Harry Potter and the World of his Aficionados

It was in the pages of The Hindu that I read about it first, sometime during the early millennium. About a so-called Children’s literary phenomenon that was slowly gripping the world.

About a boy who could do magic.

And that’s all I knew about it until I reached my graduation years and my sister and I were spending a quiet afternoon in the library holed up in the English Fiction section (while all our batch mates were sweating away in the Mathematics wing as we ought have been too), when we discovered that the library had copies of the first four books. We randomly picked two of the lot, having absolutely no idea what was in store for us.

It was love on first read.

Over the next two days, I simply escaped into the vivid imaginative world created by the genius of a writer, and proofs and theorems lay forgotten (not like I was missing them). I followed little Harry as he opened the chamber of secrets, and impatiently waited another long day till I could get my hands on the goblet of fire (my sister has selected the thickest book of the lot, not knowing it was the fourth installment). We then eagerly set off to borrow the other two, and quickly flipped a coin to see who will get the philosopher’s stone.

Soon, we were at the local book shop on the release date of the order of the phoenix just as two sleepy assistants were unloading the two cartons of (deliciously –smelling) brand new copies. They seemed irritated at having to wake up early, but our arrival had induced a new emotion. Of course, we were the only customers who had called in two days ago, to confirm the exact arrival time; and then, again the day before to ensure that the shop would be open.

Mental. I think that’s what they were thinking.

I know there are a lot of Harry Potter fans out there, but I am sure there is not a pair in the world who could both read from a single book as fast we did. I had to remind my sister to use the restroom at regular intervals (that gave me a precious two minutes of reading). She caught on very early, and started taking the book with her. You might think she is crazy; but to be fair, I would have done the same in her place. So after 10 hours of not-so -consistent reading (my nagging to check her progress was very consistent), I finally took the precious one in my hands. Not surprisingly, I forgot to sleep that night. I read into the wee hours of the morning, and it was with great restraint that I stopped myself from cheering for Fred and George as they made their glorious exit from Hogwarts, 4.30 am IST.

Yeah, the bookshop assistants were probably right.

And then I moved out of my small town, into a big city. All alone in a new world, not completely unlike Harry. The first time I felt that I belonged was when I talked my way through a Public Speaking course by talking about, well, who else.

The applause was worth making a fool of myself.

I read the half-blood prince a week late, and every day of waiting was torture. I think the worst part was not reading newspapers or avoiding friends who were likely to have read it.

I learnt later that I had (inadvertently) made a couple of enemies that week.

There were the movies, of course. I watched them as any HP loyalist would, and said at the end of every single outing, ‘It was good, but the book is still better!’ It was pure academic interest, you see.

And then, so soon that you couldn’t have played a single Quidditch match in the interim, it was finally time for the end. A sleepless night and one hour in the queue later, I collected my pre-ordered copy of the deathly hallows, and sneaked into the terrace. That was because my roommates threatened that they would spill the beans on Harry’s state of survival. Who can blame them? The headlines in one of the channels went something like this – ‘The last book in the Potter series released today; Harry survives!’ (Talk about spilling the beans!)

I read through the book drinking in every word, every sentence, aware of the fact that I would not have another book to look forward to. I laughed at Ron’s and Hermione’s familiar bickering; shocked when it turned serious; I cried when dear Dobby died; I cheered when they hunted down every Horcrux, even louder when Neville finally had his big moment of glory. Before I knew it, it was the final battle. Where did all those pages disappear? I cried one last time, I laughed one last time and I smiled for one last time…and then, it was time for the withdrawal symptoms.

You can call it a phenomenon, cheap publicity gimmick, good writing or bad writing. You can call me crazy, you probably already did. But there is something strange about it. While this saga was unfolding, the real world was grappling with its own problems. There was more than one Voldemort-esque characters wreaking havoc. There were scandals, bad governance, and man-made disasters. I moved through two colleges and a business school, survived broken hearts and wrecked friendships; and met atleast one Snape –like person, who unfortunately for me, did not show an inclination to turn positive. But nothing has changed in the world of Harry Potter.

At the end of a book, I experience the same feeling of emptiness that Harry felt at the end of every year. I return with renewed optimism looking forward to the new year, in the next one. And those feelings are consistent, every single time I read these books. They have picked me up on a depressing night; they have brightened up an already sunny morning. Literary genius?

Or pure Magic?