So many channels, so few worth a watch

A recent evening. The prodigal son and self being alone at home, thought we’d watch some TV. Discussed what to watch for 15 minutes without consensus. Hence browsed some more.  The Taty Sky English entertainment channels had nothing interesting. The Hindi entertainment channels too, with their surfeit of mind numbing serials, did not attract us.

Moved on to OTT. Our favourites like Big Bang Theory, Brooklyn Nine Nine, Friends, Ted Lasso,  Seinfeld, etc already having been watched 5-6 times each over the years, were discarded. No Wimbledon, no cricket. The son in any case is uninterested in cricket as he could never figure the gullies, from the deep extra covers or the intriguingly termed silly mid-offs. We meandered through Netflix, Disney Hotstar, Sony Liv, Zee 5 and Apple TV. Nothing.

I came to the conclusion that life in today’s world is not easy. Just too many useless options to choose from. Definitely a far cry from the ‘in our days’ days. I recall the time, long long ago when my father had finally brought a TV home. Weston. Black and white. I think it was in 1980. Aah what joy! The TV was moved into the house ceremoniously and accorded its rightful pride of place in the drawing room complete with the mandatory white frilly lace/crochet cover. And remember that thingy called the ‘vertical slide control’ or something? The one that needed twiddling when the picture would mysteriously start scrolling vertically. Well in our house, only The Father was allowed to touch that thingy. He would do so for about 5-6 minutes to no avail but amongst much suppressed annoyance from the audience consisting of self, sister and mother. Finally, a good old whack on the top of the TV and the scrolling would stop! A different whack was used however when Asha Parekh would suddenly start swaying horizontally in the midst of a tragic monologue. You remember that sway when the head and feet would remain stationary but the midriff would go from one end of the screen to the other? THIS whack needed to be delivered to the side of the TV.

And then there was Doordarshan. The news was presided over by the likes of Salma Sultan with a rose tucked daintily behind one ear, Avinash Kaur Sarin with her huge bindis, Gitanjali Iyer, fauji ‘bob cutted’ kid Rini Simon, the statuesque Tejeshwar Singh, Shammi Narang (Delhi types may recognize his baritone over the Delhi Metro). What impeccable accents and poise!  And such gracefully draped sarees for the ladies. No frocks, no skirts, not even salwar kameez. For the men, it was only suit boot.

Now of course we have innumerable news channels with intrepid reporters who wade with, I imagine, impressive bodily contortions to go neck-deep in knee-deep flood waters, or crawl awkwardly into bath tubs conjecturing breathlessly how the unfortunate Sridevi (my favourite, bless her) could have died. The best part of news nowadays however, are the anchors. They seem to have a surprisingly large range of specializations – drama, comedy, hectoring, pop psychology.  When not bent upon educating us on what the nation wants to know, they revel in putting six to eight ‘eminent experts’ and assorted minor politicians in boxes on the screen and commencing a free for all. I have a sneaking suspicion that two to three of these sorry politicians, are paid to get humiliated. Where any other human would leave the studio in a huff never to go to there again, these valiant souls, with scant regard for amorphous things like honour, image or self-esteem, bravely put in a presence day after day only to be insulted on ‘national TV’ again and again. I always wonder what their wives ask them when they get home……. “Phir se?” (Again?)

In the 1980s, kids had only two programmes to watch per week; Chayageet and the Sunday movie. Chitrahaar was added shortly making it a grand total of three. On Sundays the TV would get switched on at 6pm with expectant faces of the family, the neighbouring kids and assorted unrelated uncles/aunties sitting on the floor, goggling at the TV. The Doordarshan logo would come first, swirling languorously on the screen to the accompaniment of a soulful dirge. As an aside, I’ve been told that the tune was an adaptation of ‘saare jahan se achha’ and was composed by Pt Ravi Shankar, perhaps, when he was in a particularly lugubrious mood. The movie would follow as would at least three “rukawat ke liye khed hai” moments.

Soon however, came serials like Nukkad, Hum Log, Buniyaad, Trishna, etc, but only one per day. Selecting what to watch was easy; as Ramayan never clashed with Malgudi Days, nor Chutki with Swaroop Sampat. Kitu Gidwani was everybody’s heart throb and Renuka Sahane the girl next door. New Year’s Eve, for those who couldn’t afford clubs/parties, were devoted to Peenaz Masani, Preeti Sagar, Gurdas Mann, Sharon Prabhakar and Jaspal Bhatti. And if Doordarshan launched Shah Rukh Khan’s sterling career, it also gave us Alok Nath, a man so sanskari that his favourite song as per Google was “char baj gaye lekin aarti abhi baaki hai”.

Life wasn’t too complicated even in 1992 when we, I and The Wife, decided to buy a TV. Onida it was – ‘neighbour’s envy owner’s pride’, with, hold your breath, EIGHT channels. We were then in Mumbai living on the second floor of a six storied building. Since we didn’t have cable, the huge Yagi Uda type antenna was installed on the terrace. Those born in the 60s will remember that strange contraption. Quite unlike todays petite and comely DTH dishes. However, the thing about the antenna was that it needed to be aligned correctly to receive TV signals. Plus it was a temperamental beast which tended to behave as if it had a will of its own; resulting in the neighbour’s-envy-owner’s-pride going on the blink every so often.

So please picture this oft repeated scenario. Self on the terrace courageously but precariously placed and looking down. The Wife on the second floor balcony squint eyed, one eye on the TV and the other making eye contact with me in a particularly unromantic manner. I wiggle the antenna clockwise:-

Wife – yeah, yeah…a bit more…. more
Me – Now?
Wife – A bit more, yeah, yeah. No, no ulta ulta ULTAAA!
Me – Now?
Wife – No you’ve spoilt it. Clockwise. More more. STOP STOP STOP.  No, gone…. other way. Yes, yes. STOP.

For sake of brevity, let me only say that this would go on for about an hour, much to the amusement of our neighbours all of whom had cable, till we, or rather I, got it just right. Then, using all my seamanship knowledge I would tie the antenna in the right position with a hundred metres of rope and an equally liberal quantity of scotchtape. Come down from the roof triumphant like Tenzing, only to have a gust of wind taking on my seamanship. Scoreboard – Wind 1, Seamanship Love. Me back on the terrace.

Boy was I glad when we finally got cable……