on Harry Potter

The year 2000.

I still remember that day, when my father presented to me a paperback version of a certain book called ‘Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets’. I also remember, how after reading through the first few pages (the first chapter was called The Worst Birthday, I recollect ) I had closed the book and kept it somewhere and … well, yes, had stopped reading it. It made no sense to me. It seemed all too imaginary and hocus-pocus for me after the fairly more realistic and less-fantastical Enid Blytons and Tintins, that had been my constant companions and sleeping partners for the past few years. (yes, don’t you raise eyebrows now. flying chairs and gnomes and pixies were less fantastical than a jet of green light that killed people, or so I felt back then)

Now, however, when I look back on that day, I can only have a good laugh at the thing that was me twelve years back.

Yesterday marked the end of that era of my life that had begun on that day in the year 2000. An era that had begun in utter distaste, an era that had grown to become an inseparable part of my childhood and teenage years and an era that I feel blessed enough to have lived through.

There have been sagas and chronicles before, in English literature, as well as in English cinema. The Lord of the Rings, Star Wars, The Pirates of the Caribbean, et al. Some of them are even, better than Harry Potter, I would dare say, from an absolute scale of reference.

But something set Harry Potter apart, right from its conception. Something made the child wizard connect with us. Something about Harry Potter, about Hogwarts, about Ron Weasley, about Hermione Granger, about Albus Dumbledore, about the rest of the Wizarding community. Reached within us. Identified with us. Something that Luke Skywalker and Obi Wan Kenobi, and Princess Leia couldn’t do. Something that Frodo, Gandalf and Bilbo Baggins couldn’t do either.

I guess, one factor that made it special was how the story of Harry’s life unfolded with that of our own. It was as if Harry Potter was one of us. He was eleven years old when the story began. We were of a similar age too, when we started reading the books. His schooling went alongside our own. He matured with us. 

This was something that neither Luke Skywalker, nor Frodo could do, for absolutely no fault of their’s, mind you.

Was it just this?

Hell no. Harry Potter reached out to an audience far expansive than just children of a particular age group. It appealed to the young, and to the old. To the housewife, and to the college goer. To the busy corporate, and to the archaic grey haired armchair stereotype.

Why was this then? Was it the story? Was it J K Rowling’s mastery with the pen? I guess we’ll never know. Also, it doesn’t matter much, even if we do. It definitely wasn’t the finest literary work ever. But then again, it was far superior from being just another work of literature, or so I feel. It was a new world that J K Rowling created, that merged seamlessly with the world of our own. A world that stared at us from the 4000+ pages of print. A world that drew us in, like a vortex, in a manner that no other fantastical world had ever drawn us before. And a world that left not one stone of doubt unturned and not one loose end before it dropped us back to reality.

Yesterday, as I sat through the final installment of the epic series, I cried like a little boy. The wilderness of feelings that gushed through my mind; through my self; through my body. Seemed choked by the sheer constipation of my ability to express them. I scarcely have felt more emotionally tugged before. As scene after scene rolled past in front of my eyes, all I could do was sit and stare, stunned to the very core.

To quote a certain review. The movie was “monumental cinema”. It  had everything that one would want. Nothing more, nothing less. It invoked every little bit of every possible feeling that one can muster. The sorrow that stuns you when you see Dobby’s grave; The rush of adrenaline when the Hungarian Ironbelly breathes fire right at you; The overpowering sense of elation when Harry Potter returns to Hogwarts; The revelation of Snape’s past, and his unconditional love for Lily Potter that blows your mind; The outburst of reverance when Minerva McGongall steps forward in the Great Hall. Oh man, this list goes on. The surge of new found respect for Neville Longbottom when he confronts Voldemort; The sheer finesse of Molly Weasley when she finishes off Bellatrix Lestrange, shouting, “Not my daughter, you bitch!” And the final flourish of triumph when Harry Potter “resurrects” himself and … the final duel … and the epic expression on Voldemort’s face when he realizes that his wand is no longer under his control.

The movie has it all. It reaches deep within your soul; reaches places you don’t know exist, and scours for every iota of feeling, and hunts them down. Personally, it is as if, someone had dipped me in liquid nitrogen and then hit me with a sledgehammer. Yes. That was the feeling. An inexplicable mishmash of wonder, shock, sorrow, and jubilance, (thought I doubt being hit by a sledgehammer while frozen makes you jubilant, but you get it, right?) It is something that no one can do justice by writing about. Needs to be experienced. First hand.

