A Legacy, That Never Ends

Today—it’s yesterday now—Harry Potter and The Philosopher’s Stone was first published. A little fantasy on a train ride. To think that, that fantasy, would shape generations of children, and generations still to come. Would have been pure madness. But here we are, and I am sitting here, writing about that book my sister got as her 9th birthday present.

Harry Potter made me see things a lot differently. And until now, I try to remember to turn on the light. The word “Always” bears so many meanings to me. It has changed me.

Harry Potter was one of the things that first touched me. And I can say this book taught me a lot of things, it made see things better. It made me accept so many things I wouldn’t even come to understand.

Some people would say that being devastated over the death of an Owl is ridiculous. Or crying over a fictional creature. But, I have to say, I did grow with Harry James Potter, and all those characters. If not for as long as many people. But I did.

Everyone of us has magic in them. But you just have to let it go.

Surreal, beautiful, old, dramatic, inspiring, consuming. All are words to describe it. And to be honest, I can go on till morning light.

All those deaths, in real life and in fiction. All those tears shed. They did not go in vain.

And I always remember, Hogwarts will always be there to welcome me home.


From The Aftermath

When you’re sitting calmly in the safety of God. And shouting sounds storm from out your window. That’s when you’re heart beats a little rapidly.

But when you go to see what’s happening, and find your neighbors  running barefoot, holding their babies in their hands. And find that an apartment in the complex in front of yours is on fire. And no one was inside. That’s when you’re heart falls to your feet.

That just happened to me about fifteen minutes ago. The shock itself is very paralyzing. But then, even if I live in this functionally retarded country, my first instinct was to call the Fire Fighters. Which I did. And it took me at least a minute for someone to pick up, after I’d already called the emergency number, and cold voiced man told me in the most bland way “Fire Fighter’s number is 180”. I almost exploded.

My sister was running around frantically with her baby on her hand, putting clothes on and wearing her Hijab. Packing the laptops, mobiles and all her baby’s stuff in one bag, ready to run down the stairs anytime. We didn’t.
I thought of how two years ago, she probably wouldn’t have thought of gathering all those things and making all these arrangements. I was amazed by how much having a baby could change you.

Although the Adrenaline kept me walking, I wasn’t quite sure of my movements. But I helped as much as I could. And in the midst of the shouts, and the smoke clouds, someone broke down the flaming apartment’s door and put out the fire.  A neighbor; the Force wasn’t there yet.

Now, what we all thought was very irritating to me. And I was quite hurt by it. We all thought immediately, if we should cancel the report. What if they came and found no fire. Would they accuse us of claiming a fake fire? Would they make us pay a fine? How much trouble would we be in?

All these questions were asked, and I asked myself, why didn’t anyone else call the Force? And I realized, people just lost their faith. Or they didn’t have a phone on them. Or they were just too dumbstruck.

But in all cases, no one did.

The neighbors told us they put off the fire with an extinguisher. They also said that it was a candle that started the fire. They probably lit it because the electricity was off for about an hour earlier, because the relationship between citizens and electricity is an off-again-on-again relationship.

They told us to kill the report, too.

We tried to call, they didn’t answer. But they came, and I have to say I was pretty surprised, because they came somewhat fast, in comparison to when they never showed up. And we weren’t questioned.

But you’ve got to give it to them, they went to the apartment and checked things out, and left.

But, a question, when will we ever feel safe again? Because I haven’t felt safe, like really safe, in almost two years now.

Pray for me. And may the odds be ever in your favor.

A Soul’s Lament

My knowledge of the poet Maya Angelou is quite limited, as I just learned about her existence a few weeks ago.

But you could feel her grace, and her halo in her work on the spot. I’ve only read a couple of her poems, but they all have a very strong feel to them.

We as writers, dwell on her work in literature only. Whilst she actually has done many more things than that, but we being humans talk about the things that we can relate to. Somehow, the post finds it’s way back to being about us. It’s not selfish but it’s most certainly not selfless.

Humans can’t be selfless.

Maya Angelou, was surely wept for, but that’s not a milestone. I don’t think she would’ve wanted to be cried for. See, tears are our-the living-way of expressing sadness, and love to the departed. But I don’t think that’s how our dead perceive it.

I think that a funeral should be considered a celebration. A celebration of the departed person; to have passed the hard times, and to be moving on to a better place, there. No one knows how there looks like. But sure enough, there isthere.

Maya Angelou was a great soul, may she rest in peace.

I’m a woman
Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.
-Phenomenal Woman, Maya Angelou

Indeed you are.