Owl Post | The Harry Potter Lifestyle

To all those who read Harry Potter, I thank you, for being the awesome peeps that you are. I thank you, for being part of a community along with me. I thank you, too, because you are the only people who will truly understand what I've tried to express here.

I don't like to say, 'I've read Harry Potter.' I prefer, 'I read Harry Potter.' Because Harry Potter is not something you read, and like, and then put aside. It's not just another series on your 'Books I've Read' list on Goodreads.
Like Daniel Radcliffe has been quoted as saying, Harry Potter is like the Mafia. Once you're in, you're in for life. Except, with Harry Potter, it's because you don't want to leave. It's not a phase that you get over after a while. Once you get into the fandom, you'll stay with Harry, until the very end.

How is that so, you're wondering, I'm sure. Here's how. Harry Potter is not a series of books, it's a whole world within our own (like a pocket universe, if you're a sci-fi fan). It's a lifestyle, of sorts. There is just so much to do, once you've jumped onto the fandom wagon. So, hold on tight and get ready for the ride of your life.

You read the books. You watch the movies. You ask everyone you know to do the same. You even listen to the audio books. You watch the Starkid adaptations and that starts another landslide fandom for you. You listen to songs from A Very Potter Musical all day long. And before you know it, you're watching every single video related to Harry Potter, J. K. Rowling, and the cast, that you can find on YouTube. You talk about it not just to your friends, but to unknown people on Tumblr, Twitter, Facebook and what not. You spend hours completing chapters, practicing spells and brewing potions on Pottermore. You end up making a facebook page, a separate Twitter account, just for fangirling. You scroll down your News Feed/Timeline commenting on HP-related posts and pictures, discussing theories, answering quizzes, and then you post your own edits, or memes you found on the net. You fight in shipping wars. You want to take part in cosplay. You mourn the death of your favourite characters each year, on the sixteenth of May, the anniversary of The Battle of Hogwarts, along with tens of thousands of potterheads across the globe. You read fanfiction on the internet. (OMR, the fanfics! There are new fics on the internet every day. There would never come a day when you'll be able to rightfully claim that you've read all the fanfics ever written. This is something that will play a significant role in ensuring that you never stop reading Harry Potter.) Then, one day, anxiously, you write a headcanon and then your own fanfic, or at least you try to do.

At the end of the day, whether you've managed to do none, some,  or all of these things, all you want to do is get in bed and read the books all over again!

And that's not the end of it, either. These are just the things that you are able to do right after reading the books. And most of them are things that people from all fandoms do. But there is so much more. Stuff that you want to do, stuff that you're not sure you'll be able to do yet you keep dreaming about. One day, you tell yourself, one day I will do all this. Here's my bucket list for y'all to read:

1. Collect Harry Potter book sets in all my favourite book jackets.

2. Buy all the HP merchandise that I can possibly buy. This includes Hogwarts robes, scarf, a wand, charm bracelets, rings, lockets, yada, yada, yada.

3. Get Harry Potter tattoos, at least three.

4. Meet J. K. Rowling (and David Yates, Tom Felton, and Emma Watson, and oh my god, so many other people!). Okay, this one is definitely not going to happen, but I'll never give up hope.

5. Go to the following places (which are all half a world away from where I live):

• Comic Con International in San Diego (at least once).
• The Wizarding World of Harry Potter at Universal's Islands of Adventure in Orlando, Florida.
• The Wizarding World of Harry Potter at the Hollywood Universal Studios in LA.
• The Wizarding World of Harry Potter at the Japan Universal Studios in Osaka.
• The Warner Brothers Studio Tour (Making of Harry Potter) in London.

Like I said, there's so much to do. Harry Potter doesn't mean a couple of weeks of book reading, it means a lifetime of adventure.
(That sounded so much like a tag line, it made me laugh. But I always did enjoy laughing at my own dumbness, so that's nothing new.)

Now, rejoice, my imaginary readers, for this is where I stop blabbering on about my fandom. But it's just what I do. D'you know why? Because I read Harry Freakin' Potter.

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The title says 'Owl Post' because that's a new section I've started, where I'll write about Harry Potter. So, if any of you want to avoid my Potterhead ramblings, just ignore my Owl Posts. :)

Time Warp Required

My final year at school has begun, at last, and it has been drilled into my mind - by not just my parents but by anyone whom I happen to have a conversation with - that I am gonna have to put my nose to the grind stone this year. At first, I thought, whatever, I really don't see how this year can be any worse than the last. The Universe Guy must be waiting for me to have this thought, because it suddenly dawned on me how much stuff I have lined up this year. I've got so much to do this year, I might need a time machine to fit everything in. No kidding.

So, I decided to do some quick math and see what exactly my schedule will look like, according to the time I'll have to spend on everything per week.

