Harry Potter Revisited

Re-reading books I’ve enjoyed over the years, has been a habit instilled in me by my father. I’d rarely see him without a book in his hand and he’d always read a chapter or two before bed. Now seeing my daughter devour book after and go back to them in these two months of quarantine reminds me so much of him. Everything reminds me of him.

She’s gone through the entire box set of Harry Potter and has doubled back the second time.

I wish I could forget the books and feel the exhilaration of discovering them all over again. Making the little connections and marvelling at J.K Rowling genius. The constant question my LO has been asking me is, “But, how did she do it? How is she so awesome?” And I can only say, “I don’t know baby!”

I’ve cried with her over the loss of beloved characters, and agreed with her anger at Snape, only to console her when he died. This storm of emotions she’s going through now are an experience by themselves. There is no explaining, no confusion, no disappointment. Only awe. I want that again.

From weeping over Dumbledore, to crying for Tonks and her baby without a mother, the insight she has on the books couldn’t make me prouder.

I received the box set as a 25^th birthday gift from a dear friend and I’ve treasured them for the past decade. They came with me to the hospital when I went to deliver this child of mine and kept me company while I stayed up nights watching her, feeding her, and waiting for her to wake.

To now have her find joy in these 7 books like I did, is a joy in itself.

U2 and I

My love affair with U2 started when I was 6. That’s quite a tender age to fully understand the depth of their music, their poetry, and the complexity of their creativity. My father brought home “The Joshua Tree” cassette and that’s pretty much all he listened to for weeks. I wasn’t complaining. There was something about them that made me feel nostalgic. I was 6. What nostalgia could I possibly have? But yet, there it was. Bono’s voice made me emotional and elated at the same time. I didn’t have the vocabulary to express myself. Papa was addicted to them too! He’d put on the cassette tape every night and Bono’s falsetto would take over our little home. The sound from our trusty two-in-one would fill my ears with lyrics I could not understand, but the music I didn’t want to stop.

For years U2 has remained with me, my favourite, my go-to music, my unchanging love. And then I lost my father - my wisdom, my teacher, the ultimate bad-ass rocker. He knew more about music than any person I’ve ever known, and he knew even more about books. Authors and their books, poets, and their poetry, nothing was hidden from him. Long before books became cult classics, he’d bought them and devoured them and known their value.

When he died, I lost part of myself and for more than a year, I could not bring myself to listen to the music I had loved for years. I couldn’t even bear to look at pictures of the band. For a year I pressed on, mourning my father, craving the sounds I heard with him as a child but unable to allow myself the liberty of enjoying that music he loved so much. 

And then when I thought I could listen to them without going to pieces, I did. I was wrong. Song after song of “The Joshua Tree” began and ended and I sobbed harder with each song. The memories washed over me, drowning me, enveloping me. And I had Bono to console me.

And then 2019 happened. U2’s tour of India happened, and my first concert happened. This band that I had grown up with, and wept my heart out to, performed the songs that shaped my childhood right in front of me. I wept, I screamed, I clapped, I sang, and I wept some more. Having my father in this experience with me would have been the gift of a lifetime. But for now, I’ll enjoy this music he shared with me.

Oak Tree to Acorn

They say that losing a child is the worst thing that can happen to a person. And I believe them. As a mother, the thought is unfathomable. How do you live with a part of you missing? There are no words to console a grieving parent and there shouldn’t be. Nothing you can say will ever make them feel better, or help deal with the pain. But, that’s not what this piece is about. It’s about losing a parent.

When I was 11, a dear friend lost his father and I could not conceive of a life without mine. I cried my eyes out and all Papa could say was, “But, I’m still here. You still have me”. That made me cry harder. What would I do if he ever left me? As an 11-year-old, I didn’t think I’d survive a day without him. That sentiment remained with me till I was 32. Then he died. He just left. This strong, wise, funny, oak-tree of a man was gone. His wit was legendary. His compassion even more. From 600 kms away, my mother called to tell me he was on the ventilator. But I knew. I knew I’d never hear his baritone and the endearing names he’d make up for me. I knew I’d never walk into my parents’ house again and see him reading a book, dressed impeccably, his glasses perched on the edge of his nose, his silver hair gleaming. I held my 3-year-old the entire flight back home, crying. She slept soundly while I wept. I was holding a piece of me in my arms, but I had lost a larger part of me.

The 11-year-old me resurfaced. All my fears about not being able to go on without him were not irrational. The pain of losing him hurt physically. I remember every minute of his funeral. The sheer amount of people in attendance was mind-boggling. It was as if no one could believe he had gone, and they had all turned up to see for themselves. I wasn’t alone in my disbelief. Yet, I was the only one in my consuming grief. My little girl kept asking for her Nanu and I had to make my peace with the fact that she’d have to grow up without his wisdom in her ears. Without his advice. Without him.

Staring at life without Papa and a long-drawn divorce and custody battle, I felt ambushed. It was just round one of the biggest fight of my life and without my greatest supporter. But somehow I found the strength to push back. Years of litigation followed, but I never thought of giving up or backing out. My prayers were punctuated with sobs, and my Bible pages stuck together with the tears that fell on them. I pushed on. He would have wanted me to.

After 6 long years of standing my ground, stubborn like my father, I won. I got my divorce and my child was old enough to understand what it entailed. It was Win-Win. Papa wasn’t physically present to see me win. He wasn’t waiting for me outside the grimy court. He wasn’t there to shake my spectacular lawyer’s hand and thank her. He wasn’t at home expecting me to walk in the door with the best news he’d heard since the birth of my child. But he was there. 1708 days after I lost him, I walked out of that court, victorious. The strength it took to not falter, not waiver, not give in, not yield, could have come only from his testimony. His faith, his trust, his immovable belief that what we ask for we receive, was in me. When we ask of a Living God. He answers.

My oak tree had gone, but he’d left his strength behind for his acorn…