Captain Yechwando - Resurrecting My Childhood Monsters

Tales From Yesteryear Series.

Summer 2011, 2 pm and I had just picked up my son from elementary school. He's sitting in the rear seat behind me. As I drive by, I am watching some of the hoodlums idling their lives away in the street, waiting for nightfall, clenching a cigarette between their teeth and a malt beer sitting at their feet. They're all eyeing me. I eye them back. "You want a piece of me? Punk Ass Yo!" I say to myself discretely, not to his face. I'm always alert in this part of town, subtly glancing at the imprinting of the cheap pistols and .38 revolvers they have stashed under their loose clothing. Those cheap toys still work I cue myself. With a single button press, I ensure all my doors are locked. I keep driving without incident and eventually reach the tortuously long student pick up line at the middle school to get my daughter. It's going to be an arduous 20 minutes of waiting before another 30 minutes of stop-and-go driving. Unlike every one of the three hundred parents waiting in line I believe in protecting my good Mother Earth that I was gifted. In this 95°F merciless Florida heat, humidity and relentless sun I hear the hissing sound of scorching pavement, three hundred engines running continuously, powering the compressors of their air conditioners. In this heat the A/Cs don't even cycle, they simply work full-time. The people inside their cars are glued to their phones in comfort. My windows are rolled down and the air conditioner rests in silence. It hasn't been turned on since my wife sat in the car three weeks ago. She won't tolerate my nonsense. My engine is shut. We sweat it out. Every single day. Breathing a sigh of relief, you glance at your husband through the corner of your eye and smile knowing you married the right person instead of marrying me. Happy? I don't blame you.

Life in the parking lot could get boring if I didn't always entertain myself. We have a plan. I turn around in my seat and I am faced with little monster Rajeev who growls at me with his meanest little face. I act scared, collapse in my seat and die. I return back to life. It is my turn to scare him. I make a scary Freddie Kruger Halloween face and growl back. He acts scared. I smile at him and he smiles back. We're buddies for life.

Flashback. The year is 1978. I was in the 7th grade at St. Xavier's High School. "Bacchon ki jaan khatre mein hai. (The lives of children are in danger.)" I hear the man saying as he pores over the newspaper. I am standing next to him at the B.E.S.T. bus stop waiting for bus number 87 Ltd to take me to school. Two young children of an Indian Naval officer, a 15-year-old boy Sanjay and his 17-year-old sister Geeta (raped first) have been brutally murdered in New Delhi. Back in 1970s India such an act was unheard of. But we're in Bombay, not Delhi. Why should we be afraid? The brutality of these killings was unprecedented. The entire country is on code red alert, in the grips of terror. The man goes on to explain that the murders were committed by two thugs Jasbir Singh (alias Billa) and his ruthless accomplice Kuljeet Singh (alias Ranga) who had daringly broken out of jail. Their whereabouts had been confirmed in Delhi during the time of the murders. They could be back in Bombay or any other city you could name. Nobody was safe. I gulp in fear. I look at my schoolmates who are waiting with me for the bus. They do the same. We stick together. There's safety in numbers.

Back at school things are no different. The normal discussions of test cricket matches and Vivian Richards or Don Bradman being the greatest batsman ever are now replaced by discussions of Billa and Ranga. Fear has infiltrated every school and waiting for news of the capture of these criminals has infatuated every mind. In our best interest, our school teacher, dearest Mrs. Shyamala Seshan has been instructing us to play it safe and walk in groups. "If she's so worried about us, why doesn't she take us home safely and feed us fresh medhu vadas, dosas and hot Mysore coffee instead?" tongue-in-cheek I ask my desk mate Bob Rupani. Bob's slobbering at the thought of South Indian delicacies. School routine is otherwise uneventful. I reach home and the discussion at the dining table is the same. It's beginning to get nauseous. As I head to bed I make sure every door is bolted shut and each window is latched. But I'm not taking chances. Without my mother's knowledge, I sneak a sharp kitchen knife under my pillow just to be safe. My father is on tour overseas and I have a younger brother, mother and grandmother to protect.

