Where I change my opinion about a Harry Potter movie

When I watched the first Deathly Hallows movie, three years ago, one of the things that bothered me the most about it was the scene where Harry and Hermione start dancing. It seemed random, pointless, out of character for both of them, and forced in there just to appease all the H/H shippers out there.

But over my last couple of watches of the movie (and I go back to these movies fairly often), I've grown fonder and fonder of this scene. It comes at a point in the movie when both of them are feeling down - for similar yet different reasons - and Harry just wants to cheer Hermione up a little. And I like how Hermione starts out grudgingly - almost rolling her eyes - then gets into the mood, but then loses her smile at the end. And they both go back to brooding in their own corners.

I was also reminded the last couple of times I wacthed this scene that at the end of the day, these two are 17 years old at this point. And just needed to act foolish for a while. Which is something I think I forgot at times during the last two movies.

That is all. Just wanted to share. Carry on then.

Of the week that was

Let's just talk about the week we've had, okay? Professionally, this was the week I finally seemed to be finding my groove after three months on the job. I knew what I was doing (sort of), I was telling people what I needed, I was navigating fragile egos better, I was getting "that's an excellent suggestion" type responses, and I finally got my own cube. Awesome, right?

On the life front, however, I can't remember the last time a week was so consistently disastrous. I am prone to disaster, yes - this is a known fact. But it's rarely been this prolonged.

So, to recap:

Monday - well, to be fair, Monday was fine. I mean, I fasted for Bhai Phonta. And I raced through an entire episode of Candy Crush saga in 24 hours. So that was awesome. And the evening involved a lovely, hilarious, emotional, and utterly cute session with the family involve phonta giving and cake cutting.

Tuesday - At lunch time I realized my wallet was nowhere to be found in my purse. Which was disconcerting to say the least, because if it was missing, it had been missing for well over a day since I hadn't used it at all the previous day (thanks to the aforementioned fast). After a "don't be stupid" from a colleague, I figured it might be in the other bag I had carried with me when I went shopping on Sunday so decided to wait till the evening before I panicked. In the evening, I got to my car and checked the other bag and discovered it was empty. On the way home, I called the store I had been in last on Sunday, only to be told they didn't have it either. I got home, emptied out my purse again, hunted all over the apartment, and then officially panicked. I figured I'd go down to the bank with my check book and withdraw some cash, so I'd have something with me. I picked up what I thought was my empty purse, thought it felt way too heavy to be empty, and finally looked into the middle zip pocket that I never use, and there it was.

Wednesday - My debit card got declined at the grocery store. I kid you not. I was using the self-checkout kiosk, and I still don't know if I really entered the wrong PIN five times in a row, or the machine was just stoopid, but the bottomline is I had to walk back home, get my other card (the grocery store is literally attached to my apartment building, so I usually walk down with a bag, my debit card, and my loyalty card for the store), and then go back to get everything.

Thursday - The day I truly topped myself. I woke up late, and therefore was running late already, when I realized I couldn't find my glasses. After spending a good 10 minutes hunting for them all over, I decided what the heck, I'll manage without them for a day, and decided to leave. just as I locked my door and started walking to the garage, I happened to glance down and there they were, just hangin' from the collar of my shirt. And if that wasn't enough, I went out to dinner with colleagues, found a fabulous parking spot right in front of the restaurant, locked my car and walked in, only to be called back by another customer who was leaving and noticed that while I had locked my car, I hadn't actually shut my door.

Friday - Today. Slept through my alarm, again, yet managed to hear an incoming text from a friend. Was driving to work, stopped at a light, only be suddenly thoroughly jolted because the lady in the car behind me didn't stop. My back hurts, my car is hurt, and I am so utterly thankful that this week is over. Now let's just keep our fingers crossed that nothing happens between now and the time I get home.

See y'all.

Of flaws that exist

For reasons I'm not entirely sure of, I would like to make a list of things I am truly awful at. If anyone feels I have missed out on anything, you may inform me thusly and I shall add (if I agree). Except the mother. You are not allowed to add anything.

Any points any readers disagree with are also most welcome.

• Pouring liquids from one mug to another without spilling.
• Saying no to people.
• Being nice to the mother.
• Detecting the BFF's sarcasm (which is just weird, I know).
• Cutting vegetables in shapes that seem non-weird.
• Boiling potatoes and eggs.
• Anything that involves being domesticated, really.
• Demonstrating any sort of will power when it comes to exercise and weight management.
• Displaying facial expressions that don't give away the fact that I think you're an asshat.
• Power Point.
• Being social.
• Getting over grudges. Also developing grudges over things that shouldn't matter.
• Applying nail polish smoothly. And then sitting still long enough for it to not smudge.

