My Online Comic Collection
featuring Amar Chitra Katha, Tinkle, Archies, Mandrake, Phantom and many many others!
Collection 1 (88 Comics : ACK, Tinkle, Jughead and Archie Comics)
http://bit.ly/rp3IIq
Collection 2 (24 Amar Chitra Katha, Tinkle Comics, Ongoing Collection)
http://bit.ly/PvgqhB
Collection 3(30 Archie's Double Digests | Ongoing Collection)
http://bit.ly/QPffGO
For Chandamama Fans: Browse their archives for editions in several Indian languages all the way back to the 1940s!
http://bit.ly/gEgBtP
Comic finds bookmarked (Comics from all over the world)
http://bit.ly/UC2PYg
More Archies Comic Finds
http://bit.ly/WKWLdl
'Does it snow there?' was one of the most popular and most juvenile of the many questions we had bombarded our tired father with when he had disclosed to us that he had been transferred to New Delhi and that we would have to spend the next few years of our lives in that city. Having stayed in rural Andhra as infants, in Pune, Hyderabad and Chennai as kids and in Bengaluru as blossoming teens, the prospect of living in the capital of our nation was, according to us (and by us I mean me and my younger brother) was the perfect gateway to the good life. As we boarded the two and a half day KK express towards Delhi, our minds were filled with the colorful images of India Gate, Jantar Mantar, Qutub Minar and Palika Bazaar. Images that we had only seen in strong black ink illustrations in our social studies textbooks published by NCERT. Images that had lured us with their historical greatness in our Tinkle comics. Images that, we knew, would be part of us forever.
With such ambitions aboard, our train finally chugged to a halt in the 37 degree boiling pot called Delhi one merciless afternoon in June 1992. A gush of hot air (of an intensity I had never experienced ever before) rushed into the compartment and wrapped itself all over me as I stepped into the din of Delhi's cacophony. Loud noises that claimed to be speaking Hindi (but sounded nothing like the kind we had been taught in our modest CBSE schools) welcomed us as we zoomed past fast red line buses and faster speaking Dilli wallahs towards our flat in Narayan Vihar (we later moved to Inderpuri). I can still recall a sense of being in an absolutely alien place my first few weeks there. Given the velocity with which the twangs of Delhi Hindi swept across us, me and my brother – who back in our schools were famous for our pristine enunciation of the language – were now feeling somewhat shortchanged at the hurling of 'le liyos' and 'aa jaiyyos'. In fact, it was in my second week there that I had whispered to my dad – 'Can we not go back to Bangalore next year?' indicating to him of confirmed trouble ahead.
But nevertheless we continued to be surprised at every fresh piece of information Delhi kept flinging our way. The first trip to see our new school in Lodhi Estate seemed like a two hour journey as we got a chance to be a part of the mayhem that was peppered all around the roaring capital of the nation. I distinctly remember my brother, wet with reluctance, pleading to dad that he couldn't imagine going this far to school each day even as my poor father consoled him by telling him there would be a school bus for all that. Narrow streets that seemed friendly and welcoming suddenly opened up into generously wide spaces which were lined with large mansions of politicians and guarded by grim looking soldiers standing behind large sandbags with obvious weapons in hand. As we looked in wonderment at the residential areas of the likes of Murali Manohar Joshi or Advani or VP Singh, we couldn't help pondering how we would spend the next two to three (maybe more!) years in this concrete puzzle of a place where people spoke something that wasn't exactly Hindi and had armed soldiers guarding residences.
Then something happened. Once school began, we found more children just like ourselves who had come from the broad horizons of our grand nation and were equally intimidated by their new surroundings. They too, like us, were learning the fundamentals such as a Punjabi and a Sardar are two different things and that there can be Punjabis who don't wear turbans. Together, we were taught that 'liyo' was just another way of saying 'lo' and that screaming 'Oye!' at someone wasn't rude at all. A lyrical collection of such newly acquired tones began coming together as a song while we mastered the art of getting off buses without waiting for it to stop. We juggled with 'aa jaiyos' and 'de diyos' with finesse as we traversed the length and breadth of that grand city exploring everything from panchkuian to Noida to Safdarjung Enclave to Karol Bagh to Rajendra Nagar to Janakpuri. Nothing, it seemed, was beyond our radius of possibilities. I even participated boldly in the under-18 painting contest held at the Lalit Kala Academy and submitted two pieces from my prized collection. That I didn't win anything is another matter but one of my pieces was actually showcased as part of their eventual display. School life ushered in a whole new lease of confidence as the art of haggling with a bus conductor became as easy as biting into warm jalebis near Chandni Chowk. Yes – we embraced Dilli as it gracefully complimented our gesture. Within a few months we had become such regulars in the city that it was impossible for anyone to say that we were the same uncertain and shaky kids from Bangalore who had wondered how they would get to school each day.
