Once a Potterhead, Always a Potterhead

 

How many of you like the Harry Potter franchise?

Wait, what a question, right? For people of my age, it almost feels a little inappropriate to even ask. We didn’t just like Harry Potter — we grew up with it. Okay, maybe a little late, but the magic found its way to us eventually.

My own Harry Potter journey started during my college days in Chennai. I still remember the one who introduced me to it — Priya from Bhilai, Chhattisgarh (she always introduced herself that way in our early classes). My darling Priya. A warm, bookish girl with an infectious love for fantasy. I, a girl from a remote village in Kerala, was still stuck in a world of classics, Chicken Soup for the Soul, The Diary of Anne Frank, and Tom Sawyer — the books my teachers introduced me to back in school. I knew very little about English literature beyond that.

Then came college — where everyone around me seemed to be mini literary critics. Friends who devoured books like snacks, who spoke intelligently, who always had an opinion. At first, I felt like I didn’t belong. But slowly, I found my place among them.

And then came Harry Potter.

Can you believe there was a time we pre-ordered those books and waited — not so patiently — for them to arrive? We even tried to avoid spoilers, sometimes flipping to the last pages just to ease the anxiety. I still remember how I felt when Hedwig died — crushed. And when Voldemort was finally defeated — oh, such joy! But I never quite liked that Harry married Ginny Weasley. I know, I know… funny, right? I still grumble about it sometimes. But I loved the name of Harry’s son. That felt just right.

So why this sudden burst of Harry Potter nostalgia?

Well, the other day I took my daughter to Miniso, and there it was — an entire section filled with Harry Potter merchandise. Keychains, spell books, hats, scarves, water bottles with Gryffindor, Slytherin, Hufflepuff, and Ravenclaw engraved on them. And oh, the diaries. There was even a miniature of the scarf Harry wore. My heart skipped a beat. That old love came rushing back. I wanted to buy everything. I really did.

But then came the voice of the grown-up inside me — You’re not a teenager anymore. So, I very cleverly suggested my daughter, Panchu, pick a diary and a water bottle. She chose a beautiful one — a diary I secretly wished to keep for myself.

Later that night, Panchu brought the diary to me.
“Mamma, you can take it. I’ll end up spoiling it like all my other books. You can use it. Maybe even write your PhD stuff in it,” she said with her usual sparkle.

I was on cloud nine.

But I said, “No need, Panchu.”

She insisted. She knew. And finally, I accepted. I couldn’t resist. The diary now sits with me. I still haven’t written anything in it — I don’t want to spoil it either. Maybe I never will. It’s just there, reminding me of who I was, who I still am deep inside.

A dreamer. A child. A girl who still lives in fantasy.

Want to know a secret? My old blog once had tons of Harry Potter images on it. Later, I removed them thinking it looked too childish. I wonder if any hidden corners still hold a few... Accio embarrassment! 😂

But now I know — that love was never childish. It was magic. And some magic, we carry with us forever.

So here I am, a grown-up with a child’s heart, holding onto a diary that means more than it looks. A symbol of wonder, friendship, and dreams that once shaped me — and still do.

Because truly…
Once a Potterhead, Always a Potterhead.

Vincadium Leviosa! ✨
(May our memories rise and float like feathers in the wind.)

Tea Trails, Forest Whispers and Curvy Roads: A Journey Through the Wild Green

Some road trips exhaust you, but others stir something deep within—an old memory, a quiet joy, a sense of wonder. 

We set off on a long-awaited drive through a landscape that felt like a moving painting. The route? Athirapally – Malakkapara – Valparai – Pollachi. A much-loved trail that reels on Instagram make look like a dream—and it truly is. For almost three hours, we drove through dense, emerald-green forests. Trees arched overhead, light filtered through the leaves, and you couldn’t help but fall silent. Then came three more hours of rolling tea plantations, neatly manicured and endlessly beautiful.  