• 40 hours of school
• 9 hours of tuition
• 10 hours of entrance exam coaching
• 7 hours of exercise

Some people might question why on earth it is so important for me to exercise when I'm in class 12 and already on a tight schedule. Now, I can be a good girl and tell you that I am overweight and I'll soon be bordering on obesity, so I have my health to think about. But, to be honest, I am not psyched about this whole exercise thing. That's kind of a result of my mom's intervention. Kind of, okay? I couldn't win the argument because she's not exactly wrong.

Anyway, let's do the math.
If I have to do all this, I am left with a hundred and two hours per week. Assuming that I need seven hours of sleep per day, on an average (which is actually more than I can afford, but if I don't get at least that much sleep I'll definitely end up dozing off while studying), I'll have fifty three hours a week to spare. After accounting for at least two hours of homework per day - including school and tuition homework - I can manage to scavenge twenty nine hours per week, which is an averge of 4 hours and 8.5 minutes per day. Four hours in which I have to include time for eating, bathing etc. So, the maximum number of hours that I can possibly manage to have to myself, amounts to about 2.5. And that's only if I follow a tight, robotic schedule, which is physically impossible for me.
Yep, welcome to my life.

Now, even if I make some cuts on certain things mentioned above (which means studies, of course; I am so not giving up any more sleep than I have to), I will obviously have to cut down on the entertainment, too. I read books and watch movies and TV shows. A LOT. So yeah, sadly, some of that will definitely have to go.
Exactly how much I can resist, only time will tell, but here are my resolutions, for now.

Books
So, okay, to avoid breaking my resolutions, I am going to try and make them less uptight, and more practical. Let's look at the facts. I am currently in the midst of reading two books simultaneously. The Book Thief, and The Iron King. I can easily finish these two by the end of this weekend. No problem there. But the thing is, the latter happens to be the first book in a series of five. So here's what I am going to do. I'll read this series, but I'll take it as slow as I possibly can. Apart from this, I will obviously have to read two books that'll be coming out this year because they are parts of two separate series that I absolutely adore.
Fair enough, I guess. NOT.
Only 8 more books this entire year? Yeah, right.
But okay, I'll make the sacrifice.

TV Shows
This part is simple enough.
I am on the sixth season of The Big Bang Theory. Apart from that, I watch Greys Anatomy (okay, I am going to quit this one after season ten ends, no doubt about that), Suits and Sherlock. So, I will watch TBBT through to the end, and just continue watching the other shows that I follow, weekly. The difficult part will be to not start anything new this year.
Repeat with me, loud and clear.
I WILL NOT START WATCHING A NEW TV SERIES THIS YEAR.
Phew.

Movies
This is the easiest part. I don't really go to the movies that much. There are only very few movies that come out in a year which I feel compelled to watch. So, no issues there. Right now, I have, like three movies that I absolutely need to watch, and I am in no hurry to watch those, either. So, I don't particularly need to hold back on that front.

Okay, fine. I know many of you are thinking that I cannot possibly do all that... and take care of my studies as well.
Guess what? I totally agree with you.

So... what do you think about the time machine idea? That'd be pretty cool, right? Of course, deciding which time machine to use will be another dilemma for me all together, the nerd that I am. Which would you rather use, Hermione's Time Turner, or the Tardis?

Wrinkled Skin, Toothless Grin

When I was a kid, whenever I returned home from a visit to the local market with my parents, there was one question that I could always count on my grandmother to ask.
'Market gayi thi? Mere liye kya laayi?'
Every single time, this question trumped me. When I was very young, I would look up at mom for help. Gradually, I learnt to answer that question by giving her some old toy or trinkle, confident that she would believe me when I told her it was new.
You see, I loved my dadi so much I just couldn't stand the pout on her face which indicated she was upset. In fact, as a kid, I shared that kind of a bond with all four of my grandparents.
And how couldn't I? They were always there to save me from the wrath of my parents when I broke stuff. And I remember, when I was in kindergarten, my dadu used to pick me up from the bus stop, and I would always convince him to take a short detour to buy me a packet of Cadbury Gems. (Except I had no idea they were called 'Cadbury' Gems. To me they were just Gems.) On reaching home, my dadi would bathe, dress and feed me, which would be followed by my shout of, 'Potty!' And after having pooped to my heart's content, I would dutifully shout, 'ho gayi!', so that anyone who heard me could come wipe my ass. (Then one day my mom told me I should learn to do that myself and I had to let go of that luxury.)

Whenever I visited Nani Ghar - as we so fondly call my maternal grandmother's house - nani would give me and my cousin sisters an old tea set she had, and all three of us would gather on a chattai in the verandah to have a tea party. I was always the first to get bored of tea partying. The next thing I would want to do was, 'something new'. So while my cousins continued to pour fake tea and pretend-gossip about their pretend-families, I would yell, 'koi toy nahi hai nani aapke paas!' knowing full well that nanu would be listening. He would then quietly put on his slippers, offer me his hand, and briskly walk out of the door with me running to keep up. We would go straight to the toy shop, where he would wait for me to take my pick. The moment we got home with my new toy, I would yell for my mother to take me back home, not wanting to share the toy with my cousins.

