole world thinks they’re crazy, the girl with the carefree laugh and outspoken nature.
Here’s to the girl who wears the same sweater everyday and looks at other girls wishing she were them, to the girl who hides behind places so that people can’t see how scared she really is, to the shy and timid girl who’d be happy to have a friend, here’s to the girl who hides her beauty from herself.
Here’s to the girl who got called a Bitch because she was not afraid to speak her mind, who knows what she wants and how to get it, to the girl who can take the world in her arms because she knows what she deserves and is never going to settle for anything less.
Here’s to the girl who gets called ‘fat’ everyday just because she does not have a thigh gap nor cheek bones, the girl who feels like someone just punched her whenever she hears other skinny girls say ‘I’m getting fat’, to the girl who hides her tears in the pillow each night and her feelings with a smile each morning, here’s to the girl learning to love herself, to the girl who forgets to embrace her own beauty.
Here’s to the girl who gets called skinny by all her friends, who gets picked on each time she says she doesn’t want to eat anymore with lines like ‘What? You want to grow thinner?’ , to the insecure girl who wishes to be more, the girl who fails to see how many people would just die to be someone like her.
Here’s to the girl with the weird hairstyle and colourful pants, who knows the name of all the stars in the galaxy because she spends the night watching them instead of partying out because she was not invited, here’s to the girl who lives in her own world, and that’s okay.
Here’s to the girl who spends her nights reading books, crying over characters she’s never known, here’s to the girl who loves ice-cream and art and the cello, the girl who spills truth out to her diary and smiles at strangers, here’s to girls like that.
Here’s to the girl we see in the mirror who finds herself measuring her self-worth by how she looks like, pointing out her flaws to herself, noting how pretty the other girls are and why she couldn’t be them, to the girl who can’t see her own beauty, here’s to girls like us, here’s to all kinds of Beautiful.

Of cables and door knobs

Power the rate of doing work”, they said.

The alchemist inside the think box produced a spark, the hot steams of curiosity filled the grey pistons of matter and the gears of synapses began to rotate. The conscious dove into the deep waters of imagination. Slipping into unsound trenches of the unconscious, floating away from flesh and bones.

Eyes, God’s very own instrument of sight, they cater us with the truth. Only because we choose to believe what they show us, but sometimes the truth hides behind the thick hide of sight. We choose to believe what we see and so do I, but truth lies behind the blue green waters on the bank of thoughts. One thing that exists between the lines of everything and nothing sewing holes with the wholesome thread, one that does not change and wither away with the emptying glasses of sand ENERGY.

The raw form and content of none and all, everything that is real and imaginary in the worlds of ours. All has been acknowledged and accepted owing to the thoughts generated in the mind, these have substance within them chemical in nature psychedelic in kind.

Thoughts are only bars of energy drifting in grey waters of the mind packed with wrappers of imagination. They allow everything to work in directions they set out to, powered by energies boundless in nature. Thoughts exist because we create them and we exist as energy packed with flesh and bones.

The word cell one that is ascribed as the micro-packet of energy, one that provides us with power and defines us whole. The spell of life.

The word cell is one that powers all the devices of now. Magic flowing in sparks and bursts, the potion of electricity.

Cell a structure that holds crime and blood within itself, separating the world and the creator with metal bars of code and the right. The dungeon of mistakes.

Cell a room that allows creators to fly and glide deep into the Universe, where the creator finds serenity in solace. The blindfold of enlightenment.

The universe is infinite and filled with mysteries of it’s own visible to those who look at the ordinary with the eyes of simplicity.

(To the guests of the world,
let’s explore and wander when the sun is up and wonder and watch the skies when the nights are dark.)

New Love

If someone ever told me to describe spring in two words, I’d say, ‘New Love’. That’s when the freshest of flowers bloom, luring lovers in like bees to nectar. But then, just like a season, new love fades away for it to be replaced by an older love; a wise old Winter, looking down upon the whereabouts of his childhood like a nostalgic great-grandfather.

Along this path of love, many lose their way. It is, after all, a tricky trail. Some fall and break their hearts until someone else comes along to pick them up and piece it back together. Some come with flowers, some come with knives. Some die in autumn as the summer happiness fades away to a quiet sadness. Some just build a home somewhere and enjoy the sunset together.