Falling asleep has always been a problem, even during times of no anxiety. That tonight I'll be awake all night was a given. With lights out, I try to sleep to no avail. I keep hearing the tick-tock of the mechanical clock.  It gets louder by the minute until it's deafening. My hand is under my pillowcase clenching my knife. Exhausted, I finally close my eyes and drift into slumber. BANG! BANG! And again, BANG! BANG! My heart is pounding and my eyes are wide open. It's the damned Gurkha (night watchman) making his nightly rounds, knocking his baton on the walls of the building making his watchful presence known to any potential intruder. Even as a 12-year-old kid, I curse him and his ancestors for disturbing my sleep in three languages. I close my eyes again. There's a man inside my head. I can see him. It's Billa and Ranga as one entity. It is a face I cannot forget. The face is half dark and half light. Half Billa, half Ranga. My math class has taught me Half Demon + Half Devil = One Whole Wickedly Diabolical Monster. I open my eyes and try to reassure myself that everything is alright to no avail. It's 2 am in the morning. I dare not close my eyes again. I'm done sleeping. It's time for morning tea.

Few more days pass and the same routine repeats itself every night. I never get conditioned to it. Psychiatric treatment was not readily available back then. Who would want to believe me anyway. Even as the manhunt for the criminals intensifies, the Billa-Ranga creature resurfaced each night until one day the dragnet fell on the murderers and they were finally apprehended by jawans of the Indian Army who recognized the criminals from photographs. The country is jubilant and every citizen heaves a collective sigh of relief. Case closed. I celebrated simply by sleeping soundly. Both criminals were executed by hanging, thankfully in a reasonable amount of time. I was disappointed that they were not forcibly subjected to the wrath of our vice principal Father Bulchand before proceeding to the gallows. It would have been a deterrent to all future murderers. Justice was not fully served.

Thirty-three years pass. It's a hot day in Florida. I'm waiting in the car line to pick up my daughter. My air conditioner is off. I'm sweating. My son is sitting behind me. I spin around in my seat and I am faced with a little monster who growls at me in his meanest little face. Rajeev is more cute than scary, but I act startled and petrified and grasping my chest, collapse, feigning a painful death. After a few seconds of resuscitating myself, without a three-day wait, I miraculously resurrect myself back to life. It is my turn to scare him out of his wits. Until now, the monster in my head had lived a secluded existence. It was time to unleash him. I summon Billa and Ranga, monsters residing inside my brain. Like the girl from the movie "The Omen" possessed by a spirit I unhinge and rotate my head and emit an amplified, blood-curdling, supernatural growl. "AAAAARRRGH!" Although he's seen my scary face many times before and he knows I mean no harm, Rajeev turns pale white, stunned. I smile at him to comfort him and he slowly smiles back hesitantly. "That was awesome Dad." he says satisfyingly. Mission accomplished. We're still best buddies for life. And SNAP! Just like that I wasn't mad at Billa and Ranga anymore.

Captain Yechwando
(click on image if you dare for enhanced detail) 

Five years ago I started my photography business. I hoped to be good some day, a day yet to come. My ambition was to create a unique photograph depicting the character I had created in my head forty years ago. Where was I going to find an actor who would portray the true essence of my creation perfectly? He had to ooze the same emotions and share the same passions that burned in me. I looked within myself and I knew I was looking right at him. For years I had been sitting behind the camera taking photographs of boring landscapes, wildlife, real estate and smiling faces. I decided to turn the camera on myself and with a little help from my son five years ago, my very first selfie was born. I practiced my look in front of the mirror: Half threatening, half recognizable. A little of my dark, unseen, unknown and a little of my light, visible and familiar, he is someone who resides in us all, yet someone you don't want to meet in your dreams or down a dark alley. Not wishing to glorify criminals, I named myself Captain Yechwando, to this day it remains my favorite self portrait (shot with the help of my son Rajeev).