So yeah, as a kid, the most wonderful people in my life were my grand parents. The only things I, in turn, had to do for them were:
1) Fishing out their chappals and juttis from underneath the bed/couch/sofa.
2) Easing my dadi of her joint pains by sitting on her back or standing on her shins, while she lay on the bed guiding me to the exact point where she required me to sit/stand. I always felt great doing that, because it made me feel needed. In fact, my cousin brother and I would often fight over who got which leg to stand on.
How awesome were those days!

Gradually, as I become a teen, my pampering days came to an end. My grand parents suddenly realised that I was their height, and started having expectations of me, just like my parents always had. With my grand parents siding with my parents, I was left to face the 'all adults' team alone. Then little things about them started annoying me.
For instance,
My Dadu: When I come back from school on an exam day, the first thing dadu asks me is, 'Paper kaisa tha?' And dare I say that it went badly! 'Changa nahi si? Kyu? Number kithe katte? Tuition laen da ki fayeda hua?'
To avoid explaining myself to him, I make it a point to put on a smile, and say, without missing a beat, 'Achha tha.'
Then he would respond with another question, which would make me feel a pinch of guilt for lying to him, 'Full aayenge?' As if it were the most granted thing in the world.

My Dadi: All dadu's expectations don't stop my dadi from insisting that I should go out and 'play' when I'm preparing for my exams.
'Saare din kamre vich bayi rehndi hai! Baahr jaa k tappa kar! Jado mai tere jiddi siggi roz khed-di si!'
You have no idea how much I would love to go out and get some fresh air, dadi. I would, if I could! Can't you see I don't have enough time?

My Nani: Last Rakshabandhan, I went over to Nani Ghar one day in advance, just like I do every year. On Rakhi-Day, I put on a new top that I had bought specially for the occasion, and a pair of black jeans. My cousin, on the other hand, just had to wear an Indian salwaar-kameez. She just had to. When we came out of the room, ready to go about doing the usual Rakhi things, nani was sitting in the living room, and she looked up when we entered. Her eyes passed over our get-ups, and when her gaze settled on me her expression turned disapproving.
'Kadi te kudi bann litta kar! Jean-na paaye rakhdi hai saare time.'
Why lord, why me? Look, I have nothing against Indian attire, and I put it on when there's a wedding or something. But tbh, it's not very comfortable. So, sue me if I don't bother to put on a suit at every festive occasion!

My nanu, at least, doesn't nag anybody. Well, nobody except nani. You keep doing your thing and he'll keep doing his. Sitting on the floor in his usual latrine-pose (I have never seen him not sitting like that when he's in his own house), sipping his tea, watching cricket on television and cursing the players now and then. Bliss.

Now, coming back to my paternal grandparents. There's always the repetitive demand of being taught how to use their cell phones. Once in every few weeks, dadu or dadi would ask me something like, 'Ae dass, number kive kaddan aede vicho?'
And more often than not, I'm happy to oblige. But, sometimes I have more pressing matters to attend to and I have to admit (not without guilt) that it bugs me.

My point is that as I grow up, their habits annoy me more and more. Even the parts when they're just showing their love - like when my dadi forces me to eat desi ghyo vaale parathe - get on my nerves. I have grown wary of their remarks that, more often than not, are prejudiced and ancient. They have orthodox mindsets, and I sometimes feel like it's too much. I notice the little triffles my mom and dadi have, and I can't help but think that my grannie is being more than a little unfair.

But, when I think of all the things they did for me when my parents were out working, it sort of warms my heart. Think of it this way. The opinions you call orthodox are the beliefs your grand parents grew up with. Until they reached middle age, nobody criticised their beliefs. Now, when they have lived for the better part of the century with those beliefs, how can you expect them to simply let go of those opinions? Their thinking is faulty, and it's great if your grandparents outgrew it and turned modern. But, even if they didn't, remember that they played a major role in your upbringing, and event hough they themselves are not modern, they allowed you to grow up in an environment where you have the ability to form your own opinions.

If nothing else, remind yourself of their smile, which cheered you up when you were bawling over a broken toy. When you were little, they used to have a crooked dark-toothed smile, and over the years it grew into a toothless one. Remember, too, how loved you felt, when they addressed you with those weird-but-endearing nicknames, the ones that you feel too embarrassed to share with your friends. Remember, that they are at a stage in life where they no longer have their elders to give them love. You and your parents are the only source of support and affection for them, whereas you still have them, your parents, your extended family, and your peer group.

Remember, before time makes a fool of you.

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Excuse the punjabi, please. You see, when you are a punjabi, and you're writing about your grandparents, it's very, very hard to resist the urge to throw in a few punjabi phrases.

