Where do I even begin. Tintin and Asterix are etched into memory like childhood itself. Like the numerous cities that I grew up in, I also grew up in the world of Tintin and Asterix. Two very contrasting worlds, but also difficult to choose one as a favourite, like choosing between two loving parents. I got introduced to these comics when I was in Calcutta. In the early 1980s we lived in a leafy yet lively neighbourhood of Dover Lane (at least I remember it like that, reality might be different). I spent years 3-8 there, a very young age to remember anything vividly. So I am guessing that these comics happened to me somewhere closer to 8 than to 3. My dad was an avid reader himself. If I trace back his present collection then at that time he was probably reading Cold War era literature. I have no clue how the first of these comics came home.

It was easier to take a liking to Tintin. The drawings were easier on the eye for a sub 10 year old kid. Asterix comics had too much to process. Every drawing in Asterix comics was worth admiring. A lot of jokes were funny only if you had a reasonably good understanding of history and cultures. Tintin placed no such demands on the blooming and fragile intellect. This is not to say that Tintin comics do not dive into politics and cultures of that era. Of course they do. Who can forget General Alcazar with his merry band of gun toting revolutionaries, the omnipresent greedy Greek tycoon Rastapopoulos, the spoilt rich Arab kid Abdullah, or the ever-suffering Chang from The Blue Lotus.

I faintly recall Tintin comics being available for about Rs 27 a piece—a huge sum of money that time for my dad. On an average we got one comic every few months. There would be bonanza times like birthdays when we would get 2 at a time—one each for me and my brother. On my first reading, if one can call it that, I just scanned through all the frames and made an assessment if it was worth a second read—a sort of a recce. Given my fanboyism now, it is difficult to imagine that I actually rejected some comics if they had too much to read, or if the drawings looked a bit depressing, like in The Blue Lotus. But then you can’t blame someone who has just learnt to read.

It’s not that I loved all the characters. I didn’t. I found the frames drawn around Professor Calculus quite boring, and I absolutely loathed the arrival of Bianca Castafiore. Captain Haddock was my absolute favourite, and it helped that he looked in no small measure like my dad. The presence of Captain Haddock meant that he was the one throwing tantrums and everyone else just suffered him, even if he was bound in chains and about to be fed to the sharks. When Captain Haddock was around, nothing could go wrong. He was like an insurance policy against bad events. I also liked Alan Thompson, although he was an antagonist. He was a sailor like Captain Haddock and had a presence comparable to black and white era Bollywood villains like Ajit and KN Singh, although more likely to be found in a dockyard pub behind a decommissioned crane than a high profile Bombay club.

Marlinspike Hall, the great mansion where Tintin and Captain Haddock retire after every near-death adventure is no less enchanting. Although devoid of frenetic action, the place is host to minor disasters thanks to Professor Calculus’ experiments and to some low grade snooping around. Its salubrious environs are soothing to the eyes. Tintin and the jolly Captain are often seen enjoying the peace while reading a newspaper and smoking a pipe, almost as if to provide a stark contrast to the mayhem that is about to follow. Calcutta has its fair share of leafy neighbourhoods where one can imagine the same peace and get lost in the world of Tintin (or for that matter Sherlock Holmes) in its own Bengali way. I enjoyed reading Tintin comics sitting at my bedroom window—a small window that overlooked a lush green patch of an otherwise overcrowded city.

I have read all of the Tintin comics many times over since then. I have enjoyed them most while reading at night time at some very cozy locations—a living room facing the garden in our large colonial era bungalow in Residency Area, Indore with no other house in sight; a bedroom facing a park and a lake in the then quiet neighbourhood of Prasad Nagar in Delhi, or the sea facing apartment in Nepean Sea Road in South Bombay. All locations of considerable privilege that we got to live in because of my father’s government job. Contrastingly, the action in Tintin comics does not happen in dimly lit rooms or in tree lined avenues. It happens in some very inhospitable places—hallucination inducing deserts, snow covered mountains that will dismember your fingers with frostbite, dense jungles where a thousand creatures seem to be watching you and tempestuous oceans that will devour you into a bottomless abyss. The safety of a comfy bed and warm blanket is the ultimate combination to endure someone else’s adventure.

There are scenes in the comics that terrifed the hell out of me for a long time—the giant mushrooms from The Shooting Star, the Native Indians holding Snowy at knifepoint in Tintin in America, the giant stone carved faces on the cover of Flight 714, the birds circling the castle in The Black Island. I could gather the courage to read these comics only much later in my childhood.

For a long time I considered Asterix to be the superior comic of the two. It had more complex drawing, wittier writing and its historical setting allowed it considerable creative liberty. It’s only much later that I realised that the two comics served very different purposes and there was no point pitting one against the other. Tintin was escapist fun—the Indiana Jones of print. It was best enjoyed with a cup of hot drink in a room with yellow lights or in a long flight or on a train journey. Asterix could be read anywhere—on the local train, during a homework break or while having a meal. In some imaginary world you could think that you were Tintin or Captain Haddock. But it was difficult to imagine being Asterix or Obelix. Being Tintin was theoretically achievable, but being Asterix was just a fantasy. Tintin ate sandwiches and drank lemonade. Obelix ate wild boars and emptied barrels of wine. Two comics that came in similar sizes—a size that is not to be found anymore. Comics that are timeless, ageless and make you want to be a kid again like no other comic in the world.