Twenty, thirty years from now if I'm alive, I'll enjoy reading my childhood memories and the beautiful times I spent with my children as I reminisce in my older days. I'll hope my children appreciate the countless hours their parents put in to keep them safe. As you age, you may remember your childhood adversaries and make new enemies, but you always have the power and teachings of great teachers and parents by your side to defeat them. Billa and Ranga may have been frightening, but certainly nothing was as terrifying as a trip to Father Bulchand's office. Cheers!

Capture Your Life & Dictate Your Legacy.

A Memorable Memorial Day

Memorial Day, 2016. It’s been memorable in the past. I stepped out of my car parked at Lake Morton only to find myself completely covered in dog hair. As I opened the rear door of my car to assist my elderly puppy-child Radar step out, I could see a “sixties-ish” aged woman approaching from about 50 feet away. I'm cursing but also thankful she's not like the young hottie I met last week who was selling me loads of toothpaste - it would have been a poor first impression. Believe me, this toothpaste thing happens "alot". I don't bother fixing my appearance or dusting off dog hair. At my age I could care less. The elderly woman wore loose clothing, donned a convertible cap and wore sunglasses to protect her eyes from the rising sun, which in spite of its low morning intensity, can stress sight enough to trigger migraines. As Radar started to sniff the interesting smells on the fresh-dewed grass, the woman broke the silence of the calm lake “He’s reading the newspaper you know.” “Excuse me?” I replied failing to understand what she meant. Smiling, she explained “A sniffing dog is equivalent to a human reading the newspaper. Dogs do that to find out who’s been there before and what happened before they got there.” I smile back at her appreciatively, simply to express my gratitude for her conversation and smile.

Today, exchanges of pleasantries between strangers are rare commodities from the dinosaur era. Lucky for me, I'm Mr. T-Rex and I prey on smiles. I tell her how I happened to adopt Radar after losing my dearest Elsa and what a great life-saving companion he’s been for me. The conversation suddenly changes its direction without indication and catches me off guard. “Jesus can be life saving too you know” the woman says. I sardonically exclaim to myself “That’s just what I ordered!” but I don’t stop her. I am not going to be just polite, but I want to appreciate her for taking the time to talk to me. Ever since I reclined from my engineering duties I don’t come into conversations with anyone other than my wife, children and my friend Walter. I lead a completely isolated existence. Any conversation is good therapy and free is best.

Judging from my non-native appearance the woman tries to confirm “Have you heard of Jesus?” I nodded affirmatively explaining I wasn't born in Papua New Guinea. I grew up in India going to a Jesuit catholic school and college, having not only read the bible before, but having one in my possession. “Jesus died for our sins and the only path to heaven is through Jesus. If you believe in Jesus you’ll go to heaven forever. Otherwise you’ll end up in a really hot place that's not very nice. Once you’re in the other place you’re in for eternity.” I know the place she’s talking about. Life’s not so bad, yet I have a feeling I’ve been there before. The woman asks “Would you like to go to heaven or would you like to go to hell?” I am not presented with much challenge here, my decision taking a split-second before I answer “Heaven.” She takes out a little yellow printout from the front pocket of her white capri and asks “Would you like to say a prayer with me? You simply repeat what I say.” “Sure thing.” I respond, knowing I have nothing to lose. We start reciting the prayer by the verse. She goes first followed by me. It’s the one that is aptly titled “Pray this prayer with me” which I present in it’s entirety for you.

Pray this prayer with me

Heavenly Father, in Jesus name, forgive my sins.
I believe that Jesus lived and died and that You raised Him
to life again, all because You loved me.

Lord Jesus, come into my heart and be the Lord of my life.
Give to me the assurance of my salvation, which is your
Holy Spirit filling my heart as a child of the living God.

In Jesus name I pray, Amen.

(Click on images for enhanced detail)

That's Right. One Way Ticket to Heaven, Babeee. No Charge.
I didn't have my camera on Memorial Day
so I had to Return to Lake Morton for Nostalgia.
Image taken on June 02, 2016.