A Few Words - On Words

Yesterday night, my phone rang while I was reading a book. Usually, when this kind of thing happens, I just turn off the ringer and read on in peace. But this time, unfortunately, I was reading an ebook. On my phone.
At first, I just cut off the call and continued reading.
This person, though, was insistant. So when, for the second time, the screen switched from ebook page to 'as****e calling' (or that might be just what I read, instead of my friend's name), I answered the call and utilised a series of words and phrases that I probably shouldn't write here. After having given him an earful, I asked him what the hell he was calling me about at 1 am. The poor thing, assuming I had been asleep, hung up after hurriedly saying, 'Sorry yaar, aise he call kiya tha, I thought you'd be awake!'
In my defence, I HAD been reading, okay? That's what you get for disturbing me while I read (and I don't care if you had no idea what I'd been doing). Unless you bother me in person, in which case you might also get stuff hurled at your face.
Yep, I'm crazy when it comes to books. Corny as it might sound, books complete me. They just do. Not just books, I like reading anything and everything - except newspapers, perhaps - poetry, magazines, Reader's Digest (because it's too cool to be called a magazine), blogs, books, you name it.
I rarely read poetry, but find it enjoyable when I do. I read it only when I stumble across it unintentionally in a novel, a blog, or when I'm editing the school magazine (which, incidently, will get published god-knows-when). It is an amazing form of literature, but somewhat less appealing to me than prose.
I mostly read magazines to pass the time while my derrier rests on a plush sofa of some waiting room - the dentist's, the hairstylist's, or any other -ist's. And I am not particularly choosy when it comes to magazines. I can read anything from fashion and celebrity news to sports and automobile reviews, and even business and marketing mags.
Reader's Digest, as I said, is like a classy relative to magazines. As a kid, I used to just flip through to the jokes section, but found them too complex to be funny. Then, I started doing the Word Power quiz - and here you have to excuse my boastfulness - going from scoring a zero to acing the quiz in a couple of years. Today, I can read RD cover to cover (skipping commercials, duh!) without getting even slightly bored.
Blogs. I have always loved getting to know different kinds of people from different parts of the world, and blogs provide an easily accessible path to do just that. I like all kinds of blogs - conceptual or random, serious or frivolous, non-fiction or fiction, conforming or non-conforming. A blog gives you an insight into the personality of the person writing it, and you never know when you might bump (virtually) into an interesting personality!
Books. Oh, what can I say!
Books are man's best friends, I've heard. I don't know about the general 'man', but they aren't my friends, for sure. Soulmates, more like. They are a lot of wonderful things - temples for the mind, hospitals for the soul, theme parks for the imagination; always giving, never demanding. There's only so much you can do in one life. Books allow you to live as many lives as you want to, in just one lifetime. Each book is a door - like Alice putting her gold key in the lock, like the secret wardrobe passage to Narnia, like Harry using Parseltongue to open the Chamber of Secrets. Honestly, half the time in my mind, I'm a Wizard/ Shadowhunter/ Dragon Rider/ crazy scientist/ gangbanger, doing some cool shit, when I'm really just a nerd, sitting in bed - reading.
Books are a refuge. The moment you open a book, all your issues and worries get pushed to a tiny corner in your brain, forgotten, as you jump into someone else's life. They're an amazing distraction when you are sad, angry, depressed, lonely, or simply bored. And when you think you are ready to face reality, you can jump back out, into your own life.
In fact, I read even when I am happy or excited. Reading, then, is like a celebration.

Words have the power to change us. With each book you read, you learn a new lesson. In fact, for some books, each repeated reading teaches you something new - a little immaterial something that you can carry with yourself forever. And, if you are lucky, someday you'll be able pass it on - a priceless legacy.

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I began this post because of my annoying friend. In hind sight, it's just a monotonous allocution about MY likes, MY dislikes, and MY thoughts on reading. I'm too self obsessed, aren't I? Just to balance things out a bit, let's hear about YOUR likes, YOUR dislikes, and YOUR thoughts. Do give me some interesting stuff to read! :)  

A Son Who Loves Dolls

Lori Duron. Apart from being an American blogger who published her first book last year, she is the mother of two amazing sons: Lego-loving, football-playing Chase, and C.J. who, to put it in his own words, is 'a boy who likes all girl stuff'.

About two years ago, I stumbled upon her blog, Raising My Rainbow, and instantly got addicted. Now I know her family the way you know characters from a favourite book which you can read over and over again. In her blog, and later in her book of the same name, Lori writes about everyday incidents in her life and general issues in the lives of families having gender non-conforming kids. It is absolutely heartening to read about her 'adventures in raising a gender creative son', and you will be in love with her kids before you know it.

Her younger son, C.J., loves playing with dolls, twirling around in a tutu, designing his own dresses, and having all things pink and sparkly - stuff that our brain, being tuned to social norms, instantly associates with girls. This woman, though, does not care about making her son conform to gender norms, and I have come to respect her greatly for it.