What else?

The morning drive

There's something about watching a flock of birds, as they fly in perfect synchronization (assuming that is the right word), that makes the world seem a little more beautiful.

I was driving to work this morning, which by no means is ever my favorite thing to do, and as always, had to stop at a red light for about two minutes. And just as I stopped, a flock of birds rose up from the wires they were perched on, and flew as one, in circles over the intersection, repeatedly for the next minute or so. Then, they split into two groups, with one continuing as they were, and the other changing direction to fly in circles the other way. This flying in the face of each other by the two groups carried on for another minute or so, till the light turned green for me, and they, as one group again, turned direction to fly towards the wire they had flown up from to settle down again and watch the world go by. And watch me drive off with a little smile on my face.

It was a nice couple of minutes.

Of names and reactions

The parents have always been Mamma and Baba. When relatives protested with things like "Ma is more respectful" or "Mamma sounds like Mama*", they were firmly, but politely, informed that this is what they preferred her to be called. I had other names for them from time to time - Mother & Father, Mommy & Dad, Mumsie & Babs, the mother and the father in all online references - and these are still used from time to time, usually when I'm trying to, but failing to, cajole them into something. But Mamma and Baba will always endure.

A few years ago, I started called her Ma. There were two reasons for this. One, I'm called Ra by loved ones. So when there would be a plaintive "Raaaaa" yelled from some corner of the house, bellowing back "hain, Maaaaaa?" rhymed and therefore seemed like a lot of fun. Two, and more importantly, she hated it. I mean, hated it. It made her feel old, it seems. The quickest way to irritate her was to call her Ma. I was always astonished she didn't get whiplash from the speed with which she would turn to glare at you with a look Medusa would envy.

It started out as fun, but somewhere along the way, it became natural to call her that. There's a sweetness to the word Ma that just felt... right. Unfortunately, she didn't - and doesn't - see it the same way. And it wasn't till when I was home this summer, and happened to call her Ma in the middle of a conversation. Both the parents grimaced, and when I rolled my eyes, it was the father who suddenly commented, "when you're used to hearing something for so many years, it hurts our ears to suddenly hear something else." Which drove home the point a lot better than their glares and grimaces over the past few years had.

So I'm trying to get unused to calling her Ma. It's not as easy as it should be, for some reason, but I'm trying. I would like to point out, however, that calling my mother Ma instead of Mamma is darn sight better than their son calling his elder sister Duddo instead of Didi**.

*maternal uncle in Hindi and Bengali, for the uninitiated
** elder sister in Hindi and Bengali, also for the uninitiated

My lovely purple sweatshirt

Friends from home sometimes comment on my photos these days saying it's nice to see me in colour. There used to be a time when barring my Fab India dupattas, my wardrobe consisted almost entirely of white, blue, and beige. Maybe some black. This apparently has changed.

The first indication of this changing was in March 2009, when I impulsively bought this beautiful velvet-like purple sweatshirt from a random shop in Barcelona. It was a beautiful sweatshirt, perfect for nip-in-the-air-but-not-really-cold weather, and I loved it so. Unfortunately, by the time I got back to saddi Dilli summer was approaching so I put away my lovely new sweatshirt to wear when it more sense to.

That November was the first time I did the whole Great Delhi Walk to raise money for a cause. Since I had to leave really early in the morning, and the nip in the air was quite noticeable, I took out my lovely new sweatshirt to wear on the bus ride. I then gave it to a friend to keep in her car, who gave it to another friend for some reason, and since everyone dispersed very quickly after the run, my sweatshirt went away with her.

A year passed before I met my friend again, and I finally got my sweatshirt back when I went to pick up stuff for the next year's Great Delhi Walk. I wore my lovely purple sweatshirt almost constantly after that; it went me with on every trip I took, and I loved it so.

But then the sweatshirt started fraying (also I started putting on weight but whatevs), and it needed fixing. I got the tear fixed once, and then when I moved to Amreeka two years ago, I brought it with me. But then when the mother came to visit, we noticed it had torn a bit again, so she said she'll take it back to fix it. And she did.

And then I brought it back with me when I visited home, and it lasted fine till this summer. It had torn again by the time the family landed up for graduation, and this time even the zip wasn't working, so the mother said she would take it back with her again. At this point, my summer trip back home wasn't supposed to happen so I was sad about being without my lovely purple sweatshirt but I was brave and said okay.

