Tryst with Harry Potter

I was, and still am, a world class procrastinator. Unlike many areas of India, the school year in Delhi does not begin after the summer holidays. The month and a half's absence from school is preceded by a month and a half's rigorous classes of the new session. When the teachers bid goodbye to the students for the summer break they weigh them down with a hill of holiday homework.

Now, this work is quite manageable if one diligently tackles a little bit everyday. But who does? The major chunk of my work would be done on 29th and 30th of June, the two busiest days before school reopened. The rest would be battled out in the subsequent weekends, prioritizing on the basis of the urgency with which a teacher insisted on the completed submission. Similar was the case during my eighth standard summer holidays and the better part of July.

Harry Potter used to be the most sought after book in our school library. Every week I would hear at least two of my classmates whining about the absent copies to our benevolent librarian. I never understood what the fuss was all about. I had, along with my sister, watched the film adaptations of the first three books in the series, over and over, every afternoon during lunch. Pappa had got us a DVD of the movies when he bought the new CD player. We thoroughly enjoyed the movies, quoted the lines when the actors spoke them, and never tired of watching them 'just once more.'

I remember having a birthday party which consisted of just a few Harry Potter enthusiasts sitting for a movie marathon, and some chhole bhature. But no one in my family had been into reading the books at that time. I had a pirated, second hand copy of the Order of the Phoenix at home, which had managed to bore me in a couple of pages' reading. It had lain abandoned for long before being "lent" to another family. I had been happy to see it go.

But when our class was the first one to visit the library after the summer holidays that particular year, I found the Harry Potter shelf fully stocked and inviting, with all the pastel hued spines. Peer pressure got the better of me and I lunged for a copy. I ran to the librarian's desk before anyone could tackle it out of my hands, before I could even read which part it was. She smiled at my triumph and stamped in the date, a week from that day.

I knew then, the book would be religiously returned on that date, unread, probably even unopened. All I wanted then was the satisfaction of having laid hands on a Harry Potter book at school. I carried the book back home like a laurel won on a battlefield; and it stayed in my bag till the weekend came.

The first Saturday and Sunday after the holidays would be strictly devoted to attempt the completion of pending holiday homework. I engaged myself with one of the more pleasant but time consuming and back breaking assignments: painting in the sketch books on the topics given, totalling ten. I had completed 3 during the holidays and had ideas for two more. Since I had been taking Sunday drawing classes at home during that time, I had a fair control over my strokes. My work was well appreciated by my school art teacher, and admired by my friends. So even if Pappa admonished me for spending too much time on it, I would spend hours on end sketching, replanning , shading and applying several coats of paint on a single painting.

Executing seven of them ensured that I'd be holed up in my room, crouching on my bed over the sketch book for the entire weekend. I enjoyed working like that because I could see the immediate results unfolding before my eyes, under my hands. But my back protested, very strongly. So I would lie down in whatever space I could make on my art-supplies-strewn bed, until my back was temporarily soothed.

To keep myself entertained during these lying downs, I fished out the Chamber of Secrets from my bag and leafed through the first few pages. And I couldn't stop myself. I had a hard time to make myself keep the book aside and get to my sketch book. Then on, my attentions were divided between the painting and the reading. I regarded painting as work, which of course it was, and the book my reward at the end of every two hours of painting.

I returned the book on our library day, and hoped against hope to find the Prisoner of Azkaban. But my beginner's luck was just that: in the beginning. To satiate my hunger for the books, I had to resort to acute measures of borrowing and begging. I do not remember how I procured and read Prisoner and Goblet; but I remember having our Order of the Phoenix delivered at our home by Shaji Uncle, right when I was ready for it. 

And did I treasure that old, battered book now! After reading the books 2, 3, 4 and 5, I borrowed the Sorcerer's Stone from Shaji Uncle and read through quickly; and though the gap between the release of the 5th and the 6th books was two years, my wait for the 6th one was restless. 

This mania had not remained limited to myself. My sister and father had caught on this craze. And when the 6th book was released, around the time of Divya's birthday, Pappa surprised us by getting a copy on the first day, after standing in line for hours. And though the three of us had to make promises of “last chapter” and “last page” to each other while reading, I realized how lucky I was. News that I had a copy travelled through school and I had seniors seeking me out during the lunch break to answer their specific questions, while not spoiling the plot for them. 

