LIVING AROUND A TV SET
By K. B. Lakshmi
Translated by Nidadavolu Malathi
²²²
Southwestern breeze is blowing gently and
cooling down the atmosphere; friendly sprinkles are pleasantly inviting.
My life has been a smooth ride for over ten
years. I’m barely aware of time; my mother-in-law, attagaru, is
understanding and accommodative; my husband showers me with his affection and
makes me believe that I don’t have a care in the world; my little boy is a
bundle of joy and my baby girl is a cutie. In short, my life is the pinnacle of family bliss.
Then came the gift. I still remember that day
so well! It was my wedding anniversary!
Marking our tenth anniversary, my husband
brought home a TV as a surprise gift; it made the entire family jump with joy.
The service man, who has brought the unit, did not waste a second in installing
the unit. After drinking the tea I served, he left happily.
Attagaru said, “Urmila! Get that coconut from
the kitchen. I’ll get another for my puja later. Break the coconut in front of
the TV and offer harati[1],
put kumd kuma and turmeric dots on the TV”
“What a stupidity,” my heart rebelled but, I
being I, the worthy daughter-in-law of hers[2],
followed her instructions to the letter while my husband watched us, enjoying
the entire ritual. As for the children, no words could decribe their joy. By
the time I went into the kitchen and returned, my husband and attagaru finished
one round of heated discussion—whether the coconut used for ‘warding off evil
eye’ can be eaten or not; and, our two children in the meantime grabbed the two
halves of the coconut and finished eating coconut meat.
Attagaru went on, “Yes, they like coconut;
so what? How can they eat the thing that’s used for warding off evil eye?
That’s stupid, stupid, I’m telling you.”
“What’re you talking about? The thing is not
a god or devil; is it? What’s wrong with the coconut anyways? You’re raising
hell for nothing,” my husband snapped.
My son, Bobby, finished eating coconut and
turned to his father, “Nanna! won’t you turn on the TV?” He barely
finished the line; the little rascal, our baby girl, jumped to her feet and
turned it on. The announcer was already on the screen.
“Oh, no. It’s black and white TV!” the
disappointment in Bobby’s voice is beyond words, “Satish has color TV. It’s
sooooo nice!”
“Shut up, you and your stupid comments.
Watching color picture is bad for the eyes.” My husband screamed. He’d never
yelled at the children before. We two, baby and I, were stunned by his tone.
Things at home started changing quickly. That
night food dishes have been moved to the living room. My attagaru settled down
in front of the TV instead of the holy basil plant as she was used to. Nobody
is in a mood to respond to any other sound. I brought all the dishes, the
spoons, and the plates and set them in
the living room and told them to eat. It was a struggle for them even to go to
the bathroom to wash hands. In the past, they finished eating and chatting in
about 30 to 40 minutes; today it took an hour and a half. Each one of them
seemed to be in seventh heaven as they
watched the program on the TV. None of them batted an eyelid until the The
End showed up on the screen.
²²²
Next day I warned the children as soon as
they returned from school, “No TV until you’re done with your homework as
usual. Even then, you can watch only good programs; no way you can watch each
and every program.”
They nodded, not pleased with my rules
though. I cringed as I noticed attagaru making a face, which said that’s
cute, ha!. There’s a marked change in my husband’s demeanor also. Usually,
he comes home from work, skims through magazines and newspapers, makes funny
comments about the news and makes us laugh, peeking into the kitchen and
teasing me for something or other. Now, he’s sitting rather uneasily with the
paper on his lap and responding to my questions with a barely audible yes or
no; and looking at his watch all along. As soon as it’s time for the TV, they
all gathered around the set almost involuntarily. For them any noise from the
TV seemed to be sonorous; they sat there with their eyes glued to the set.
Thus, our daily activities underwent a
massive change. Each evening, it’s getting to be a hassle. I’m stuck in a helpless situation since we
have only four rooms, and there’s no escape from the clamor from the TV.
Anytime a friend stopped by for an amiable conversation, I’d look forward to a
friendly chat but that wouldn’t last long either. The visitor would barely
speak a couple of words like “hi, how’re you” and turn his face, eyes and ears
to the TV set, uttering a word or two now and then rather reluctantly. It’s not
long before I started feeling enormous amount of pity for myself.