And then my joining date for work got delayed by a month and I had no money in my bank account to do fun travel like all my classmates, and so we decided I would go home because who knows when I'll get chhutti after this. And when I got home and saw my lovely purple sweatshirt, I saw the tailor had taken out the entire zip and replaced it with a black cloth and zip.

WHO PUTS A BLACK ZIP ON A PURPLE SWEATSHIRT?

So now my lovely purple sweatshirt is ruined and I left it behind at home because I refuse to wear it with an ugly black strip down the center, and when I think over my years with it I feel it is a bit jinxed and I feel very sad.

Picking a date

Pick a date, the brother says. Just pick a damn date, and I'll agree to it.

Pick a date, I said a week ago. Don't keep telling me we have to take a decision and we have to fix a date. Just do it.

Pick a date, the mother says. I need to know what we're thinking.

We need to pick a date, the father says.

Tuesday morning. The very last time my foot was used as a pillow.

We were all agreed we needed to pick a date. But no one would do it. How do you? How do you say this is the day we say goodbye to our golden retriever, the dog who's been part of our family for eleven years?

I was a month short of 17, the brother 12, when she came to us. Since then, every family decision has included her. We should go for the movie at this time, because we can give her evening meal and take a her for a walk before going. I can't spend the night with friends because she'll be all alone; come to Gurgaon so I can come back and feed her. Let's drive to Kasauli/Jaipur and find a hotel that allows dogs so she can come with us. Tell the boarding facility her likes and dislikes so she doesn't miss home. The boarding facility gave her too much chicken, and now she won't eat ghar ka khana, so now what do we do? Make the brother talk to her on the phone so she won't vomit again because he left.

In keeping with all the family discussions and decisions she provoked over the last 11 years, this one, the biggest of them all, was also done as a family. And so it was decided that yesterday was the day Kyra, my darling princess, would leave us to go to whatever doggy heaven there is out there.

The day after my last post, Kyra stopped eating altogether, and had to be put on daily drip. We cancelled our tickets to Kolkata, and for the next ten days, my only excursions from the house were to her clinic and back. Her blood was tested every few days, and the results were terrifying to say the least. At least twice we went through evenings convinced this was her last day with us, mentally preparing ourselves, only to find out the idiot was improving. In the words of her vet of ten years, she is - was - a miracle dog.

But even though some - all - of us desperately wanted to believe that these improvements meant a new lease of life for her, it was also clear that not only was this just borrowed time, but she would also be completely dependent on drip and medicines for sustenance and food. And so, after intense debate, and a great deal of tears being shed, the decision was taken on Saturday. And Tuesday - yesterday - was set as the date.

We spent her last few days with us the way she liked it best, sitting with her, taking her for drives and walks, taking lots of photos - although she was no longer as enthusiastic about modelling as she to used to be, and just being with her as a family. The brother and I took to sleeping on the floor on the parents' room at night; she managed to climb onto our mattresses a few times.

There were moments when I got incredibly frustrated by the waiting; we had taken the decision, why prolong the agony? But in the end, it was worth it, because we gave her some of her best days. When she went, on Tuesday evening, she was surrounded by all four of us, the way she loved it to be, but hadn't got enough of in the past few years.

We spent a large part of the evening reminiscing, of the good times and the more painful times. We smiled and laughed while talking of her antics, we cried - all four of us cried. Her doctor called late at night to ask how we were doing, and to remind us it had been the right decision. We knew that, but I suppose we - I - did need to be reminded, because the guilt that we may have let go too early is there, no matter how much you rationalize it.

The mother said something a few days ago that I keep going back to. Normally, when the brother and I visit home, we're off doing our own things. Going out, meeting friends, holing up in our own rooms busy with out laptops and phones. This time, this visit, we spent almost all our time in the lobby, with her, with the family. Kyra brought this family together all her life. In her last days, she did that more than ever before.

Go in peace, my lovely. May you get lots of gummy bears, chicken, photo shoots, and belly rubbing wherever you are. The house feels very empty without you.

An update on the princess

Some years ago, a former colleague asked me how old the princess was. On being told 6 or 7, she had asked "isn't it time for her to die then?"

First of all, No. Second of all, who the hell says something like that?

When I came home this past winter, the princess, now 11, looked and behaved much older. A part of me was aware and terrified that I may not ever see her again. And then, halfway through my sojourn in London, a call came from the parents telling me she had fallen terribly ill, had been taken off all forms of protein because of renal failure, and worst of all, may not make it more than a month.