Even before finding out about her blog, I had condemned gender norms. But back then, I had only ever come across stories of adults who were a part of the LGBTQ community. Her blog took my level of disgust towards homophobia to a whole new level, because it tells the story of a toddler having to explain himself to the world. No child should ever have to do that. Children should feel loved and safe from prejudice at home, at school, in the park, in public places, and everywhere they go, irrespective of their gender or sexuality.

One very important thing that Duron places emphasis on in her book is empathy. She says that if you think teaching children about sexuality isn't appropriate, you can at least teach them to empathise with all human beings, no matter how different they are. This mother is trying to create an environment for her sons where they are not only accepted but also loved for who and what they are. And after a great deal of effort, she has been - to an appreciable extent - rewarded with success. She could not have done all that alone, though. Her friends and family supported her - especially her husband, who was by her side every step of the way. And she's not the only such mother out there. There are several families like hers, families who consider it their duty to love their child, without trying to change him/her.

Unfortunately, they still find themselves at the receiving end of negative remarks from a number of individuals and organisations. Yet, they haven’t given up. They haven’t buckled under the pressure. They’ve stood tall and shielded their kids from the narrow minded society. The only reason they have been able to do this is that they understood that it it's not their child who is flawed; it’s the social conventions.

Makes you wonder - how many parents in a country like ours could do that? How many families would be ready to share their effeminate boy's life with the world instead of hushing it up like a dark secret?

My guess? Next to none. Not nearly enough.

Today, we have skyscrapers, funky automobiles, high-grade technology, and our economy is growing, if not rapidly. But as far as our mind-sets go, we might as well be living in the Stone Age. People see homosexuality as a weakness, a disability - an illness, even. They say it's just another trend - a phase - as a result of which we are exaggerating penny-wise issues. Well, ‘they’ need to open their eyes, as well as their minds. This is not a phase that will pass with the passage of time; this is our respect for the right of every human being to be who they are and love who they want to.

People shun gender non-conforming persons and believe that they are not normal, in the name of religion, nature, humanity, you name it. If you are religious, maybe you should remember that God created them, just like He created you, and contrary to what you might imagine, He will not reward you for treating fellow human beings like scum. If you think gender creativity is even slightly unnatural, let me remind you - these people are also nature's creations, just like you are. Their hormones, feelings and sexuality are no more synthetic than yours. And if you believe they are any less human, let me tell you - they are more human than you could ever imagine being, and they are that much the better for being true to themselves.

I’ll leave you with something to ponder over. Renowned author Ernest Gaines once raised this question: ‘Why is it that, as a culture, we are more comfortable with two men holding guns than holding hands?’

Musings...

I sit on the couch in our living room, my mind buzzing with anxiety about my oncoming exams. Vaguely, I wonder if I made the right choice. Do I really want to become what I think I want to become? I look around the room, at the people that I call my family.
My mother talks about my 5-year-old brother to my dad - recalling a little incident that took place in the park. It is a very ordinary evening, my parents are both crooning over how their son said a really sweet thing to our grandmother.
As my parents talk, my brother sits right there, playing with his little cars. He hears my mother immitate him, and, even though she means it in a good way, he gets offended. He tells them to stop laughing at him. They try to make him understand that they aren't, but he just isn't ready to listen. He picks up his cars and stomps to the next room, banging the door behind him. After giving him a minute, my mother cracks the door open and asks him if she might come in. He ignores her. She enters the room and, I don't know what happens in there, but two minutes later he is shouting her out of the room.
Meanwhile my dad, sitting beside me on the couch, says, 'What will we do with this kid? He gets mad for the smallest of things!'
I keep quiet. The major part of my mind is following a similar train of thoughts, but the other part is thinking back to my own toddler tantrums. You were just like that, remember? says a tiny voice that I'm sure belongs to the latter part of my brain.
'Wasn't I just like that?' I ask my dad, without thinking.
'Oh, you were. You were one hell of a drama queen. You loved all the attention.'
I smile. Did you, now? Think about it, the tiny voice chimes in, but this time it doesn't sound so tiny.
So, I think. Did I really do it for the attention? I mean, I was just a kid. No. No, I don't think so. Suddenly, I remember. I remember that I hated listening to people talk about me like I wasn't even there. I remember how my parents used to discuss everything about me - good, or bad; and sometimes with my sister - right in front of me. And I remember being mad at them for it. It is a silly thing, if you think about it. But it makes me realise something. It makes me realise how, even at that age, we wish to be treated as equals - it's human nature. And once we cross that age, once we begin to understand the language - to process what we hear as something that has meaning - we become fully human.
To wish to be treated like an equal by adults is, of course, silly. The kid doesn't get that, though. What we can do is try to understand what he does get. We can.
I realise that everyone, no matter how young or old, appreciates being understood. This makes me think of myself, as I am now. A teenager. The category of people who feel misunderstood all the time. Is that how parents think of teenage tantrums, too? Do they really think we like to do it for the spotlight? No, they've also been there, right? They know how it was when they were our age. Or do they? I mean, sure, they know. But do they still remember? And if they do remember, do they still understand? So many questions.
Today, I am in that phase where I have begun to find kids annoying. I have begun forgetting what it was like to be a toddler, to be that innocent and tiny. So how much longer would it take me to forget how it was to be a teen?