Within four months, the store-owner, from
whom we bought the TV set, showed up in person to serve the notice; it said we
defaulted on the third installment. While things are moving along in this
manner, one day, the picture of the announcer, who’s no small figure to start
with, looked suddenly twice her size on the screen. Attagaru sent my husband on
the double to fetch the repairer. He came and said it was a ‘mistake of the
antenna’. He went up the roof and fixed it. It was okay for about ten days. We
thought it was fixed. Then the sound system failed. We could see only the picture
but hear no sound.
“What a mess! What kind of a repairer is he?
I think he brought us bad luck. Tell him to come and take his unit back. Find
another repairer, a lucky one, and get a good set,” my atta garu said, without
moving her eyes from the tiny screen. My poor husband! He is not happy either
about this TV. My two children are sitting in front of the set, looking
downcast. As for me, I felt great relief for all the quietness. But then, how
long that’s going to last? Suddenly, without anybody’s intervention at all, the
TV fixed itself and started roaring like a battlecry.
The original proverb about the finer moments,
the arrival of a new child or a
chattel[3]
has changed to read getting a TV set and mounting the antenna. The unit
has started showing its authority.
Children’s ranks at school went down from the
1st to the 15th. My husband became a master of memory
loss; he could hardly remember what he was saying, where he put what, and any
correlation between his words and actions is totally wiped out. Atta garu
needed stronger eyeglasses. My situation is beyond description. I could not go
about minding my own business, nobody is letting me.
“Amma, come quick, this is so good,” children
would scream; “Urmila, come here and tell me, isn’t she the same girl we’d seen
at Vanaja’s house during the wedding ceremony?” atta garu wants to know my
opinion; “Come here, the fourth person in the back row is my colleague’s
brother-in-law. He sings beautifully, you should listen,” my husband calls out
for me.
I mumble to myself, “I’m
listening and all that listening is killing me. Do I have to go for a close up
shot too?” Our maid is mumbling about a color TV here and a Star TV there.
I fired her.
²²²
One year went by soon enough. I mean, by the
time it is time for the next anniversary, I fell out of love with the TV; the
religious pursuits of my atta garu is down 60 percent; children are becoming
less knowledgeable in their own areas and more erudite in the TV schedule; my
son is wearing eyeglasses and my little girl is getting headaches. My husband
started entertaining the evil thought—selling the black&white set and
buying a color TV. The kids screamed with excitement, “Oh, ha! Color TV first
and then follows the cable, and then ...”
Eventually, that has happened as well. My
husband received a big bonus. With that money he paid off the balance on the
black and white unit, sold it for whatever he could get. And the next thing,
one fine evening, he walked in with a beautiful color TV.
Then the story of our guests who come to
visit us. After they’ve walked in, for the first three minutes, they speak a
few inane phrases like: “Ha! You’ve got a color TV? What make? How much? Wow,
what a clarity! Ha, Have a remote too? Good. You can watch all the
channels, I am sure.” As for my family members, there’s nothing more
pleasurable than a color TV for their eyes.
Here is the routine at our home now: It’s
eleven or twelve at night by the time they all hit the beds; feel tired in the
morning, suffer a hangover, and each of them looks totally worn out. As long as
the TV is on, not a word enters anybody’s ear; if I turn it off, they get
upset; even for emergencies, I can’t stop the program for more than one half
minute; they cannot focus on my words any longer than that; they’re constantly
on pins and needles for fear that they might miss something. As long as they’re
home, TV is everything. They have reached a point—they could not live without
the TV running in th background anymore. It is just as bad as a toy in the
hands of a little kid. While atta garu is watching a Telugu movie, my son
changes to a music channel; my daughter screams that she’s missing her
cartoons. My husband yells, “Change it to BBC, you, idiots.” They all started
are getting at each other’s throats; anger and frustration have taken over in
my home. There is no question of universal brotherhood anymore. There is no one
universe to start with. Our entire lives have
turned into one TV lingo.
I am getting odd thoughts—I want to throw the
remote control into the Tankbund waters; pick up the TV set like a glass dish
and toss it down. It’s true that during the daytime children and the dad are
not home but there is no end to atta garu watching it. Since she is hard of
hearing, she turns the volume high. I pick up a book or a newspaper but cannot
focus on a single letter. I am stuck in the desperate situation where there is
no telling what’s going to happen to me psychologically if this continued. Will
the day ever come when the entire nation of Indians reclaim their cultural
heritage and live an ideal life? Will they ever escape from this raid of TV
channels and breathe the airs of freedom?