I really have nothing more to say about Harry Potter. I’ve been one of the millions who have stuck with Harry right from the beginning, till the very end, and I’m proud that I have.

And is this the end? Definitely not. The story may have ended, but the spirit of Harry Potter lives on. The voice of Dumbledore “Help shall always be give at Hogwarts to those who ask for it” and his reassuring smile; the undying spirit of Fred Weasley. The bravery and awe-inspiring courage of every Auror who sacrificed his life. The spirit of Sirius “Padfoot” Black. The character of Severus Snape, “the bravest man of them all”. And Neville Longbottom. For being the ideal Gryffindor. In spirit and in action.

I should end this now, lest I get more emotional. I can only thank Ms Rowling for everything. It’s been one helluva ride. And we’ve enjoyed every second on it.

To you J K. We all owe you one.

a collage of some of the posters featuring most of the major characters. (click to enlarge and see in greater detail)

the message

If there is one thing that I have gained after seven weeks of summer internship, it is the sound knowledge of the working of Eastern Railways and the Kolkata Metro. This story is a direct culmination of all that knowledge. Also, pardon my Hindi if in some places it is incorrect. (Update : many thanks Vishala Arya for the corrections 😛 )


—


“Poroborti station, Belgachia. Platform dan dike.”

“Agla station, Belgachia. Platform, dahine taraf.”

“The next station is Belgachia. The platform is on the right side.”

Rajat looked up from the magazine he was reading as the automated voice sounded over his head. He gave an exasperated groan, and cursed the Kolkata Metro announcements to himself. A 40 minute trip from one one terminal station to the other, spanning the whole of Kolkata from the south to the north, fraught with annoyances such as cackling automated female voices and sweaty co-passengers, wasn’t the sort of start he had been expecting to an internship. Also, he had missed the new air-conditioned metro by a whisker, and that added to his present miseries.

As the train reached a standstill, it struck him, that his destination was now only a few minutes away, so he should better ready himself if he wanted to make the most out of the rush when the sliding doors gave way.

With a lurch, the train pulled away again, and Rajat nearly toppled to one side as he tried getting up. Clinging onto the handlebars, and cursing under his breath he steadied himself on his feet. And simultaneously, the automated female voice cackled once more.

“Shesh ebong prantik station, Dum Dum. Platform baa dike.”

“Agla aur antim station, Dum Dum. Platform, baai taraf.”

“The next and terminal station is Dum Dum. The platform is on the left side.”

Rajat heaved a sigh. There, that had to be the last of them all.

He looked around. The crowd had thinned considerably. He had been praying and praying that it does. Seeing the exodus of passengers into and from the train at the stations in central Kolkata, he had remained mortally scared of his turn at Dum Dum.

Needless to say, Rajat wasn’t the type of person who had frequently availed of public transport during his twenty odd years of his life in this city. He had remained confined to the luxuries of air-conditioned private cars, and rarely would one see him taking a bus or an autorickshaw. At worst, it would be a cab.

He looked out of the windows. It was still as dark as the insides of a blue whale. He had seldom been on the metro, but whenever he had, he had never travelled to the Dum Dum terminal where the new extension of the track made it come up to the surface and then travel in broad daylight. That was one little thing he was looking forward to. The transition from the darkness to the daylight, and how it happened.

A vibration in his right pocket brought him back to his senses, and he heaved a sigh realizing that he had once again come within the usual network coverage of his mobile service provider. The intermittent availability of the network throughout the boring 40 minutes of journeying in the underbelly of Kolkata had given him yet another thing to crib about. 

He took out his phone and noticed that it was a text message from a friend, Sup it read. At work? 
On the way. Shit crap this thing, he replied, and looked out of the window again, wondering when exactly would he start feeling the ascent.

And then suddenly, there was light all around. He frowned. That’s it? The thing just goes out from darkness into light? Without any funny feelings in your tummy. On second thoughts, what else would have happened. I really shouldn’t have expected something like a roller coaster here.

The train had now slowed down. It was drizzling outside, and the spray from the window wet his shirt. He moved away from the windows and approached the door.

A few more minutes later, the train pulled into the station. And once again, the now murderous-feeling-inducing automated voice was back

“Jatrider onurodh kora hocche, je ei prantik station e jeno garir kamra khali kore dei.”
“Yatriyo se anurodh kiya ja raha hai ki is antim station par gaadi khaali kar di jaye”

“Passengers are requested to completely vacate the metro at the terminal station.”

