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.