The supremacy of films diminished in our minds, because reading afforded us the freedom of imagining the unscreenable. And even though we agreed that the films didn't do justice to the books, we took the release of every Harry Potter movie, beginning with the fourth, as a family excursion, each of which we attended with some members of other HP enthusiast families: Shaji Uncle, Chinni, Appu. Except for the Order of the Phoenix.

Due to circumstances I fail to recall, we had been unable to plan and execute a theatre outing. I had been at a constant lookout for opportunities where I could get a copy of the movie, however corrupted. I was in class 12 at the time. A batchmate announced that she had a copy and had obtained permission from the Principal to have it screened in the auditorium for the benefit of the entire school, after the recess the same day.

This was too good to believe. But sure enough, at the announcements after the break, we were directed to move towards the auditorium in lines, after depositing our tiffin boxes in the classroom, for the screening. I was beyond myself with joy! It was happening! On a big screen! Free of cost! And I could watch it with my friends! I made nonverbal plans with fellow HP enthusiasts in the other section to devise means to sit adjacent to each other in the auditorium. It was perfect.

When we reached our class, our fifth period teacher, Ms. Lalita Menon, who taught us Business Studies and Accountancy, was waiting to dampen our spirits. Fondly and hatedly known as Lallu, she was one of the favourites of the amateur mimicry artists. In fact, her manner was so peculiar and exact that anyone could become a reputed mimic, surviving on purely her imitation. Legend says that once a new admission had not known her real name and wandered into the staff room asking for Lallu Ma'am. When she realized her blunder, she applied for TC and left the school.

Her accountancy classes would have had been excellent if they were not heavily saturated with her accent. The effect of this was such, that we took 10 minutes to make out that when she said 'missionary' she meant 'machinery.' Her business studies classes were almost never business studies classes. Her talks would range from anything between methods of achieving success in life with the 4Ds (discipline determination dedication and... I'd be successful if I remembered the 4th one this long) to her own life story of how doctors had advised her against having a baby, but her desire to have one, and how she did her B.Ed while taking care of her infant child (one hand baby, other hand book; baby-book-baby-book) Seldom a class passed without her digressing into nonacademic lectures. If nothing else these lectures two periods a day had helped us master the art of sleeping with our eyes open. 

On that Harry Potter Friday, once we'd wished her and settled down, she started her routine of beginning the class. We were not responding in the routine manner of beginning to fall asleep, and she noticed that we were rapt in attention, not for what she was saying, but in disbelief that she could still go on teaching. Someone said that we are supposed to be moving to the auditorium for the screening. And she began a speech of which I recall strings of words: you're in 12th standard-board year-no time to waste watching movies-those who want to waste time, go-I'm going to teach; and ended with sitting at the teacher's desk, with a "do you dare" smirk.

She waited for someone to challenge the silence that had followed her five minute speech. Precious minutes were ticking by; if there was to be action, it had to be now. After silent gesticulation with my neighbours and a consensus to rise together, I stood up. To my horror, nobody else did. 

I couldn't go back down; the harm was already done: Ma'am's eyes which otherwise held me with affectionate regard, held me in a stare of confusion. Calmly, I stepped out of my seat, walked to the front of the aisle, threw a fleeting glance towards Ma'am who was following me with her eyes, and slowly walked out the door.

Just outside, I leaned against the corridor wall and weighed my options. Getting back inside the class was out of the question. If I made such a late appearance at the auditorium without the rest of my class I would be questioned. So I just stood where I was, praying "get up! come out!" And after what seemed like a full two minutes, people started trickling out of my class in silence, grinning at me.

We didn't wait for the teacher or the monitor's direction to move and rushed towards the auditorium. I hurried because I didn't want to miss more of the movie, yes; but I also hurried because I didn't want to encounter my teacher just yet - an encounter that was sure to happen in the near future. I didn't mind if it was on that same day, so long as the movie screening was well out of the way. Maybe she decided to let me off for the time being, or maybe she couldn't catch up with us Potterheads on fire; I didn't see her for long.

And finally we were comfortably seated on the floor of the  auditorium, not having missed anything. But there was an anticlimax to this daring venture of mine. After attempting to get the film started on the laptop, and then using the projector to screen it on the stage's backdrop, the endeavour was declared a flop show, and we were shunted back to our classes. Thankfully though, the Accountancy period was over by the time we reached class and I didn't have to face Ma’am until next Monday. I managed to watch the movie on Antony Uncle's computer with my sister, eating peppered sausages, graciously served by Mary Aunty.