Long before Batman, Captain America, Spiderman and a host of Marvel's superheroes made their way to our economically-liberated shores, two caped and masked marvels had already winged themselves into the lives of thousands of young people, circa the 1970s, a time when graphic art in comic books was taken for granted, quite forgetting how powerful the medium was to get the message home.
They both looked ridiculous. One wore XS purple tights and a mask and was called 'Phantom' and the other wore a top hat, a slim moustache and a cape and went by the name 'Mandrake the Magician'. But the things they did! It was all one could do to collect every last paisa of pocket money we had and run to the neighbourhood newsstand, where in a single vertical file, these comic books were suspended by the sheer willpower of a clothesline clip (which in itself was a feat).
Anyway, I loved them both. Phantom was the tall, dark and purple man who was always present at the scene of a crime. He punched baddies with his skull ring, leaving a deep impression on their jaws and on my heart. Never mind his superhero life, it was his lifestyle that fascinated me. His house was deep in a forest which you could only get to after weaving your way through a well, a jungle and a waterfall. At the end of this maze would be his mate Diana, immaculate and urbane to his rustic image. She wasn't my favourite, as much as was Narda, the girlfriend of Mandrake the Magician.
If there was any one person I wanted to be in my growing years, it was Mandrake (minus moustache, of course). His life was the precursor to Harry Potter. Suave and immaculate, he could slip in and out of walls, materialise and dematerialise at will. And thereby catch the crooks. There were so many times I wanted to be invisible that sometimes, today, I think I have mastered the art.
But now, when we need Mandrake and Phantom the most, where are they? Morphed into Aquaman? Ironman? Flash?
Come back, both. All is forgiven.