And the train gave a final lurch and stopped. The doors slid open and the customary rush ensued. Rajat went with the flow and soon found himself on the platform. He looked around, clutching his bag close to his self, before swinging it around and straddling it on his back. He knew that now he had to make his way to the railway station at Dum Dum. He looked around and fortunately saw a big red sign showing the way down the stairs to the same. This close, huh. All good.

The scene at the railway station was chaotic. It had all the attributes of the usual Indian railway station, random filth scattered in random places, malnourished and half naked children sleeping in front of the counters. Beggars and decrepit old men lying neglected. An involuntary shudder went down Rajat’s spine as he made his way and stood at the end of the queue at the ticket counter. Thankfully enough, the queue was moving pretty quick and it was within a minute or two that he had bought a two way ticket to Agarpara, his intended destination. Dropping a coin in the pleading hands of a woman in tatters, he made his way to the platform. Credits for afterlife, he smiled. He did not look it, but actually was extremely religious and believed in doing good things to people in return of a grateful smile from them. Doesn’t hurt. Does it?

On the stairs up to the platform he stopped at yet another blind old man, and dropped a coin into his steel bowl. On the platform however the scene was healthier. Passengers flocked around. Some aimlessly strolled smoking bidis. Quite a few of them were on the tracks, cutting across it, instead of taking the overhead bridge in their haste. A lungi clad person who was standing a few feet away was making weird facial gestures and holding a glass of what appeared to be water in his hand. Rinsing his mouth, Rajat realised, when the person squirted out the contents inside his mouth onto the track.

He looked around. A few hawkers lined the side of the platform: magazine stalls, tea stalls and the sort. He walked up to the magazine stand and the latest copy of the Top Gear magazine caught his eye. He grinned. Not so bad after all. He turned away and looked at his watch. The next train, the Barrackpore Local was due in less than 5 minutes. He resumed his aimless strolling, checking his watch at regular intervals.

Soon enough, the green and yellow electric locomotive was in sight. It was approaching the platform quite steadily, blaring it’s horn now and then. And another cackling voice, and this was far worse in tone than the mildly respectable one in the metro, blared from the loud speakers.

“Barrackpore Local arriving at platform number 1.”
“Barrackpore Local arriving at platform number 1.”
“Barrackpore Local arriving ar platform number 1.”

Ugh. Rajat frowned.

The people who were cutting across the track scattered, and clambered up on to the platforms on either side, as the train lumbered in slowly. These oafs will die like this, Rajat grimaced. Much as he was cautious in most of the things that he did, he loathed cutting across railways tracks. What is the overbridge for then?


When the train had come to a halt, he heaved himself up and was relieved to see it almost empty. He went and occupied a window seat, two seats away from an old man reading a newspaper.

Accha dada, eita Agarpara jabe toh? (This train will stop at Agarpara, right?) he leaned to his right and asked him, just to reassure himself.

The person did not take his eyes of the newspaper, Haan. Duto station pore (yes, two stations from this).

Rajat heaved a sigh and leaned back, took off his bag and placed it on his lap. Shouldn’t be a long journey, he thought.

The train had started moving by then, and it steadily kept putting on speed. A candy seller had boarded too, he noticed and he kept moving around, asking one passenger after another. He came to Rajat as well, and thrust his colourful lot of candies at him. Rajat turned him down and gazed out of the window. When was the last time I had boarded a local train? He couldn’t recollect. But he was more than glad that this one was not crowded, like the ones he usually saw at level crossings – local trains with people hanging onto the doors. Like bats. As he would say.


The next station was Belgharia. The train halted there for a minute or two before lurching off again. Rajat yawned. He had been up all night watching the Champions League Final. A disappointing game, for the Manchester United Fanatic that he was, and had thus lost most of this night’s sleep. He wished he was home, happily snoring in his bed. Curse internships. He muttered.

Dada, time ta koto holo? (What’s the time?)
He turned around and saw a young man looking at him and pointing at his watch.

Showa Nota. (A quarter past nine) he replied. He took out his phone and whiled some time away playing some random games, till he noticed that the train was slowing down again. Realising that this was Agarpara, he got up again, and headed for the door. An old woman sat huddled, on the edge, who peered up at him when he arrived. Rajat frowned again. What’s with the fascination for edges?!


A few others flocked around him, all readying to disembark. The train kept rolling, slowing down with every passing second. The impatient passengers leapt off the train and hurried away. Rajat rolled his eyes. Won’t ever learn, will they?

It was a few seconds later, when the train had come to a halt, that he jumped off, and looked around. He had to reach platform number 4, and then take a rickshaw from there, he had been directed. Reaching platform 4 would mean taking the overbridge. He glanced down, along the platform and saw one some feet away.

