Wednesday, February 11, 2009


Sometimes I really take the effort and make the time and do what I love best. It’s called doing nothing. I’d love to see that expression on your face when you ask me – Oh, is that anything?

Anyways, this is just a blog; and thankfully I am neither in front of you nor within earshot. But jokes apart, it is something you should try and do. This is definitely the leanest and meanest DIY ideas you’ve ever heard or read. It’s what some higher mortals call “meditation”.

Seat yourself comfortably wherever you are and stop everything else. Yes, that includes slamming the brakes on your meandering mind as well. You’ll realise that it’s not as easy as you thought it would be.

It would be easier to face a charging bull with bare hands. But here’s the tip. Trick your mind to believe it’s a mustang and watch it gallop into the wild. Suddenly you feel like you’re sitting through what’s a mix of time-lapse photography and MTV. Chill. Everything will gradually slow down to a legible pace and lo, your mind is now ready to follow your command like an obedient dog.

Now that I have tested your patience beyond reasonable levels, let me resume my passage to talk about this woman whom you want to know. But that brings up the topic of the next best thing I love to do. Reading.

My family tells me that I read my first book when I was two years old. It was an old and abused copy of the Playboy. Apparently, it had belonged to one of my teenager cousins who presumed it to be lost until I… It even had his name on it followed by a heart and the bunny’s name, they told me.

However, I did read a few good books when I learned how to read. There was no Google or Wikipedia back then, so all I was left with was books. But with time, my perceptions of favourite books and authors kept changing. With all due respect I admit, Robinson Crusoe read like a gay man’s dream and the Count of Monte Cristo was a scheming old bastard who got a hot chick half his age. Perception did not spare the fairy tales either. It seemed that they were written by the Freemasons or some other secret society.

The moment of truth; it happened when I was twenty four and engaged to be married. She was a single mother on the verge of penury, who had braved the rejections from the world's leading publishing houses. And then one day, she was rich and famous. Suddenly, everyone wanted to know who she was, what she did and when she'd bring out her next book. Even I was one of them. And her name was JK Rowling.

One book after another, I went out to buy and read and read. And read. Harry James Potter was everywhere. On my nephew’s tee shirt, in the multiplexes, on someone’s fresh cream cake and almost everyone’s mind. Ms. Rowling is a millionaire and everyone thinks her story is almost a fairy tale. As an ardent fan of hers, I only know too well how much she deserves it.

Every time I read a Harry Potter book, it feels like the first time. I discover something intelligent, virtuous and funny and it’s fresh. The metaphors are subtle and the values are intact. I don’t believe someone subsisting on welfare, could have written something as marvelous as the Harry Potter series. I’m sure most of us can’t even write our own CVs in that state of mind.

I only wish that the Harry Potter series had come out in my kiddo days. No! I’m not fighting shy to admit my awe for her as an adult. Even Barack Obama is a big Harry Potter fan. There can’t be a greater dude on this planet right now.

PS: After a sneak preview, some of my distinguished readers have reported that this post ends rather abruptly. I wish to reiterate that this is how I have thought it should be. There’s nothing more new to tell about Ms Rowling.

I also have one confession to make. I still haven’t laid my hands on a copy of “Tales of Beedle the Bard”.

I would also like to take this opportunity to tell my loving wife that I have consciously tried and avoided expletives as much as I can.