Anyway, if you are planning to go hiking this way, then you better be prepared. Some of my suggestions would be to take a sturdy bottle of Loyalty and some packets of Trust. Few people go carelessly without packing well, and their love almost inevitably perishes on a side track, rotting of tears and broken hearts.

Well, I’m no expert but a wise man once said, “You don’t have to be perfect to start preaching.” (Although, like all wise men, his name also seems to be forgotten).

Hearts are fragile things but they’re painfully beautiful when they begin to love. What a waste would it be if it were to be broken. Ah, a poet’s tragedy indeed.

So here are a few rules to abide by. Remember, although it says ‘rules’, these are merely suggestions. Feel free to scratch these off the board if it doesn’t work out for you. (I hope it does).



  1. Change is inevitable

In fact, change is the only constant there is. So if you’re in love with a person and you’re thinking, “I hope he/she will always stay the same,” or if you’re on the other side of the table with risky words, “I promise to stay the same forever,” you’ll be lying and will definitely get sorely disappointed.

No one, NO ONE, ever stays the same. Yes, you may love your partner just the way he/she is NOW but he/she won’t stay like that forever. He/she will get extra scars that will tell them to not punch the wall too hard, he/she will learn how to play the violin or kick some ass with karate, he/she will become more mature and understanding, he/she will become more nagging, possessive, there are an infinite number of possibilities that your partner can be, and will be, if you don’t limit him/her.

So many people fear this change, but in a way isn’t that more fun? In fact, change will save your relationship from being stagnant. I mean, in 5-10 years, you’ll be dating a completely different person! But it will be more beautiful because you’ve seen him/her grow and in some way, even helped him/her grow.

The only time it may NOT be fun is if your partner changes for the worse. There could be a couple of reasons for it. Maybe the fault is within them, or maybe this relationship is just not right for you.

Try fixing it a few times but if it still doesn’t work, it is time to pack your bags and leave.


  1. Love needs effort

It is very easy to fall in love. Try staying in love. You keep love alive with effort. To compromise, let go of your ego, make it work long distance, all of it is based on the willingness to work for it.

Take care of love before it wilts away. All it needs is a little bit of sunshine and a lot more of hard work which adds up to a massive amount of happiness.


  1. Self-love is important

Self-love is mandatory. Don’t just make your relationship about your partner. You deserve your love and respect too. You deserve to take care of your hobbies, to be good at what you do, to take some time off for yourself.

Don’t wait for your partner to complete you. Be a very unique and wondrous person on your own until your partner comes along to show you the Mirror.

In the words of Rupi Kaur:

“I do not want to have you

To fill the empty parts of me

I want to be full on my own

I want to be so complete

I could light a whole city

And then

I want to have you

Cause the two of

us combined

could set

It on fire.”


  1. Take responsibility

If I say yes to you, I’m saying yes to your joy and your sorrows. I’m saying, yes, I will stand by them I will share it with you, perhaps try to multiply your joys and lessen your sorrows. I’m saying yes to your anger, that you don’t have to hide from me, I’ll be right there, unafraid and unyielding. I’m saying yes to your fears, I’ll not run from them but I’ll face them with you or if it’s your journey alone, then I’ll try to give you courage.

But I’m also saying yes to you breaking my barriers and reciprocating. I’m saying ‘Yes, you know the way to my heart, and if you break it, I’ll have no one to blame but me.’

When I say yes, I’m taking responsibility.

So when something goes wrong, I do not like playing victim. I do not like saying words that roughly translates to, “I’m the victim! I’m the victim! Have pity on me and let’s curse the one who broke my goody good heart!”

Because if something goes wrong, it is as much as my responsibility as it is yours.

Take responsibility and work for it. And if all else fails and love leaves, gently close the window that brings in the chilly wind of loneliness. Light up your fireplace with the warm sense of feeling that you’d loved and had been loved in return.

Give yourself time to heal yourself. Look at the slightly open door (just in case someone comes knocking at your heart again) and thank Love for meeting you, teaching you lessons you never thought you would learn.

But if Love stays, never leave its side. Let Love grow old with you. Let it nurture you, like you nurture it, let it grow inside of you till it overflows.


Let Love consume you.






(To Love,

Thank you for choosing me to walk this way with you.
This is either the most devastatingly beautiful journey I’ll ever walk upon, or the most magnificent heartbreak I’ll ever experience.
But Now is all I have at the moment, and with you, Time is infinite.)