He started walking towards it. The platform he noticed, was far less crowded than the one at Dum Dum. The hawkers and stall keepers however were the same. His eyes wandered around at the colourful advertisement bill boards. There was a new Raymond’s showroom at Agarpara, and they were giving 20% discount. He read the Bengali script slowly. He had studied Bengali for twelve long years in school, and still found reading Bengali to be a challenge.

The train had started moving again. He glanced at it, as it slowly moved out of the platform. The old woman was still huddled on the edge of the door, and was looking at him queerly. For some reason he kept staring at her, till his ringing phone made him break away his eye contact.

It was his mum.

Hullo? Yeah, I’ve reached, … yeah, am okay. Bye!


He dropped his phone into his pocket, and turned around once again to catch that old woman. She had gone forward by quite a distance. However, he could still see her, and the hair at the back of his neck tingled when he realised that she was still staring at him. There was something she wanted  to convey. He didn’t know what.

In fact, he would never know what.

The next thing he knew a metal rod had sliced through his body. He fell down. His phone dropped upon the platform and split open. People around him gasped and rushed to lift him up.

It was too late.

—

Twenty odd kilometers away, Anindita stood outside her house, and locked the door. She looked at her husband.


Rajat’s reached. Says he’s ok.


Her husband nodded. You told him to collect the key from the darwan when he returns? As it is, we won’t be done by then. We’ll be late.


Oops. Hang on, will tell him, she called his number, and frowned. Says coverage kshetra se bahaar hai. (says that it’s outside network coverage)

Network problems. Send him a message then.


Yeah Ok.

—

This story is a work of fiction. But it is based on a true story. Check this : http://www.ndtv.com/article/cities/four-killed-in-freak-accident-at-aligarh-junction-113485

What exactly has Google+ stolen from Facebook?

This is going to be a quickie. A vent of sorts to all that is bubbling within me.

What exactly has Google+ stolen from Facebook?

• the concept of friends? And family? That too from Facebook? Really? Because Facebook never really understood the difference between the two, like ever. Google+ apparently does.
• the concept of sharing? Right. I did that with food in my kinder-garden.
• the concept of photos and tagging? *YAWN*

The more serious ones.

• notifications? At first glance it’s exactly like the Facebook thing. But a second glance, and whoa. There’s the Google ingenuity staring at you in the face. What Facebook first brought into social networking – the notifications thingy … it has remained the exact same thing to date. Excepting a few minor changes like clubbing multiple notifications into one, and positioning it from right to left, Facebook has never really improved on it. What Google has done is transform it  into something so much more awesome. You can access it from any Google service, and can even do mini-Google+ ing in the small window that pops up. Also, Facebook had three irritating notifications for friend requests, messages and general notifications. Google+ has just one.
• the ‘like’ as +1 ? Facebook’s ‘Like’ evolved from a means to say “i approve of this status or photo” to simple sharing all across the web. You liked a page on the internet. That got shared on your Facebook feed. That is just simple sharing. Google Reader, StumbleUpon, Digg, Reddit … had all been there, done that. And did Mark Zuckerberg really think that he would have a copyright over a simple English word like … ‘like’ ?
• tagging? Letting a person know that he’s been mentioned somewhere? Wasn’t it Facebook who stole the exact same thing from Twitter in the first place? Where was the hue and cry of “not original” then?

bonus : What exactly has Google+ stolen from Twitter?

I personally love Twitter. But yes, what is there to steal from it? The concept of followers? Hullo. Jesus Christ and the Buddha have had their followers. So have a thousand people before them. The concept of “following” is too old to actually be considered plagiarism from the 2000s. Nothing new there!

What has Google+ not stolen from Facebook?

This could go on for ages. 

• The epic Google chat : that’s like a slap on the face of Facebook chat.
• Circles == sheer awesomeness. Because every person whom you know is not necessarily your friend.
• Hangouts. This is the sheeez. \m/
• Missing Facebook events? Check the top bar -> Google Calender ftw!
• Document sharing? Google Docs ftw!
• Videos? YouTube ftw! 

Isn’t this like utter pwnage already? Wait there’s more.

• Photo Albums : Picasa ftw!
• Mail : GMail ftw!
• Google Reader for RSS — ftw!

last but not the least :

Google Search FTW!

I mean. HOW is Google+ still a Facebook copy?

—

Well, one thing that Google has actually copied is possibly this.

Because, that’s essentially what Google+ is.

Legen-waitforit-dary.