A cousin of mine, at 24, has already begun forgetting how certain things were very important to her when she was in school. When I mention them, she tells me I'm stupid to give them importance. Perhaps I am. But I remember how these same things used to be as important to her as they are now to me. She has forgotten all about it, though.
Now, forgive me the lack of seemly modesty when I say that I am a keen observer. I observe people, and I learn little things. So far, I've learnt one particularly important lesson. Everyone does something for a reason. When you are mad at someone, try to put yourself in their place. Try to understand their perspective and their position. Be fair; think what you would do if you were in their place. It'll help prevent you from being a jerk to anyone.
This time, I learnt that 'everyone' includes kids, too. But I wonder. Will the same thing happen to me? Will I grow up and forget how it felt, being a child? Probably. And so, I thought I would write this down, just for the record. 'Cause, as the saying goes, 'Youth cannot know how age thinks and feels. But old men are guilty if they forget what it was to be young.'

Coming back to my initial reverie, I think maybe I should become a shrink. Giving people my precious advice, and charging them for it; listening to all their problems... Nah, that one could be depressing. I guess I'm going to stick to my current career plans after all.

The Life and Lies of a Feminist

".....answer me this, kids, how on earth is a son more beneficial to the parents than a daughter? After all these years of my adult life, what I have found is that no boy cares for his parents more than girls do. Boys are reckless and insensitive maggots. Daughters are emotionally more mature and sensitive, and this capability makes them care about...", and on and on droned our English teacher, her enthusiasm fuelled by her false perception of feminism. She claims to be a feminist, and we are pretty sure she believes it too. Except she isn't really one.
This is a piece I've been wanting to write for a long time. There are perhaps more articles on feminism, sexism and mysogyny on the web and in print, than there are bytes on my laptop's hard disk drive. But I still wanted to write my own. Why? Well, because I like to write; because I, human as I am, love to express my own opinion on every matter; and because it is a topic that's rather close to my heart. But more than anything else, I wanted to write this because I believe that, when it comes to feminism, there are infinite varieties of misconceptions in an average person's mind. The most common of these misconceptions is one that makes us mistake feminism for misandrism. Basically, we don't have a clear definition of the word feminism in our minds. Indeed, many of us have ironically baffling notions regarding this term. The very thought of such people going around professing their so-called feminist ideas is horrifying.
Feminism is not a simple term that can be explained, or understood, with the help of a single sentence. It is a complex term, it takes patience to explain, and a broad and open mind to absorb its vastness.
Let's begin with the basics. Feminism is a good thing. It is so obvious a fact that writers often completely leave it out. I think it would be apt to quote Sherlock Holmes (A Game Of Shadows) here, "It is so overt, that it is covert."
There are many out there who question the very integrity of this phenomenon. I have personally heard and read numerous arguments against feminism. I would love to counter them, but it would be pointless, and a waste of my time. Here, all I am trying to make you understand is that no matter how strong an argument against feminism might sound, the feminist movement is, in its true form, a good thing. I am not asking you to blindly believe me, which you wouldn't, of course, even if I did ask you to. But, my word, by the time you are done reading, you will truly believe it.
Secondly, feminism is NOT about hating men. That is a whole different thing! The word for that is misandrism. So, don't shame feminism by calling yourself a feminist just because you hate men and think that 'all men are the same'. Just because you have met a couple of jerks in your life does not make it a universal fact that all men are jerks.

Feminism is not just about loving womankind, either. The English teacher I've mentioned above is all about praising girls and consistently infuriating the guys in our class by saying that all men are thugs. All girls are NOT 'good'. Not all girls have good manners or good handwriting or amazing emotional maturity (have amazing emotional maturity - sounds better than 'have leaky eyes' and 'are boring') or are responsible! Girls can be equally careless and irresponsible, and they have every right to be. Praising womankind all the time is not good because it leads to sky-scraping expectations for every girl to be 'ladylike'.
Feminism preaches that every girl is unique, and deserves to get the oppurtunity of growing up to be the woman of her choice. To be clear, unique does not mean independent and outgoing. Unique means unique. There's this stereotype regarding modern girls - that they are all less sensitive and extremely independent. Even that is wrong. Every girl has an individual identity. They are not sheep, to be fooled into believing that they have to conform to a particular norm. I, being a feminist, not only believe that all girls are different, but also support the fact that all boys are unique. I just don't understand why the society cannot digest this simple fact and let people create their own identities.
Finally, the roots of feminism come from the idea of equality. That all humans are equal. It is a bizarre fact that more people are ready to sympathise with the minorities for fighting for their right, but they go into denial mode when women ask for theirs, despite women making up half the population and being reponsible for the existence of the other half! Shame, indeed!

