Harry Potter and the Tardy Enthusiast

Confession: I’ve never read the Harry Potter books. That is, until about 3 weeks ago. I’m slowly realizing I’m a bit late to the party. In the late 90’s when my peers were frantically turning pages, desperate to find out what was inside the chamber of secrets and who would win the House Cup, and how Harry Potter would evade Snape again, I was reading Little House on the Prairie and Dear America, playing in tree forts and raising chickens (Yup).

Somehow, I also ended up playing ‘Quidditch’ despite the fact that I was HP illiterate. It would take an entire blog post to explain the life decisions that got me to this moment:

Playing 'Quidditch' despite the fact that I was HP illiterate. It would take an entire blog post to explain the life decisions that got me to this moment.

Of course I knew about Harry Potter; in fact, I laughed when y’all were lining up for midnight releases of the next book. But somehow I massively missed the memo. Until Christmas 2014. In response to my request for a beach book, my sister suggested I read Harry Potter. Dismissively, I acquisced.


After a few hours of Harry Potter, warm sand and the Pacific Ocean I was hooked.

Now, the problem with reading a gripping series 18 years  after its release date (I KNOW, RIGHT?!) is no one else is quite as excited as you are. I’ve spent the better part of January asking people, “Have you read Harry Potter?!” like it’s 1996 and I just discovered home internet.

Despite being a decade and a half behind the people, I’ve managed to make it this far without any spoilers. Except one: since middle school, I’ve always been likened to someone called ‘Hermione’. All I knew was she was the main girl in Harry Potter. I suppose I took this as a compliment. Until I picked up the books myself.

Description of Hermione:

bushy hair


eager to be called on in class










If gifs existed in 1999 I would insert a gif of me in middle school english: bushy ponytail with a ribbon, hand waving in case my teacher couldn’t see it. Sooo….yeah…Thanks, everyone who ever called me Hermione: we’re not friends anymore.


All of this to say, can we please talk about Harry Potter?! My ambition this winter is to Bring Harry Potter back. Since I missed the boat the first go-round, I’d really like the opportunity to rave and wonder about it with y’all. Although to be honest, picking up the next book is kind of like making a conscious decision to not be an adult for a few days. I’m halfway through book #6 and I’m wondering if I should even buy groceries or just commit to take-out for the week…

And the movies! I haven’t even started on them. Who wants to watch some movies with me?! Oh my word. I have so much catching up to do!


Have you read Harry Potter? Without giving anything away, what did you like or dislike about it? Should I watch the movies?

Categories: books, hobbies, kids, life | 9 Comments

The Baby Blanket That Lent Me Hope

As Varun and I sat in the flickering candlelight reading words of hope from Genesis last night, I thought how candles are beacons of hope. Bright and yet fragile, a candle can give light to a dark corner or be snuffed by a strong gust. At times, our hope too is frail, weakened by long days and longer nights, or extinguished by no news or bad news.

Advent is a time for hope. Hope, that 2,000 years ago took human form and gifted us love and reconciliation. Hope that whispers to us through the ages.

Throughout the adoption journey, I have sometimes struggled to maintain hope. There are moments when I feel I’ve stepped out of the company of “everyone else” to join the onlookers, those whose desires for school or spouse or child or job or health leave them feeling behind and stranded. These are the ranks of the broken, the wanting, the waiting.

But the reality is, this company on the sidelines isn’t the stragglers; this is “everyone else”. In fact, we all seem to be looking at someone else and thinking “everyone else”…except me. In this jostling journey of life, we get to gently come alongside one another to offer a smile to encourage a heavy heart, a hand to help carry a burden or an arm for a weary body to lean on.

One such reminder of hope came to me in an ordinary-looking grocery bag given to me by a dear friend at my grad school convocation. As I returned home and carefully examined the contents, hope was rekindled in my heart.


Inside the bag was a beautifully made blanket and a card. The card lovingly explained that the blanket was made to represent the colours of the Indian, American and Canadian flags. This soft, cozy blanket is to be a small reminder of the love that brought our family together across continents and oceans.


The card went on to explain that the centre of the blanket has a circle, which represents the spoked wheel at the centre of the Indian flag. As I ran my fingers across the brightly coloured squares, I imagined snuggling our little one in this lovingly made blanket. In spite of my carefully crafted walls of Reasons and Timelines, I dreamed for a moment of our child being home.

There it is again: hope.


Thus far, we don’t have much of a collection of things for our child. One hand-carved toy my Mom purchased on vacation, a few classic children’s books I’ve found in thrift stores. But for the most part, I’ve held myself back.

And yet.

Whenever I visit India, I admire beaded strands of brightly coloured elephants and birds and envision hanging them in my child’s room. Each time, I’ve told myself, Next time. It’s not reasonable or close yet...On this trip, I borrowed hope from the prayers and smiles of others. Proudly and expectantly, I wrapped the elephants in a shirt and tucked them in a corner of my suitcase.

Wouldn’t you know, their vibrant blues, oranges and greens match perfectly with the blanket?