To receive a call like that, to get news like that, no matter how mentally prepared you think you are, when you're a continent away from everyone you love, is the worst feeling possible.

Anyway. The princess is a tough cookie, and her vet has got through renal failure once before. And so she pulled through. There was serious concern whether my family would be able to leave her behind to come be with me for my graduation, with the father insisting he would stay back if need be, and me saying I wanted him there and that the brother should stay back if someone had to. The brother had no issues with this plan - at least, none that he vocalized. The mother was a little offended no one asked her to stay back or come, and insisted that she would be coming no matter what, which confused me a little - I mean, why would we ask her if she was coming or staying if we all knew she would be coming no matter what? Eventually of course, she recovered enough to be put into a boarding facility and the family did come to me after all.

AnyWAY. I arrived in Delhi this past Tuesday morning, after the worst 24 hours of travel, and there she was, at the airport to pick me up. She looked good, because the place she was put in really took good care of her grooming. On the other hand, it was very quickly apparent to me that her abilities to see and hear are not as good as they used to be. She's extremely picky about her khana, hasn't barked once since I've been home (not even when a friend came to visit), but has snapped at the brother a couple of times.

We took her to our vet this morning, and we got him to check her hearing. He says it's lessened yes, but isn't completely gone. Which I suppose is a blessing of sorts.

I don't quite know what's going to happen with her. But for now, I'm making the most of her presence in my life.

I was speaking to a family friend yesterday morning, who asked me if Kyra was excited that I'm home. I was explaining how she's aged and doesn't show much excitement about anything anymore, and got this is response:

"Well, you know, she's more used to your brother coming and going frequently these days and that probably excites her more. She probably doesn't care about your coming all that much anymore."

Who the hell says something like that?

Of ants, souls, and stories that stick

When I was a kid, we lived across from a park, and often walked through when returning home from friends' houses, or the market. There were a lot of ant hills in this park, and I don't quite remember what prompted this, but my mother once told me that these ant hills are the homes of ants, and if you knock any of them over, even by mistake, those ants will hunt you down, and destroy your house. I don't think my mother was quite as graphic as this, and I have never bothered to find out if this is a true fact, but even today, some 20+ years later, I choose not to step on any ant hills should I see one, thank you very much.

When my brother was a kid (and I therefore a somewhat older and wiser kid), we visited the Kali Mandir in C R Park (and while looking up its exact name, I discovered it has a Wikipedia page all of its own). The brother and I were bored while the parents did their chatting-with-God thing, so I told the brother that the stones which have names written on them (dedicated by families of people who have died) have the souls of said deceased individuals trapped inside them. And therefore, while we need to walk all around the temple while waiting for the parents, we need to make sure we don't step on any stone that has a name on it. And so we did.

Some ten-odd years later, with the brother now a teenager, we visited Kali Mandir again. A lot more stones had been dedicated by now, resulting in hardly any blank stones left. I watched my brother stand in one spot and try to figure out how to go anywhere in the temple complex without stepping on the souls of some poor departed-from-this-world individual.

Whenever I go home next, I want to drag him there and see what he does at the age of 23.

A cat experiment

Of the many, many things I miss about home, the princess is one of the most... missable? missed? You get the drift.

So lately, I've been contemplating getting a pet. Because much as I love living alone, sometimes you want to have someone go crazy with happiness when you come home, and dogs are so good at that - especially when they know you're going to feed them. But then I figured getting a dog isn't the most practical option, because crazy as B-school has been, once I start working, I won't be home all day anyway, and it's not fair to a dog to leave them locked up alone in an apartment for hours on end.

So then I started thinking about getting a cat. I'm told they're fairly independent, and actually like being left alone all day. But I wasn't sure if I was a cat person. So when my friend asked me to cat-sit his, well, cat for a week while he was out of town, I decided to use this time to see if I could live with a cat.

In a nutshell, no. I mean, I love this cat. Because you know, he's my friend's cat and you have to love your friends' children no matter what. But he's so... strange. He would be waiting for me at the front door every day, which okay, is a lot like the princess who I swear can hear you coming home from three lanes away. But then, this cat would roll on the floor and come run against your leg, but if you start petting him, walked away.

And well, okay, I talked to him like I talk to the princess, and I may have had to remind myself to do so in English and not in Bengali. But even when it was in English, all I got was a disdainful look of "please, can we not be so chatty?"

No, I'm really not a cat person. Maybe I should get a goldfish.