If you are wondering how a 16-year-old girl can have such opinions, I have two things to say to you. Firstly, 16 is not that young an age, okay? (At this, you can imagine me pouting my lips and rolling my eyes.) Secondly, I read. I always had this sense of pride about being a girl. So, every time I read a book, or any story for that matter, I learn a bit about feminism. Caitlin Moran, a feminist and writer, has been an inspiration for me. Her book, How to be a Woman, taught me a lot of in-depth stuff about being a woman, and not in the usual boring, mechanical way. Her observations about various phases of a woman's life are sure to tickle the reader's funny bone. And she helped me to shout out loud, 'Fuck you, the patriarchy!'
I think every girl should read it. In fact, if a boy gets past his embarassment and picks up this book, he will find a treasure of secrets about women, unravelled by a woman, that could actually make him understand them better. Just saying. ;)

Diary of a One-year-old

Apparently, I will turn one tomorrow. My parents are making a very big deal out of it. They are planning some sort of "party", I overheard them talking about it. But hey, I don't even know what a party is. It will be my first one. It seems to me like they expect me to be excited about it, but tbh, I'm kind of confused.

~ A couple of hours later ~

Oh no, now mum is buying new clothes for me! I keep screaming at her, trying to tell her I don't want them. But she keeps saying things like, "Oh honey, you must be hungry!" or "Are you sleepy, baby girl?". Come on, mum. New clothes are itchy! Don't you get it? I'd rather move around in my nappy! But it's too late now. She has already bought them and now nothing can spare me the horror.

~ The D-Day ~

On this day, one year ago, I was born. I am quite excited, I think. These clothes are itchy, but I guess I can't do anything except come to terms with reality.
We have come to a place that I've never seen before. At first it was just mum, dad, me, and my annoying four-year-old brother (he's more excited than I am). But then, more people began to enter the scene, and now I am in a room full of noise and strange big people. They all look the same. Except some of them have long hair and others have shorter ones. I can see a guy my age tugging at the hem of his mother's shirt. He seems crazy to me. He looks at me, and sticks out his tongue. I wrinkle my nose. Finally, someone who gets me.
Then, a big person with long hair comes over, pinches my cheeks, flashes its toothy smile and says something that sounds like gibberish to me. Whatever it says seems to make it happy. Well, to each his own. But that's not where it ends. Lots of big persons come over and I'm handed over from unknown person to unknown person. It makes my head spin. Oh, who cares. I just let them do their thing and focus on sucking my thumb. They laugh at me. Talk about rudeness! Like, hullo, I'm right here!
Okay, this is too much. Now I have a stalker. Imagine that! This big person holding this big flashy thing over his shoulder is following me. I want my mommy RIGHT NOW. But, you know how I am, too easily distracted. My eyes fall upon an open space with colourful dancing lights on the floor. I go over to the lights and try to catch them, but they keep jumping just out of reach. It's annoying, but fun at the same time, because I am determined. But after some time I get bored and look around for mommy again. I spot her standing next to the crazy boy I had seen earlier. He looks bored as shit. Well, he can join the club.
I walk up to him, negotiating my way between long legs and toppling several times. No need to laugh, walking is a new skill, I have yet to master it. So, eventually I reach there. As soon as I get there, the guy smiles, walks up to me, and starts pulling at my locks. So, I was right. He IS crazy.
His mother tries to do something. I think she's trying to stop him, but it's all in vain. Finally, I have to put my foot down. I mean, I literally slam my foot down onto his. He screams and runs for his life. Oh yeah, hide behind your mommy, li'l guy!
I take a long victory lap around the dance floor once I manage to get back there. But it's not empty anymore. Big people have started stomping their feet onto it now. I guess they're playing the same game with lights that I had discovered. Such cheaters, I tell you! But from where I'm standing, it looks likes an attempt to stomp over me. I'd better get out of the way ASAP.
A big girl picks me up as I try to walk up to the gift pile. I look up. I recognise that face. She's a cousin, I think. Yeah, she's the one I like. She is moving her lips and making faces. I have no idea what she's trying to do. Perhaps she's trying to speak my language. She's doing a bad job of it. She carries me over to a round table and sits me on her lap. Then, she picks up a spoon from the table and plunges it into a bowl of soup - she wants to make me eat! I like you, hon, but that's just not gonna happen. I wriggle my way out of her grasp and run for my life.
I run till I find mommy. Then I tug at her clothes and scream till she notices me. I point over to the table where my cousin is sitting, and wail till my throat burns. My mother announces, "she must be sleepy," to the group of big people she had been talking to, and carries me to where dad is standing. I get handed over to dad. As soon as I get into his arms, I press my face into his shoulder and he carasses the back of my head. Phew! It's been one hell of a day! I am never partying again!
Eventually, the noise around me fades, and I get pulled into the amazing world of dreams.

News Flash!