Let’s forget all this hullabaloo. The proverb
is yatbhaavam, tadvhavati [success follows thought]; maybe it is my
fault. So, I decided to try to get used to the TV. I changed my habits. I
finished the chores quickly and sat in front of the TV. For my family, it
became the talk of the week. Soon enough, I started feeling sick in the
stomach, getting annoyed with myself. I think I am going crazy.
Why? Because… I’d start with one channel, and
then, change to another and then to another; by the time I am done with one
round of 32 channels, I was caught in the midst of endless commercials, and so,
moved on to the second round of flipping channels. In between, occasionally I’d
stop on one channel for a second, but then again can’t help changing. After a
while, my head would start spinning with this ‘remote tour’ and I would go to
bed. Then follow huge roaring noises! Amidst all this, I don’t remember at what
time, but the Goddess Sleep showers her blessings on me.
On one such occasion, suddenly I felt a nudge
and woke up. My husband was about to re-enact, with great enthusiasm, a comedy
scene from the movie he’d just seen at the movies. It was midnight. I was ready
to break down. I did not say a word but he saw it in my face. “You’re unfit to
live in this century,” he growled, turned off the light and pulled the blanket
over his head.
²²²
A few months back, my husband’s sister,
Syamala, and her family moved here from Bhubaneswar. I invited them for dinner
on a Saturday. After dinner, they all—Syamala’s in-laws, her husband and the
children—settled in front of the TV. Syamala and I went onto the terrace for a
nice chat. Our conversation, after a while, turned to the serials broadcast on
the TV. Syamala was surprised at my ignorance in the matter.
“What’s that, vadina? Nowadays, even
the village folks are more advanced than you are. How come you fell so far
behind?” she asked me straight. She was not satisfied with any of my arguments.
“Both of you’re working. Where do you have
the time to watch the TV serials?” I asked her.
“Very simple. We’ve drafted a schedule
depending upon our tastes and choices. Whenever there is a break[commercial],
the others are allowed to change the channel just for a few seconds. But nobody
should disturb the other during his or her scheduled time. Others can watch
with the one in control if they like and vice versa. And, of course, there are
some programs, of common interest, for all. We all watch those programs
together.”
“What about work?”
“You don’t get it, do you? At night, I cook
only rice; all the side dishes—rasam, vegetables, and left overs from the
lunchtime—only need warming up. Atta garu will prepare something light for mama
garu and herself. And then, you know, we all eat, sitting in front of the TV.
Therefore, the things in the other rooms never get moved; no need to tidy up
anything. No going out on Sundays. No going to the theaters in town, and also
no need to rent videos. In all, we can watch 2 to 3 movies a day without
incurring the extra expenditure. It saves time as well.”
“Saves time? How?”
“I mean no waiting for buses and no wasting money
on auto rickshaws; no more of all that nuisance.”
“What about children’s education?”
“We’ve to give credit where credit’s due. My
son can’t do his math homework without watching TV. My daughter, Chikita, has
been learning housekeeping, making dolls and cooking from the TV shows. My
husband can’t do anything without the TV sound in the background. If TV was
turned off due to the current failure, mama garu would wonder, ‘what’s this,
it’s so quiet, I shouldn’t be saying this but it feels like somebody is dead’.
Here, you must hear this one. My atta garu watches all the talk shows of
Ganapati Saccidananda, China Jiyyar, and other swamijis and goes into raptures
as if she had seen the Lord Vishnu himself; she also listens to the Geeta song
from Sri Krishna himself. She goes bonkers over it as if we have a temple right
in the middle of our living room.”
I watched her, steadfastly, with my chin in
my palm. She noticed my silence and continued enthusiastically, “Suppose, I
miss a program, by chance. One of my friends would call me up, asking whether I
was watching it or not. So, there’s no way we could miss a program. A couple of
days back, the Star Cable audio failed at Divya’s house. Guess what, Chikita
did a running commentary of the entire program from our family room to their
house. Sometimes, when the dialogues are too long, we fill them in during
commercials.”
Chikita and Syamala’s son came back, looking
for her. “How come you’re back so soon?” she asked them.
“Break time,” she replied.
“Attayya! I got the second prize in TV
viewers’ contest,” her son said to me.
“Me and grandma participated in paadutaa
teeyaga program. Did you watch the show?” Chikita asked me.
It’s obvious, no matter whom you’re talking
to, it’s always about the fascinating feats of the little screen. My children
shouted from the other room that the break time was over and Syamala’s children
returned to the other room.