The road was narrow, twisting, full of hairpins and steep turns, but that was exactly what made it magical. It was this very route that caught the attention of Anu Miss—and sparked the idea for this trip.

Let me tell you a little about her. Anu Miss isn’t just a teacher—she’s an explorer at heart. A thoughtful, intelligent soul who’s deeply in love with forests. Maybe that’s why she chose zoology as her path. She finds joy in the wilderness, and that love is infectious. Even though we come from completely different wavelengths, we connect beautifully. Perhaps it’s the contrast that makes the bond work. She's the one who planted in me a deeper appreciation for forests, treks, and everything green.

This was our third trip together, and each time, it feels like I learn a little more—not just about the world, but about myself.

But to be honest, I think this love was already inside me—just waiting to be reawakened.

You see, I grew up in a remote, hilly village in Kerala, where nothing was flat. If you wanted to reach my mother’s house, you'd have to take a narrow, bumpy road winding through the hills. Exploring was just a part of daily life. As kids, we didn’t need a map or a plan—just a pair of chappals and a sense of curiosity.

I think this love for exploration was in my blood. As kids, we had the co-operative bank’s annual trips, and that gave us the chance to see almost all of South India before we even grew up. We were lucky.

But my first true adventures were closer to home. My uncle’s rubber plantation was like our private forest. We’d often see wild rabbits darting between trees, and our imaginations would run wild. My ammacha (uncle) was a licensed hunter and had two rifles. My brother used to tag along with him. They’d return early in the morning, rifles slung and a small animal in hand—dinner for the day. I don’t know if all those stories were real, but they fascinated me.

My first official hike? I was in fifth grade. It was a school trip as part of Scouts and Guides, to a small hill near our school. But oh, the feeling of reaching the top! That pride—it was like I had conquered Mount Everest. 😄 That emotion never really leaves you. Every time I hike now, I feel the same thrill.

Because hiking isn't just about reaching the destination. It's about the struggle, the breathless moments, the aching legs—and finally, that rewarding view. The stillness. The calm. The sense of inner peace that nothing else quite gives.

Today’s road trip brought back a flood of memories—of hills climbed, treks taken, stories shared, and childhood dreams. The forests, the tea trails, the winding roads—all of it was breathtaking. But between you and me... as much as I enjoyed the scenic ride, I still believe hiking—conquering hills with your own two feet—is far more rewarding than just sitting inside a vehicle and passing through it all. There’s a different kind of magic in the climb—a sense of achievement that no road trip can quite match.

And here’s a little confession—somewhere in the middle of all that natural beauty, I dozed off in the Tempo Traveller. That’s the thing about long drives—they can be oddly tiring. After a while, even the most beautiful views begin to blur.

So yes, while I loved the route and the company, I’ll say it out loud:

No to road trips. Yes to hikes.

If you truly want to feel the wilderness—to breathe it, live it, become part of it—walk, walk, walk.

Because in the end, it’s the climb that stays with you.

(Just don’t tell **Anu Miss** 😄)

A Cup of Nostalgia: My Journey with Coffee

I’ve always been a coffee person. Tea and I never really got along. The few times I tried it, I couldn’t quite appreciate the taste. But life has its way of making you adapt, especially when you don’t have a choice. Growing up in a convent boarding school, I was forced to drink tea. The nuns believed in discipline, and as a girl, you were expected to adjust to everything without question. It was a cliché line we heard at least once a day—something today’s kids would probably roll their eyes at.

But let’s leave tea behind and get back to my love for coffee.

In my home, everyone drank tea. I, on the other hand, was a Complan girl. Yes, the very same drink that promised to make us "taller, stronger, and sharper." My summer vacations, however, were spent at my mother’s ancestral home, where I discovered a whole new world of flavors. It was there that I first saw my aunt sipping black coffee with jaggery—each sip followed by a bite of the golden sweetener. There was something mesmerizing about the way she did it, like a sacred ritual after a long morning of chores.

