Let wonder, wisdom coexist

I have a confession to make — one tucked away like a secret Horcrux in a corner of my heart. I am, and always have been, a Harry Potter devotee. When Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone was released in 2001, I was the “responsible adult” taking my children to the cinema hall. But the truth was that I was every bit as spellbound as they were.

During a 2007 trip to London, I stumbled upon Harry Potter audiobooks in a library. I borrowed them and listened to them on repeat. These audiobooks are a part of my library even today and serve as my loyal companions on long drives and sleepless nights. When life feels daunting, I press play and let Stephen Fry’s warm narration remind me that courage, friendship and a touch of mischief can conquer any darkness, even our modern-day Voldemorts. I also spotted Platform 9¾ at King’s Cross Station. This is the magical platform for Hogwarts Express. Back then it was just an inconspicuous, forlorn-looking yellow brick wall with a luggage trolley jutting out. The Potter mania had not struck then.

On a recent trip to London, nostalgia led me back to King’s Cross Station and Platform 9¾. But what I found flummoxed me. The quiet corner had transformed into a bustling wonderland. Warner Bros had created a full-fledged Harry Potter shop beside it — an Ollivanders twin, shelves brimming with wands, house scarves, keychains and enough Butterbeer merch to float the Hogwarts Express.

The old wall with its half-hidden trolley vanishing into the brick wall was still there. But now, there was a long, serpentine queue beside it that could easily outrival any ride at Disneyland. Grandmothers clutching grandkids, teenagers in Gryffindor robes and families grinning behind round glasses were all waiting to take a picture of the iconic wall. I was tempted to join the queue. But my staid self reprimanded me. Surely at 58, I’m too old for this?

Then I saw a grandmother ahead of me, giggling with her grandson as she adjusted her Gryffindor scarf. That settled it. I joined the line.

I waited almost two hours. When my turn came, I grabbed the trolley handle, leaned forward and for that one delicious instant, with my Slytherin scarf fluttering behind me, I was young again; eyes sparkling, ready for adventure.

As I walked away, feeling elated but a little silly for giving in to a childish whim, I realised something simple yet profound. We speak of age as if it were a threshold where wonder gives way to wisdom. But perhaps the secret lies in letting them coexist. The years may add lines to our faces, but they needn’t dull the sparkle in our eyes. After all, age isn’t measured in years, but in moments like these — when you still believe, if only for a heartbeat, that magic is real.