Even though I left that city more than 15 years ago I still think of the place as a spot that had given me so much without ever judging me or smearing me with labels. I still think of my school in Lodhi Estate. I still recall the faces and the names in that edifice with fondness. The sight of the misty India Gate in the distance which I would pass each day on the way to school still remains fixed in my mind's eye. The smells and sounds of Jama Masjid still linger within me every time I hear the name in a passing reference. The gasp of excitement we would feel every time our car passed the majestic Parliament building is still very much in the pages of my past. The punch of disappointment we would feel every time we spotted out number 18 bus near Pusa Bhavan each morning still unfolds when I close my eyes. Yes – being the city that patiently endured the pains of my critical teenage years 'that Delhi' will always remain a prominent member of my memory club.
Today, in 2011, I sit back and think of moments from those bygone days as I read horrifying stories from that city. I read of such inhumane acts of violence on children, women and men that a shudder runs down my spine questioning me if this was the same city I had spent some of the best days of my teenage years in. What happened? When did that 'dilwaalon ka shahar' become so ruthless and gory? When did the love in the big hearts of those people turn to muck? Why has the skies seen so much innocent blood and tears spilt on those city grounds? Why? How? When? Questions and more questions. As I watch heated debates unfold across the Internet accusing Delhi and calling it names, a part of me feels blue since in many ways I have always carried a bit of Delhi with me wherever I have gone in the world. The image I see of it today certainly does not match the beauty and grace of that muse who sits within the canvas I have built for it over the years. It probably never will. Not with the way each new day brings more horror and wails of woe from within those historic city walls. As I sit in shock and read about the catastrophes unfolding there I am more convinced that the Delhi I had once seen and experienced is now invisible to the naked eye. Gone, possibly, for good.
I am reminded of that 1957 film which was titled 'Ab Dilli door nahin' (Delhi is not far now). According to me that Dilli of my fond past is now beyond my mortal reach. This time, that Dilli of mine, is definitely far away. Ab woh Dilli bahut door ho gayi.
The first words I uttered when I heard the tragic news were 'Oh my God'. As I reflect upon them now, trying to cobble the sentences for this blog, I realize how true they really are. Uncle Pai indeed was my God during the days I would sit bored beyond belief in school. He was my God for introducing me to the wonders from my country's prolific history. He was my God for teaching me that greatness lies not only in victory but also in sacrifice. He was my God for opening my young eyes to that rare potion of humor which didn't come dipped in expletives and cheap one liners. He did everything a good, nay excellent, teacher should do, but without ever meeting me or knowing that I exist. He did all this with his divine vision of narrating important tales through unimportant seeming 'cartoons'. A word much maligned with the adults as I would be yelled at furiously if ever I was caught with an Amar Chitra Katha or a Tinkle when I was expected to be studying books that mattered – my textbooks. Large boring volumes filled endlessly with facts, symbols, proofs and diagrams that made absolutely no sense to me. I remember fantasizing during those ACK laced reveries about examinations that would be held only on the contents of these comics. I was so convinced I would ace them all without batting an eyelid.
Uncle Pai's presence in my life was more than just for information. His books were that cocoon of comfort that I would vanish into whenever life became too confusing to deal with. It was in his bright and realistic illustrations that I would find the inspiration to get out of that cocoon and face the randomness called 'life' yet again. Much like the unclear and defeated Arjuna who sits and listens patiently to Krishna in the Bhagawad Gita, I'd sit and listen to the words that spilled out of each page of an ACK that was the grand combination of both intellect and art.
