The idiot, boxed

Indians are intrinsically voyeurs. We love hearing the next-door-neighbour bully her husband; our insides turn a soft gleeful jelly when we see the boss screaming at our worst enemy; we wait with bated breath for that fleeting love scene in Jerry Maguire that sees Renée Zellweger and Tom Cruise in the morning light, tangled in lust and a creased bed-sheet.  You must agree that the last example especially stokes our senses and sets ablaze our passion for TV-viewing, and makes it an obsession that reeks of penetrating intimacy. It is, therefore, very easy for the average viewer to slip from mindless daytime depression into a silky voyeuristic evening, all thanks to the idiot box, as easily as a housewife slips into a nightgown, which is too daring for lounging around in during the day, after dark. A virtual escape from reality is seductive enough, but who can resist a divorce from one’s own existence every once in awhile?

Ironically, and (at the risk of adverbial-overuse) mercifully, it has been the case of the opposite for me. I no longer take refuge in that soul-stealing, mind-numbing entertainment that the box in my living room promises to deliver every day. I was told that its sacrilege that I, as an aspiring journalist, do not swoon while watching Barkha Dutt orchestrate her political choir into a fevered crescendo every night. I was similarly chided for not feasting on Master Chef (and its many, many variations) with bib, knife and fork. And what about How I Met your Mother? “Girl, how can you not like that show?” asks a concerned friend whose diagnosis for my lack of interest in that it is that I lack a life. I tell her, “YOU lack a life!” Since when is watching a particular show, especially one that is festering in in-your-face humour, a sign of one having a happening life? Sitcoms unnerve and fluster me with their thawed-out canned laughter, and news shows, well, need I get started on Arnab Goswami?

But, enough name-calling. The main reason I cannot glue my eyeballs to the TV is that I simply cannot be bothered to. Why would I, when I am working for a national daily that keeps me abreast of all the important things that is happening in the country. And forgive me if I do not want Mr. Goswami’s booming voice telling me how to rearrange my brain cells to coordinate our opinions on our country and its politicians. Reading the papers helps me enough to form an opinion, thank you very much.

But, mainly, I do not seek entertainment from that noisy view the LCD window offers me. I have enough on my plate, work-wise. There is church, family, gym, friends and reading to keep me otherwise occupied. And, if there ever is this insatiable craving for watching pictures dancing all over a screen, I prefer Youtube. The content is sliced into short, palatable portions and can be frozen in my history for later consumption.

This is exactly why I cannot understand how couples can forgo a date planned for weeks, for a Twenty20 telecast, or a weekend trip away from the city, for a Desperate Housewives marathon.

If I am completely clueless about who died on the recent episode of Game of Thrones, and, as a result, feel like a total airhead when friends whisper respectfully about it, then so be it. Airhead of this kind, I can be. Without any qualms.