Childhood Comic Adventures

We belonged to a generation that grew up before televisions, the internet, and mobile phones slowly invaded our homes, our hands, and eventually our minds: in that order. Childhood was spent outdoors, among games, excursions, and endless adventures. But there was another world that captivated us just as much: comics.

Trips to the market were rare, perhaps once a month, but they always came with one sacred ritual—a visit to the bookstore. We would stand before the shelves, eyes wide with wonder, secretly coveting the newest arrivals. There was never enough money for more than one comic, bought for the princely sum of five rupees. Amar Chitra Katha introduced us to India's myths, legends, and history, while Indrajal Comics opened doors to Mandrake the Magician, the Phantom, the man who never died, and Bahadur, our homegrown hero. The glossy DC and Marvel comics looked magnificent but belonged to another world, one we admired from afar.

Like all resourceful children, we found ways around our poverty. We borrowed from friends, exchanged copies, and eventually pooled our collections to create a secret lending library. Suddenly, five comics a week became possible.

I had another advantage. My maternal grandfather was a comic-book enthusiast himself. Every four or six months, when we visited him, I would make a beeline for his desk, where piles of fresh comics awaited. Those week-long visits flew by as I curled up in some cozy corner and travelled through distant lands and impossible adventures.

As we grew older, so did our horizons. Classics appeared in comic form. My sisters discovered photo-romance comics. There was even a magical bookstore that sold comics at half price if we returned them in good condition the following week. That was my passport to Archie, Richie Rich, Mickey Mouse, Donald Duck, and, finally, the forbidden world of DC and Marvel. Among them all, the X-Men, with their misunderstood mutants, became my favourites.

Yet two series stood above everything else: Tintin and Asterix. At twenty-five rupees a copy, they were treasures beyond reach, reserved for birthdays and special occasions. I still remember being hospitalized once and receiving several copies. Ever since, I secretly fantasized that getting sick might not be such a bad thing if it meant endless hours in bed with Asterix and Tintin for company.

Last week, on a long flight, I watched Steven Spielberg's The Adventures of Tintin: Secret of the Unicorn. Beautifully crafted and utterly mesmerizing, it did more than entertain me. It transported me back to a world I had long since left behind, a world of dog-eared pages, treasured collections, borrowed adventures, and childhood dreams.

And for a few hours, I was a boy again, standing in front of a bookstore shelf, wondering which adventure to take home.