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Maar dala

Fed up of watching what the Indian TV channels show, Saurabh Datar signs his suicide note. And, mind you, in real life, the dead remain the dead

Dear Indian TV Channels,
If you’re reading this, I’m already dead. I’m writing this letter to you after much introspection. I’m just a regular 22-year-old who works the whole week, and craves for some good entertainment when not slaving it out in the office. That was how our relationship began. Simple and platonic. No questions, no demands. No sorry, no thank you. Just like in Maine Pyar Kiya. You were Salman and I Bhagyashree.
I tried hard when you shifted to saas-bahu sagas. I ignored the kitchen politics that pervaded every damn channel. I didn’t even protest when you defied human biology, let people live for more than 400 years and brought people back to life! Wherever I went, it was sheer horror and torture. I couldn’t see anything but fat aunties and Kanjeevaram sarees. And I wasn’t even attending a wedding.

You tested me even more. And it was double assault upon my senses; first through all the reality shows – ‘music channels’, yes you. How cool you were! You played music. That word now seems lost amidst the chatter of the bimbettes and the dudes. You did away with your old VJs and got new ones. Spanking new, young and as brain dead as an Egyptian mummy. I think even the mummies would have done a better job. But I tried and greeted the piece of dung with as much alacrity as I would have, on seeing Kolkata Knight Riders lose.

You bombarded me with reality contests. Singing, dancing, acting, modelling. You even had a show on relationships. Let me tell you one thing. I couldn’t care a damn about who won the . I don’t give a damn if someone from my state or another state wins. I don’t give a rat’s ass as to who becomes the next “India ki awaaz”, desh ka sitaara, superstar, or the “15 minutes of fame and okthxbai” star. He could be a star today, and substitute backup singer at an orchestra the next day. You asked me to vote. You tried to emotionally blackmail me. Yes, everyone who you selected was poor. Everyone wanted to be a star since he/she was of the age of . No problem with that. But why did you repeatedly thrust this fact into my face? And why should I? Just because you say so? Just because a music director, who is known to use the Ctrl, C and V keys as frequently as Tulsi aunty had children, says so? I still stayed on with you, mind you.

But you still tested me. With your news channels. Yes, I get it that keeping in touch with the happenings of the world is important. In fact, for some, it is of prime importance to their careers (read: MBAs). But what I didn’t want to know was who was having a housewarming party and who peed in whose drink. I couldn’t care less if someon bought a new house and it got demolished the next day by the BMC because they forgot to pay for the chai-pani. I couldn’t, in the least, be bothered about who launched their ‘latest collection’. For all I care, it could end up being a rag with which my maid cleans the house (Some of them are of the same size and texture as a rag, mind you). You shouted out the news. I had to turn the volume four notches down because my neighbour threatened to retaliate with Himesh’s songs.

And then there was Pornab Goatswami, the only creature that seems to have been left out of the evolutionary cycle and is now desperately trying to gain some ground. How he can be the editor-in-chief of a news channel is something that even a dedicated team of scientists from MIT cannot comprehend. I think at least one person dies of a heart attack every day when the news channels shout out breaking news and then proceed to show Aishwarya Rai with her “Oh look, I have an accent which can’t be traced to any country on the planet” video. I would have preferred if you had gotten Sunny Deol to read the news. At least the shouting would have been entertaining.

And the final nail in the coffin was when you decided to go all out with your women-oriented shows. Don’t get me wrong, I’m completely for women’s rights, but not when you twist the whole f@#$ing concept of awareness and present an unreal picture. What I would like to do is to get hold of the witch from that baat pakki show, who wants to verify her prospective daughter-in-law’s ‘purity’ (in a manner that casts serious suspicion on her sexual orientation). A lesbian mother-in-law would have been way more entertaining. Maybe she’s jealous that she looks like a Neanderthal in front of the girl. If I had my way, I would have kidnapped the horse-faced Neanderthal and thrown her in a Virar fast and forced her to get down at Borivali. Ab bol baat pakki!

I think I’ve lost my mind. I just watched Rajat Sharma on repeat mode. All day. I even watched Twilight, the single largest insult on womankind ever inflicted by any living or dead person. Hell, I even watched Upen Patel’s movies. But no more, I say. I’ve had enough. I will not be able to take it any longer. I can’t bear the Bitto, Laado, Mata, Maan, Behen, Beti, Pita, Beti ke bhai ki chacha ka pati, or any other show on relationships. I can’t bear the multitude of dance shows. I can’t take any more of the laughter shows. If I wanted to laugh, all I have to do is to follow Salman Khan on Twitter. The only entertainment I have are the Bhojpuri songs which are played every morning at the construction site beside my house.

So that’s it. Just one last Bhojpuri song to go and I’m done with the world. There it is, the last part of Bombay wali Chokariya. Goodbye.

– Saurabh

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