As
a kid I was in love with Phantom, the mysterious costumed crimefighter.
I passionately believed in all that he did. I believed that he lived in
a Skull Cave in the exotic African country of Bangalla and that he had
two rings. One for his friends and proteges and the other one for his
sworn enemies.
Often, while returning from school , in the
heat and the traffic , I would catch a sudden glimpse of him, riding on
his restless stud Hero, followed by his wolf, Devil. Although his mask
made his pupils invisible, I knew he was looking at me. When a thief got
caught in my locality I knew that the deed was done by my dear Mr.
Walker dressed in his city clothes of a fedora, a trench coat and
sunglasses. And I was quite obviously always on his side. I waited for
him every Saturday as he made his grand appearance on a magazine page
and astounded me with his wit, strength and courage.
Phantom was the safety vault of my childhood. He protected me and my imagination and all that makes a child's life magical.He kept me secure in my belief. In my ability to believe.
As I grew older, gradually and unwittingly other realities started
claiming me. I could still read Phantom for hours, still gloat over the
Ancient Jungle Proverbs, but something went amiss. I could not see him
anymore on the roads . He had somehow disappeared, leaving the city in
mess. I did not know why.
Perhaps ,I know now.
Superheros have a lot of qualities. They have the ability to defeat the
bad (in) people. They have the ability to keep watch. They have the
strength to restore order from chaos.
But they do have a
limitation. They thrive on belief. For their existence they are
dependent on people who believe them and believe in them. When people
stop believing in a superhero, they become dysfunctional.
And
that highlights one of the maladies of growing up and growing old. As
adults we all become victims and patients of trust disorders. We become
clinically challenged, unable to take sides with our superheros, unable
to trust that they REALLY exist. We erase the roads they once trod on,
we snatch away their horses or their web. In short we don't let them be.
Or perhaps, for a while, they just let us be. They let us go our way,
lose sight of them, get lost in the process just to understand who we
become without our imagination. Who we become without the ability to
believe that walls can be scaled and lives can be saved. Who we become
without our superheroes.
Every time Phantom was needed, Guran,
his loyal friend would send him coded messages ... drum beats echoed
around the dense jungles of Bangalla, reverberating the African darkness
of ancient baobabs, travelling through the impossible and immense
stretch of elephant grasses, the serpentine meandering rivers infested
with dangerous fierce reptiles.
I have forgotten what Guran used to say every time he saw Phantom. Perhaps he just said " I believed you would come."
