Possibly the most faithful of all love stories begun when someone lent me “The Philosopher’s Stone” for a week to peruse and ponder upon. Thus spawned my one sided love affair with the most brilliant and ingenious of human creations ever ( For people who think the most brilliant and ingenious of human creators ever is Tolkien, Shah Jahan or Paris Hilton's dress designer, I agree with you all. Each to his own). My young, teenage, perpetually unattached heart, felt a whole gamut of emotions, from exhilaration to resounding grief, in the span of seven years as I followed the hormone ravaged, angst filled, replete with desires for revenge and other unmentionable stuff adventures of the boy-man Potter. Needless to say, this devotion affected my reality, where I ended up defining my ideal mate as thin, bespectacled, hopefully scarred and with lots of issues against life. So here I am, 19, loveless, and waiting for the final bugle call- will He live?
When the announcement did come through that my life was soon going to be complete with the release of the last book, God was in heaven and all was right with the world. In sheer bliss, I fascinated all the neighbourhood window-peerers, which includes the next door grocer, garage hands from the garage opposite and the twelve year old brother of a former beauty queen, who, thankfully, now reigns somewhere in suburban America, by a pseudo jhingalala dance, which uses hair brushes, sofa sets and remote control sets as props . After all, what could prevent the solemn union between the beloved and the lover? Was not I a true fan? Did not I despise the movies for insulting the very foundation of my reason for existence? Did not I pray every night despite being a confirmed atheist for Ron and Hermione to come together? Did not I know where “armadillo bile” is mentioned in the entire series (For those who do not know, Harry spills it in the fourth book to eavesdrop on Snape and Karkaroff)? Could the powers that be prevent a union as holy and hallowed as mine and the Deathly Hallows?
Turns out, it could.
To think Romeo and Juliet thought they had it hard.
With pecuniary conditions equaling the amount of calories received by prisoner of wars, I hardly had much of an option left but to broach the subject of an additional payment for his virtual son-in-law to my father. When the daughter of the house spends most of the money she earns trying to replenish the calories she loses while turning pages of heavy books, it is the duty of the patriarch of the family to fulfill her spiritual needs, namely buy the stuff lying beyond her budget constraints.
The stage layout was perfectly set. My dad was dreamily reading a book the life and times of Jute factory owners after the Scandinavian literature breakthrough (or so I presumed). My mum looked equally dreamily into space, possibly wondering on the merits of marriage to men who seem only to care for tragedies and troubles rampaging the world only if its taking place at least a few thousand miles away from their door steps. Fingers crossed, I asked them about the possible loan, with full assurance of a future pay off of a thousand rupees, zero interest scheme. My mother had an instant aneurysm. My father, meanwhile, is a steady sort of a person with the patience of a man who has seen inflation steadily and seen it whole. He calmly asked whether my new found economic knowledge actually concurred that it was a sound budget policy during the period of economic depression my family was facing (which, may I add, we have been facing ever since my sister and I have been old enough to demand for our financial rights). After all, with ambitions ranging from being research assistants to professing on the nitty-gritties of economics, all of which pay a salary equaling cost of prison fare per individual, my claim of returning the money back was indubitably questionable. It finally ended in a stalemate where my dad took a look at my mother and opined her expression was similar to a Russian peasant who had just been intimated that his goat had crossed the path of the Czar and went back to peruse his book on the Japanese opinion of the state of anarchy raging in the Texan lands (or so I presumed again). My mother, realizing the demand of monetary assistance in the face of an unequal supply had been refuted, if not in a very direct manner, resumed her contemplation on the wisdom of marrying men who had hearts big enough to worry about the political state in Timbuktu but could never care enough for the fact that the plumber needed to be called in.
I have a feeling, this time, my reunion with Potter will be with a much thumbed, broken spined library book with traces of tears all over it, reminding me of the fact that He is in the habit of keeping concubines.
Now I truly know the pangs of love and separation. Ignorance had been truly bliss.
I know, weird ending.
The End.
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