My mother’s home was a classic farmer’s household—alive with the scent of freshly turned soil, the hum of daily farm activities, and the warmth of family. Mornings began before dawn, with the fields coming to life—paddy swaying in the breeze, rows of banana and rubber plantations, cocoa and nutmeg trees standing tall. The courtyard was always bustling with workers, each engaged in different tasks. We, the carefree cousins, would run around, disrupting their work, earning scoldings from grandpa for playing with rice and peas. Those were the golden days.

And amidst all that, my aunt’s coffee stood out. That was my first real introduction to coffee.

Yet, my mother never made coffee for me. It remained a distant curiosity, tucked away in my taste buds, waiting for the right time to resurface. It wasn’t until my undergraduate days that I started drinking it myself. My options were limited to black coffee, regular milk coffee, and, of course, Bru—the instant coffee that defined an entire generation.

Bru wasn’t just coffee; it was luxury. It was the expensive, treasured jar that only made its way to the table when guests arrived. Sneaking a cup without my mother’s permission was nearly impossible. The rich aroma, the deep flavor—it felt like pure heaven.

Then came Chennai, the city that expanded my coffee horizons. Moving there for my post-graduation was overwhelming. Everything felt new, fast, and unfamiliar—until I met Aarti. She was my guardian angel, the one who made the transition easier. She was also the one who bought me my first cappuccino. Until then, I had only known coffee in its simplest forms, but that frothy cup introduced me to an entirely new world.

From there, there was no turning back. I explored every café I could, trying different types of coffee—espresso, Americano, macchiato, mocha, cold brew, and even the fancy caramel frappuccinos. Each one had its own charm, its own story to tell.

And just last month, coffee took me on another nostalgic journey.

We had traveled to Anakkulam, a serene hill station, where I stumbled upon a cup of coffee that transported me straight back to my childhood. It tasted exactly like the one my aunt used to make. I couldn’t resist—I had to know more. I learned that the coffee was cultivated by the local tribes, taken to the only mill in the area, and ground into a pure, unadulterated powder. No added flavors, just the raw, strong aroma of freshly ground coffee beans.

I brought some back home. Now, every morning, as I sip that coffee, I’m reminded of those childhood summers, of my aunt’s quiet coffee ritual, of the farm buzzing with life. It’s amazing how a single cup can hold so many memories.

But my coffee journey doesn’t end here. It never will. Because for a coffee lover, every cup is a new story waiting to be brewed.

The Struggles of Buying a Stamp Paper in the Digital Age

There was a time when buying a stamp paper was a straightforward process. You would visit a vendor, stand in a queue, and eventually get what you needed. It wasn’t the most convenient process, but at least it was predictable. However, with the shift to digital services, what was meant to ease the process has ironically made it even more cumbersome.

 

In our state, stamp papers are now issued online, a move intended to reduce manual intervention and improve accessibility. But in reality, it has become a nightmare for the common people. The official website frequently goes down, leaving users frustrated and uncertain about when it will be functional again. Even when the site does work, only a limited number of stamp papers are made available daily. The intention might have been to make the process smoother, but the reality on the ground tells a different story.

 

People from various walks of life rely on stamp papers for essential agreements—rental agreements, indemnity bonds, MoUs, and countless other legal documents. But instead of streamlining the process, digitization has created long, uncertain waiting periods. Today, I arrived at the designated center at 8:15 AM, only to find myself in a never-ending queue. Hours later, I managed to find a seat, but I still have no idea how much longer I’ll have to wait.

 

This is the struggle of the middle class—constantly adapting to changes that are supposed to simplify life but often end up adding more hurdles. Authorities roll out digital services with good intentions, but without proper infrastructure and planning, they often become more of a burden than a benefit. When will the system truly change for the better? When will efficiency and accessibility be more than just promises?

 

For now, we wait. And wait. Just like we always do.