I remember the days I would be home sick with high fever and with generous gobs of Vicks Vaporub all over my nose, throat and chest, drinking nauseating turmeric milk that mom used to make. The moment her back was turned I would stick my hand under the pillow and fish out a Tinkle to dive right back into Kalia's world to see who the brave crow would save or walk straight into Shikari Shambu's planet to see what new feared beast was fated for his unplanned assault. Uncle Pai's trademark was all over those pages that contained such high quality vocabulary embroidered in an equally brilliant narrative. I now realize it wasn't the Vicks or the milk that made me better...it were those books that filled me with such healthy optimism that the sick body had no choice but to respond. When we traveled across the nation aboard endless Shataabdis and Rajdhanis I would always forget to pack whatever mom thought was important to me. But I would never forget to carefully plant my beloved collection of Uncle Pai's comics that were the only thing I ever cared about. Heck, they were the only thing I knew I couldn't live without.
Somewhere along the way then, the tragedy began to occur. Suddenly words like 'board exams', 'college', 'career' and 'job' started making their frequent occurrences. Uncle Pai's books started becoming increasingly less important as I voluntarily found myself choosing Goel's ruthless Science books or Mathur's brutal Math ones. Painful phase, I tell you. Oh how I missed Uncle Pai in those moments. How I wished I could throw away these meaningless books that didn't teach me a thing about life and how to become a better person. But alas I didn't and once I left India for good more than a decade ago I left behind large, priceless, soon to be lost, volumes of Uncle Pai's books as well. That was when I had finally moved on from Pai to Paisa. A sad unfortunate transition.
Today as I sit here reflecting upon that version of myself, I cannot help but wonder just how quickly we can ignore a good thing. Years later, after I had spent enough time on the 'Paisa' and visited places aisa and waisa such as 'Pisa', I finally scrambled the word back to what it originally was – 'Pai'. The name of that God of mine who, without ever meeting me, taught me about the value of humanity in all species across the planet. Who was convinced that if a story is told the right way, good decent human beings can be created.
His efforts to our nation do not need an award or a certificate of validity. The fact that millions of fellow Indians from my generation are mourning his demise today is proof of just how genuinely beloved he was. The fact that despite the adoration he knew he had, he never made any effort to publicize himself on large billboards speaks volumes about him both as a human being and of course, as a creator. A true genius and a real legend. I sincerely hope someone out there has the integrity to make a motion picture on this great man. He told us a billion stories. The least we can do is tell just one – his.
Dearest uncle Pai, I am sure whatever Gods there may be are giving you a warm welcome right now and saying the same thing to you as I am with this humble blog – “Thank you sir”.
RIP Anant Pai aka Uncle Pai, Creator of Amar Chitra Katha and Tinkle.
(17 September 1929 – 24 February 2011)
In the midst of a childhood marred with the notoriously popular prospect of an unclear identity, I was no stranger to being the odd man out. It was in those trying times of absolute boredom that I found a friend in Amar Chitra Katha(ACK),among a dozen others, mind you. There was something in the language and presentation that ACK had that just seemed like magic. It was as if they could make the most boring story in history the most exciting one with their use of images and dialogs! The language, the texture, the narration, the color scheme – everything became a part of my being. A part of what would eventually trigger the writing bug in me and push me into the wonderful universe of reading. In that critical juncture of my adolescence, ACK’s presence played a Herculean role. While the parents in India are quite known for their ‘stop reading comics and pick up Advanced Calculus!’ taunts, I must thank my parents for giving up on me as I lay in bed during several lazy afternoons surrounded with piles of half open Tinkle, Diamond and ACK comics. I am convinced they were sure I would end up being a home body who would be at their economic mercy for good! I do not exaggerate. I was a serious ACK addict back then.
But then who has ever been in a middle class household in India and escaped the cruel hands of reality? As I somehow managed to forget all about these wonderful gems from my past and move on, the need to bring them back into my life only grew stronger. It was as if every line, every shade, every tree that had ever been drawn on those pages had managed to shape me into the person I am today. Hence – it had to return!
And it did! I am now the proud owner of ACK’s first ever animated DVD collection of their original comics! What is so amazing about it is that videos have not altered the look and feel of the books in any way! The artists behind ACK’s productions have my serious respects as these are the men and women who have changed so many lives without even knowing it! And for that, I thank them wholeheartedly.
Given below is a snap of my first ounces in what will definitely be a prized collection from this point forward. I intend to buy every DVD ACK releases in the future! Here is wishing ACK all the best for the future and hoping that they will continue adding to my rare diamond collection that has now begun!
Smiles.
Also find here some amazing previews of these DVDs. Go ahead! If you are a fan too then order them TODAY!
..ShaKri..
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