Wow. Two great things happened in the last two days. One shames misogyny while the other shames the muggles who once told me my fandom was over.

On Friday, September 13, justice was served. Or at least that's what a majority of Delhites (including me) think. The Delhi gang-rape convicts were given a death sentence. I know, right? Not such a scary 'Friday the Thirteenth', after all.
But hey, let's not get all contented and satisfied. Yet. At least I'd rather not believe it till it actually happens. I mean, they said they'll appeal in higher courts and who knows, their punishment might be reduced. For all we know, this might as well have been just an attempt to calm down the masses. I personally think we should not forget about this as yet.
Speaking of the argument about whether the guilty deserve a punishment so severe, I don't even want to see your face if you think they don't. What had the girl done to deserve to die in such extreme pain? This wasn't just murder or just sexual molestation. It was a disgusting blend of both, topped with sociopathic brutality. If anything, these people deserve worse. But I am pretty sure that, in a country like ours, a more brutal punishment would never be carried out. If execution is the worst punishment allowed by our system, so be it. Such extreme misogynists do not deserve a treatment any softer than this. Fuck you, the patriarchy!


******

And now the most amazing news of my life as a fangirl (please refrain from condemning me for putting this news in the same post as the more serious news about the gang rape convicts).
On Thursday, September 12, mugglenet reported that J. K. Rowling has confirmed the news that she will be script-writing for the film adaptation of Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them!!! I usually do not use so many exclamation marks, but I'm SO. DAMN. EXCITED.
Anyway, by doing this, J. K. Rowling has set ablaze the hearts of the HP fandom, yet again. Yesterday I personally witnessed all social networking platforms - facebook, twitter, tumblr, you name it - brimming with posts about this great news. I was, in fact, one of the proud contributors of these posts. Many posts were figurative threats telling muggles to beware. Those muggles who claimed that, with the release of the last HP film our fandom will come to its mortal end. Except, ours is an immortal fandom. So, to them, we want to say, "Told you, bitches, we will be here until the very end. When we said 'Always' we meant it."
JKR said that the new movie series (oh yes, it's not just a single movie) will be based upon the adventures of Newt Scamader, the fictitious author of Harry Potter's textbook Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them. But the story will be set in New York, seventy years before Harry's time. The basics of the Magical World will be the same, but the movie will be an insight into American Wizardry and how things were at that time, in the magical community. So it will definitely be a new section of an amazing journey that began in 1997 for us Potterheads all over the globe.
We are hoping that we will come across young Albus in this new spin-off, or at least that there will be a time jump and we will see Luna, as she later gets married to Newt Scamander's son, Rolf. We've all put our speculation caps back on and our predictions are getting wilder by the moment. We want this new film right now! No, no, Warner Bros., take your time (but it'd better not be too long) and make a movie that beats the previous eight. So, no pressure. ;)

Happy Birthday, I Suppose?

Crap, I missed my blog's birthday! I feel so bad! I'm so sorry, bloggie!!
Okay, I'm lying. I'm not sorry. Neither do I feel bad (duh!).
I mean, seriously, people treat things like this in a way that's too nauseating for me to think about following them. It's just a damn blog, for god's sake! I mean, I love it, and all that, but birthday? Are you kidding me?

But yesterday, this thing happened.
I was in school, and my friend was like, 'So, you write a blog, right?'
And I was like, 'Yeah, so?'
Then she asked me when I started it, and I couldn't recall.
So I came home and went online to check. It so turned out that Blogspot only tells me the month in which I started my blog: August 2011. No specific date. So then I looked for my first post, and it turned out that I had deleted it a couple of months back (out of embarrassment, I'm sure). But that's not what my first thought was. I thought, 'Whoa, I started this thing two years back!'
It was this thought, then, that made me go through some of the blogs that I follow to check if it's a norm to post something special on your blog's birthday.
What I discovered is that some people write a whole post about their blog and why they love it, most others post a usual post and just mention that they are dedicating it to their blog (honestly?), while there are only a few
bloggers who don't bother to do anything special.
I guess I fall under the third category of bloggers, because I simply forgot the date on which I "gave birth" to my stupid little blog. And I only realised this after it has already turned two. I should be ashamed. (Only, I'm not.) To top it all, I still don't know its exact "date of birth". I regret not having gotten a
birth certificate made. But, c'mon, cut me some slack, I'm a 16-year-old single mom (Jeez! That just sounds creepy).
Any way, I think I've made it pretty clear that I don't give a rat's ass (I love that phrase) about my blog's birthday. But I do feel bad (and this time I'm not kidding) about the number of posts I've written till date. Only thirteen! And that's inclusive of my first post (the one I deleted).
Now that's just painfully sad.
So today, I take a pledge (ineffective during exam time) to write at least one post
every... let's say, two weeks. Seriously, a post every fortnight is the least that my "bloggie" deserves. I do love it, after all. (But that still doesn't make me feel any less weird about calling my blog 'he' or 'she'.)