Someday, we’ll wrap our little one in this family blanket and sing them to sleep in a saffron-coloured room. But today, we wait. And hope. Expectantly. We light candles and remind one another that there is hope in the little things because of the Hope that was fulfilled on the first Christmas.

Categories: adoption, Canada, Christmas, family, india, USA | 4 Comments

The Time I Scolded the Henna-Wallah

When I’m in India, I generally try to keep my feistiness to myself. But when someone messes with my family, my calm and polite facade crumbles. This time, I was able to be Demure Indian Amelia for 4 whole days, until the Mehndi party.

Henna, or mehndi, is a paste that’s artfully applied to the palms, arms and feet of the bride and her wedding guests. The mehndi party was the first official event as the bridal henna is an important aspect of the bride’s appearance. On the day of the party, the living room was cleared of furniture, the patio was decorated and delicious dishes could be smelled wafting in from the kitchen. All was ready for a steady stream of female (and male) guests to have mehndi applied.


As I stood watching the henna artists carefully drawing swirls and flowers onto Ellen’s arm, I heard raised voices inside. Curious, I entered the living room only to find Vasudha, my mother in law, and the Chief Henna Guy engaged in a lively discussion. I struggled to grasp what was being said, but I did understand enough to get the idea: Vasudha had specifically requested that the Chief Henna Guy do her design. He, apparently, had double booked himself and was leaving her bridal henna up to his Faithful Assistants.

Understandably, this caused no small amount of upset. I felt my cheeks warming as I looked from my agitated mother in law, to my distraught sister in law to the unperturbed Chief Henna Guy. I have a big mouth, especially when injustice is involved, and this guy was clearly pulling one over on us. I also have a hard time reigning it in when someone hurts My People, and this guy was letting down a tired and frazzled bride who happens to be my dear Vasudha. Heart thumping, I took a step toward the conversation and opened my (big) mouth.

I don’t remember exactly what I said, or at what volume, but it definitely involved the rebuke, “Your job is to make people happy with henna. Does this bride look happy to you?!” I launched into a mini-tirade about responsibility and keeping one’s word. It was all very culturally sensitive, of course.

Chief Henna Guy looked at me, his mouthed curved in amusement. A few more pleas and promises were thrown out, and he left. I curled my toes awkwardly on the marble floor, wondering if I was about to receive a Cultural Norms & Practices Lesson about white daughter in laws not berating henna-wallahs. Instead, Vasudha turned to me with a smile that spoke of sincere thanks.

We laughed, the stress of the moment melting away.



As Chief Henna Guy promised, his Faithful Assistants worked diligently ornamenting Vasudha’s arms and legs with intricate curls, swirls and motifs. The result was amazing.



Henna photo inception...

Mohit hard at work


After getting thoroughly be-henna-ed myself, I hung about for the requisite 2 hours of drying. I blared my Super Awesome Sangeet Playlist. We practiced our dances. We itched each others’ noses and fed one another sweets (one does not bend one’s wrists while waiting for henna to dry). We were even slathered in lemon + sugar. Then we were slathered in pickle oil. Allegedly, this makes the henna darker and last longer. At the very least, it’s a great mosquito attraction.



As the guests flitted about donning their drying henna, we recounted the Henna-Wallah Debacle with amusement. Only later did we learn that the Chief Henna Guy was not actually a henna artist–he was simply the sales guy! Why or how he came to promise to do the henna and didn’t confess to the mix-up was never explained. Thankfully, his Faithful Assistants were very skilled henna artists. For Vasudha and I, the drama added a little masala, an outlet for spunk, and an occasion for sisterly bonding.



If you liked Mohit’s incredible photos, be sure to check out his website


Categories: confusion, family, india, manners, wedding | Leave a comment

Tragedy and Hope at the Wagah Border

Two weeks ago, Joanna and I went to the Wagah border ceremony on the border of India and Pakistan. Four days later, a suicide bomber killed 60+ spectators on the Pakistani side of the same ceremony.

DSC_0125When I heard the news, I was sipping chai with an Afghani neighbour, safely home in Canada. The Urdu words seemed scrambled, and my mind was unable, or unwilling to order them. Sadly, I looked to Varun for clarification. His wide eyes confirmed the story.

Could it be? The very same place we had sat, just days earlier? 60 people–killed? For what?! My heart reeled from the sadness and horror of it.


After the wedding and Diwali celebrations fizzled out and everyone had returned to work and home, Joanna and I remained in India for one extra week. We scoured the guidebook for ideas and considered the suggestions of friends and Indian family. Finally, we made a plan that included an overnight trip to Amritsar, a city in Punjab, located north west of New Delhi. While planning the trip, my Mother in law suggested we attend the Wagah border ceremony. One glance in the guidebook told me this was a must-see:

Every afternoon, just before sunset, members of the Indian and Pakistani military meet at the border post between Attari and Wagah to engage in a 30-minute display of military showmanship that verges on pure theatre. Officially, the purpose of the ceremony is to lower the national flag and formally close the border for the night, but what actually occurs is a bizarre mix of formal marching, flag-folding, chest beating, forceful stomping and almost comical high-stepping, as the two sides try to outdo each other in pomp and circumstance. The oiled moustaches and over-the-top dress uniforms only add to the theatrical mood.