When we have stopped reciting we look at each other and smile. I'm feeling good. It’s true. As I read along I experienced a simultaneous parallel flashback that time-transported me back to 1979 when Father Jose Luis Aran, our Spanish vice-principal at St. Xavier’s High School used to teach us how to sing prayers in the name of God. The brilliance of Father Aran was in the fact that in spite of being a Spaniard in a foreign country, he embraced India as his permanent home and all his prayers were Indian influenced so the common Indian could relate to. Pure Genius!

Meanwhile back at the ranch, the woman I’m with suddenly starts talking in a foreign language. Surprised, I ask her what it was and what it meant. “It’s Vietnamese, or Vietnamese like.” I asked her how she learned Vietnamese, to which she replied nobody taught her, it simply came to her through her belief in Jesus. It means whatever she wanted it to mean. It's not really Vietnamese. To my Vietnamese ignorant ears it sounded as accurately Vietnamese as Hanoi Beef and Pho noodles. “I can also speak Yiddish-like.” Suddenly she starts reciting something that sounds like Moses and the Ten Commandments. “What does that mean and who taught you that?” I ask knowing very well her answer is going to be “Whatever I want it to mean and Jesus taught me that.” She doesn't disappoint me. "You can chant anything you like because good can come from anything you say as long as you believe in it." she reminds me. There. Lesson learned.

I’m here to walk my dog and we’ve been talking for about 30 minutes already and I am still standing next to my car. I don’t like to waste time, but I get the feeling this time I’m not wasting my time. The woman proceeds to tell how she lived in Alaska and she had a brain tumor and cancer and how she was miraculously healed without medicine simply by asking Jesus to heal her. She asks if I had any problems or health issues. I explained that recent vision tests had confirmed the onset of cataract in my eyes and risk of glaucoma. That and my little Radar was getting old and I just adopted him not long ago. She says that Jesus can heal me and Radar by her saying a prayer as long as I believed in Jesus and the power of healing. By this time I'm thinking this is so unlike who I am, but I agree without skepticism because I have no other medicine. She places her hands over my eyes gently and starts chanting another prayer. With hundreds of thoughts flowing through my head, I am in a hypnotic trance but I can remember hearing the words Jesus, heal, cataract, eyes, glaucoma, please and Amen. If I was outside Cabrini Greens Chicago project with my eyes covered, I’d be worried for my dog, wallet and life, but I felt safe in her hands. When she’s done, she uncovers my eyes. We look into each other's eyes and smile again. I give her a thank you hug. She puts her hands on Radar’s head and recites another prayer for him. I tell her “Radar says thank you.” “Do you have any other problems?” she pushes further. I thought about answering “Duh! Like I can’t sleep at night, I miss my dearest Elsa, I have migraines, my back hurts and so on.” Instead, I graciously reply “No. Everything else is just right”. I may have a couple of little issues but I also have ten million other reasons to be grateful for. I do lead an enviable and blessed life and my family truly loves me. If I were to be offered a wish I'd want to be a kinder, gentler person. For now, I am indeed fortunate to be the chosen recipient of this most unexpected gift. Absolute healing will take patience, but I know I'm feeling better already.

All this has happened in the street, out in the open. I'm not embarrassed. We finally start walking around the lake but she takes the very next street exit. I call out to her as she moves ahead of me “I walk here all the time, so I’ll see you again. Thanks for everything.” Poor Little Radar just can’t keep up. “Wait! I'm Yatin. Thanks for being my friend.” I suddenly shout out to her, subconsciously kicking myself for not introducing myself to my new saviour/healer/stranger elderly woman friend sooner. “I’m Anne”.

All my life I've tried to help others. Today I was the beneficiary of much needed help. This episode has only sparked my hunger to help others even further. I urge you to follow your instincts. Times like these make Memorial Day a day to be thankful for. Wishing you a great Memorial Day. Belated. I'll remember this as the day I met Jesus.