Phantom and a child

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."