India: Lonely Planet (2013)


To reach the border and seating area, attendees walk about 1 kilometre from the parking lot. Along the road are various security check points, intermingled with vendors selling popcorn, peanuts and children offering face paintings of Indian or Pakistani flags. As we walked, Joanna and I marvelled at the incredibly festive atmosphere.

We were shepherded to an enclosed section for foreigners and VIP’s. On the road below, women were dancing to the Bollywood music that blared from the speakers.


As I scanned the crowd and craned my neck to see the Pakistani crowds across the gate, a lump caught in my throat. I blinked back tears, thinking about the significance of such a ceremony. While there’s much about history, religion, politics and international relations of which I’m ignorant, the crippled relationship between India and Pakistan has always struck me as that of estranged brothers. I was moved by the possibility that such a ceremony could even proceed between two countries who have experienced such hostility and violence.


The bus from Delhi to Lahore passes through the gates to open the ceremony

Not everyone perceives the ceremony with such nostalgia, as it has been described as, “carefully choreographed contempt.” Perhaps this is so. As we sat in the fading sunlight, Joanna and I wrestled to understand the mood of the event. Attendees on both sides were lead in pro-country cheers, flags were waved and soldiers marched with gusto. On the one hand, nationalism was proudly promoted. On the other hand, as a foreigner and someone who understands very little culturally and linguistically, I almost wondered if the ceremony was done in good fun.

Whether a hostile festival or a ironic gesture of friendship, in the days following the attack officials in both India and Pakistan decided to hold the ceremony despite the attacks. A Pakistani general remarked that continuing to hold the ceremony, “proved that terrorists can’t break the morale and zeal of the nation” (BBC article). Perhaps, this gruesome tragedy can serve to unite two nations against terrorism, not one another.

The excitement and levity of the Wagah border ceremony stand juxtaposed to the seriousness of national security and long-standing hatred. In the same way, there’s an odd mixture of optimism and conviction in continuing to hold the ceremony after a targeted attack. Perhaps the glimmer of light lies in this apparent contradiction: somewhere between hope and danger, between enmity and festivity, a commonality can be forged between people, regardless of creed or citizenship.

Photo credit: NPR.org

Photo credit: NPR.org

Categories: india, international, travel | 1 Comment

Fun With Words, Hindi Edition

I love words: learning them, using them, mocking my husband when he misuses them…Which means that my time in India is a smorgasbord of new words to learn–an endless source of intrigue for me and entertainment for those around me.

As I slowly attempt to learn Hindi, what I lack in skill, I make up for in misplaced confidence. In other words, I have no problem practicing my (poor) Hindi whenever the opportunity arises. Which, apparently, is every day.

Throughout church I picked out words I thought were important

Throughout church I picked out words I thought were important

As I stumble through consonants foreign to my ears and tongue, I’m slowly understanding why Varun makes some of the funny mistakes and hilarious connections he does. As a second language learner, your brain is constantly attempting to file, connect and interpret. Sometimes, this makes for laughable moments….

When I hear a new word, it often reminds me of a Bollywood song that contains the same or similar words.

On Sunday evening, I learned the Hindi word  for “world”, which sounds very similar to another word I learned that evening, “coriander”. Unfortunately for me, “world”, “coriander” and “bride” are all on the same shelf in my brain: “Hindi Words With Du—-a”. I absentmindedly began singing a famous song from DDLJ, that exclaims that the brave-hearted man gets the bride. Except in my version, the brave-hearted man gets the coriander. And the world.


One day, I was singing an old Hindi song, Mere Sapno Ki Rani, the chorus of which essentially says, “Queen of my dreams, when will you come?” However, to my English-speaking tongue, the word “come” emerges remarkably similar to the word “nanny”. As I sat brushing my hair and singing softly, Vasudha erupted into laughter to hear me singing a love song to the Nanny of my dreams….


Perhaps the hardest part about learning Hindi is the preponderance of consonants that vary ever so slightly based on aspiration and the placement of one’s tongue. For example, there are two T sounds, two D sounds, two G’s….one simply starts with the tongue at the back and moves forward, aspirating or not…et voila, a string of varied consonants emerge. Except that I cannot hear the difference between most of them. And I’m hopeless at imitating the difference.

Me: (In Hindi) We would like to buy some tea leaves. (Tea leaves sounds like “chai putti”)


Me: ?

Shanti: Chai putti. Chai putti nahi. (“Chai putti. Not chai putti”). 

I met her eager gaze, eyes wide. She went on to explain that “putti” is husband and “putti” is leaves. Apparently, I had asked to buy “chai husband”. Whatever that is.

And yes, I wrote the distinctions the exact same way because to my ear, they are the same word. Looks like someone needs to get back to studying…

Part of my alphabet chart...

Part of my alphabet chart…

On our trek back from Rajasthan, my brand new brother-in-law Vishal and my dear husband heard my pleas and wrote out the Hindi alphabet. Except that as I looked at it, they informed me they hadn’t written the vowels. Those would come later. Oh, and by the way, there are half consonants. How many, you ask? Every letter has one.


Categories: communication, Hindi, language | 1 Comment