Forever Pink: The Panther’s Persistence Runs in My Veins

Mansour Ahsan

I was introduced to the iconic Pink Panther cartoons in the early 80s.

My typical school days were from Saturdays to Wednesdays, which meant that Thursdays and Fridays were our weekends. Every Thursday morning, my brother and I would get up early, have breakfast, and watch cartoons on TV. Pink Panther was one of them.

It was around that time when my family went to Europe for our summer vacation. I spotted a Pink Panther stuffed toy in London and desperately wanted one. My parents bought it for me, and I became completely attached to it. He went with me everywhere—London, France, Switzerland, Austria, and Italy—on car drives and train rides.

Eventually, my parents and brother would ask me to keep Pink Panther out of family photos. I insisted on having him in every one. I wouldn’t always get my way, but I always tried.

I often thought about why I was so attached to him. Was it the colour? Was it because he was a cool cartoon character? Or was it because he never spoke and lived in his own world, much like I did?

One of my favourite episodes is The Pink Phink. The episode opens with a Little Man painting a house blue. Pink Panther, disgusted, starts painting it pink. The Little Man, unaware of Pink Panther’s presence, paints over the pink with blue. What follows is a hilarious series of gags as they try to outpaint one another. Eventually, the entire world turns pink—the house, the flowers, the sun. The Pink Panther gives the Little Man a kiss of gratitude and walks off into the pink house with the pink sun setting behind him.

It’s an amazingly funny episode, and even won an Academy Award for Best Short Animated Film in 1965. It’s one I’ve watched many times.

In 1996, while studying at university in Texas, I was part of an international students’ group. During an ice-breaker, we were asked what cartoon character we’d like to be.

“That’s easy,” I said. “It’s the Pink Panther.”

I explained how he was cool, stylish, suave, and mischievous. All of that was true. But I left out one very important part:

The Pink Panther stuffed toy became my source of comfort during my time of abuse.

In 1989, when the abuse happened, I was silenced into shame and guilt. I didn’t dare speak to anyone about it—not even my parents—as I was threatened with death by the perpetrator. So I clung to Pink Panther.

He reminded me to stay cool, to not panic during distress. I watched the cartoons repeatedly and rejoiced each time Pink Panther triumphed. His determination inspired me—how he never gave up painting that house pink. How he was always so smooth, so calm.

No matter how many times he fell, he got up again.

He taught me persistence. He helped me sleep at night. I would snuggle with him in bed, and only then could I rest.

When we moved houses in 1993, my mum threw the stuffed toy away. Secretly, I didn’t want to let him go. But because I was hiding a deep secret, I couldn’t tell her how important he was to me.

I had to face the world without him. But I had learned to rely on my own strength—to move through life like the Pink Panther would: stylishly, smoothly, and silently.

It would be 30 years later before I revisited the house where the abuse happened.

A few years before that, while walking through a mall in Dubai, I spotted a small Pink Panther stuffed toy attached to a key chain. Without hesitation, I bought it. I didn’t care if the cashier wondered why a grown man was buying a cartoon plush.

That little Pink Panther took pride of place in my bedroom. Naturally, when I returned to that house in Saudi Arabia, he came with me. He was the only one who knew what had happened there.

So we stood there, together. As I reclaimed my childhood, I also silently thanked him. I left my painful memories there—and moved forward on my own.

A year later, my sister and her family visited me in Pakistan. Her eldest daughter, six at the time, and I were best friends. She adored me so much that she called me by my name, not “Uncle Mansour.”

When it was time for them to head back to London, she was devastated. Just as they were about to leave for the airport, she ran out of the car.

“Mansour, can I take something of yours?”

“Yes, of course,” I said. “What do you need?”

“I want to take that Pink Panther stuffed toy you have.”

For a second, my heart jumped. I had never felt so conflicted.

My mum had thrown away my original Pink Panther. And now my niece was asking for the only one I had left.

What do I say to a 6-year-old? Do I explain how much he means to me?

“Just wait here. I’ll be right back.”

I ran back inside, dashed to my bedroom, picked up the stuffed toy, and said goodbye to him in my heart. I handed him over to her.

She was thrilled.

“Take very good care of him. He’s my best friend.”

“I will take very good care of him,” she promised.

She hugged him tightly, got into the car, and drove off to the airport.

It was my final goodbye to him.

It was hard. But I knew it needed to be done.

I do miss his presence. But I also feel, especially after writing my book, that I don’t need him anymore. I processed my deep attachment to the Pink Panther during therapy. That stuffed toy was my security blanket.

So where is Pink Panther now?

He’s sitting safely in my niece’s bedroom in London. She’s taking very good care of him.

As for me, I’ve never felt more healed.

Thank you, Pink Panther. You’ve been an incredible lifesaver.

Oh—and the story doesn’t end there.

In 2023, I did something.

I brought Pink Panther back into my life.

This time, it’s the Funko version.

Did you think I could get rid of him that easily?

Well, let it be known: while I may let go of the stuffed toy, the Pink Panther will never leave my heart.

In gratitude,

Mansour.