“To be frank, we need to know the technique
of how to watch the TV. We can watch 4 or 5 channels at the same time,” Syamala
said.
“God, save me,” I told myself and changed the
subject.
Syamala and her family left the next day. But
her words influenced my mode of thinking.
Even I could not believe about the way I’ve
changed. I’ve gotten well-adjusted to watching the TV which meant appreciating
the TV culture—which rendered us incapable of watching even the most-liked
program that is pleasurable and enchanting without a break. I’ve changed to a
point where I could even lecture on the distinction of the electronic medium. I
was convinced that the TV is intelligible to both the educated and the
uneducated, and that lot of things, which we learn from reading numerous books,
can be learned easily by watching the TV. I’ve concluded that I need to tune in
my mind according to the prevailing circumstances.
This is not the fifteenth century you know; I
can’t pretend to be flabbergasted like Yasodadevi in Bhagavatam and wonder: Am
I dreaming? Is this an illusive prank of Krishna? He’s so little; how could he
have the universe blazing forth in his little mouth so brilliantly…”[4]
I tried to convince myself; educate myself:
Why not appreciate the knowledge of all the 14 worlds that is being conveyed in
detail and in brilliant colors by the 21st century Sri Krishna of
the electronic age, in the form of TV, in every household? Why entertain all
kinds of weird thoughts? Why not accept that the only home is the one with a TV
set? But each time my eye hit the TV screen, I could see that I was deluding
myself. But then there is no redemtion either. I thought of seeking advice but
then wherever I looked, each face appeared to be one more TV screen. After all
my attempts failed, I went to the Venugopalaswamy temple that evening. I paid a
visit to the Lord, picked a few parijatha flowers and sat down under the
tree with the flowers in my hands. I was peaceful at heart. I went into a
reverie:
Why
should I change my thoughts, my creativity, my values and the ideals I believed
in for the sake of others? I don’t have to do anything, allow myself to be
pressured by anybody. I do whatever I please. If I feel like, I’d watch.
Otherwise, I don’t. I’ll watch only a select few, if that’s what pleases me. If
they cheat me of that opportunity by holding on to the TV themselves, I’ll
cancel my plan; no big loss. My heart takes comfort in the shade of a good
book. I’ll open a good book and be happy with it. The old saying is anything
that grows to enormous height is bound to break down. I’m sure they’ll come
to their senses sooner or later. Even the most favorite sweet dish can become
repulsive at some point. I took only short time to understand that all programs
are only changing the words but rehashing the same ideas over and again; I
developed a kind of TV disillusionment, so to speak. For my family, it might
take ten or twenty years to realize the same. I’m sure they’ll change. I do
believe that. Why bother, why rush into trying to change them; why encourage
them to see me as if I were a strange creature? Let’s forget this for a moment.
How far can I push them? How many times can we keep repeating the same? They’re
not kids! With time, they are growing up, not getting any younger. What is
there to tell anyways? Did I tell them to watch all those programs? So let it
be. That day will come. On that day, they won’t watch TV even if I turned it
on. I have that hope. Until then, I go about following my own plan. My books
are my world. In order to appreciate the glorious form of the print medium,
they have to go through the process of sin and salvation per their own
schedule. That’s when they get their big break! Not until then.
It has come clear to me that, until that day
had come, nothing is going to change my mode of thinking—no matter however many
programs the TV is going to broadcast; the TV became a living creature and took
over my life, my husband, my children, and atta garu, and took them away from
me. A big breeze swept through, causing the parijatha flowers shower on
the ground; the bells, tied around the
temple cow, jingled pleasantly. With renewed vigor and buoyant spirits, I got
up to leave.
It was time to close up the temple for the
day. I remembered my folks who probably did not even notice that I was gone all
this while, who would not notice what I put in their hands—whether it was prasadam
from the temple or some other equivalent without color, taste and/or smell;
they just would put it in their mouths rather involuntarily. I looked up at the
temple mast one more time before leaving the premises. As I was walking down
the steps, I heard the lively merriment coming from the priest’s home; his
family were watching a program on the TV. I turned toward their home for a
second; I was about to burst into a big laugh but did not. I moved on, with a
little smile hovering on my lips.
²²²
(Telugu original, “chinni,
chinni aasa” [a very small wish] was published in the anthology, manasuna
manasai: K. B. Lakshmi kathalu, published by author. 2000. Permission from
the author is gratefully acknowledged.)
