Yes, I watch television debates. I am addicted to them. I have tried to quit many times. The last sentence is self-explanatory. It is now late afternoon. The withdrawal symptoms are here. I have lost my sense of punctuation. Sentences are all of the same length. They have no rhythm. Like a translated South American novel. I think I will stop now. Will resume at midnight after the respite.

Midnight…

It started, as it always does, with someone egging me on, explaining the thing away as harmless, something that will quickly wash out of my body, no after-effects, no nothing. Impressed with the sales pitch, I extended my hand.

With the remote now safely in my possession, and gunning, the news channels came and went like coaches of a Shatabdi that’s abandoned its stop at Tundla. My friend was my guide, helping me select the debate we could get the most kick out of. Soon we stopped at where the screen was jam-packed with lawyers and spokespersons and cardinals and feminists and swamis, all hell-bent on causing serious harm to each others’ reputation. It looked interesting and fun. I turned my head and looked questioningly at my friend. Unsure. This being my first time. He pondered for a few seconds, no doubt balancing the pros and cons, then said, “No, not this one – body’s hardened to it…keep flicking.”

Ever since the blue turbaned Moses introduced us to an idea whose time had come, the nation’s been overwhelmed with a problem that has invaded its living rooms and made senseless addicts of all those poor souls who were roaming the streets and dimly lit back alleys certified ‘clean.’ The only thing these cute pups and cuddly cats were addicted to up until then was family life, family dinner and a half-hour daily dose of watching the family run the nation. No debates, no fisticuffs, just a measured and posh rundown of what the prime minister or members of his kitchen cabinet inaugurated that day. Urine samples always came out negative and as a result the nation was happy and content, with its government, with its cricket team, with itself. Brown sugar was what one emptied from a sachet into one’s cappuccino. Ecstasy was when one correctly guessed the colour of the daffodil wedged in Salma Sultan’s tresses.

Well, it didn’t take long for the foreign hand to spot this Garden of Eden, this supernatural refuge where nothing bad ever happened or was reported, where journalists and politicians only exchanged pleasantries, and aunties sat transfixed at the sight of a PSLV launch or a thermal power station being dedicated to the nation. The TV set showed us how admirably rich we were, in manufacturing, in space science, in culture. It was our sone ki chidiya (golden goose).

Soon, it flew away.

The wicket fence was bull-dozed, flowerbeds were trampled over, and hand turned to fist before you could say, “Beautiful country, fascinating crowds.” In time, the CNNs were duly rolled out, and the very first mortars they launched at the lohagarh that was the Mandi House were ‘freedom of the press’ and ‘editorial autonomy’. Twenty years of constant pounding and look what we have here: freedom of the press and editorial autonomy.

And what a lot of good it has done us. News junkies roam the streets, din daharray accosting those who’ve just jumped the divider railing and landed on the other side, offering them their dubious pharmacopoeia as a cure for all ills. “Here, here, man, how ’bout some We The People?” or, “Hey bro, before you walk away, try a pinch of Big Fight.” “What? W-h-a-t? What you scared of lil’ lady, ever try Face the Nation?” “Here, try Politically Incorrect…promise you’ll be back for more!” “Yo kid, ever try this firangi stuff Hardtalk?” There is also News point, and Seedhi Baat and Takkar and Aap ki Adalat, but they’ve somehow gained a reputation of satisfying slumdogs and not millionaires. This is quite unfortunate, but what can one do when snooty dealers pander only to those who drive a Beamer on the BRT in the wee hours of the morning? Not for them Lux cozi and Hingoli and Gas-go.

The best, the meanest, the purest, even after all these years, though, remains The Newshour Debate, and it was exactly this that my friend had wanted me to get a lick of. As soon as the screen filled with the rapidly assembling and disassembling letters of the phrase The Newshour Debate, with the sound of the grandfather clock ticking ominously in the background, he pushed himself further into the sofa and flung his arms to the back of his bald head in pure joy, dreaming already of snorting the thin line between objectivity and subjectivity that this program always offered. He was not to be disappointed.

The first time it lasted for not more than 20 minutes, 30 at most. The kick I mean. To begin with, the mind went blank. It was wonderful, a totally new experience. I realized, watching the rioting panel, that I had forgotten already the so-called news events of the day: the train crashes, the encephalitis epidemics, the government mishandlings, the insensitive sound-bytes…these were now just a mild Gaussian blur, soon to be wiped out completely from my memory. The real news was like a hallucination right in front of me. How could I be so foolish to have missed it all along? I could hear many voices. They would rise and then quickly lose strength, then they would stop all of a sudden, only to start all over again in concert. If I closed my eyes, these voices seemed like they were coming from afar, and I could not disentangle them howsoever hard I tried. The questions were mixed with the answers that were mixed with more questions, which, before they could reach the recipients, collided midway with yet more answers, producing sparks and riots of neon flashes. This was televised Ramayana all over again, with the great Lord Ram single-handedly keeping the evil panelists at bay. In they came on a horse, and out they went on a hearse, ear wires still dangling from the corpses.

“Go swami go! Go swami go!” screamed my friend, waving his arms like he was just about to throw an imaginary lasso. I wasn’t sure if he was goading the panelist or the anchor – not that either of these gentlemen needed any goading to begin with.

“Now watch”, he added excitedly as the anchor dived deep into the last of his 42 questions.

Flash of lightening, clap of thunder. Try and envision it and all the gobbledygook that follows shall be clear as daylight. It’s to do with satellites.

A satellite link always causes a tiny time-delay, so that the anchor’s question reaches the spokesperson a few seconds after the anchor has shut up and begun to think of a follow-up. Our favourite anchor, however, is completely oblivious of this simple fact, and so, as he comes to a stop, and pauses, to allow his voice to reach the waiting spokesperson, the latter notices the pause, thinks his turn has come at last – he was beginning to wonder, and opens his mouth. Just at that instant, when everyone understands everyone else, our anchor thinks his ten-minute long question needed a tiny add-on after all.

All hell breaks loose. The spokesperson, who was rattling along quite happily, now suddenly sees this second train coming in his direction. He pauses. Seeing him pause, the anchor wonders why the wretched fellow has paused – maybe he didn’t want to answer the difficult question in the first place. Aha! There’s something there! And so out comes a third question, which collides with the third answer to the first question. It may sound confusing but, I assure you, it’s delightful, especially when the trick is repeated ad nauseam. Finger-tremblingly, scalp-twitchingly addictive. No kick comes close to it. Try it!

My only fear is that, what with the horde of pilots all set to leave the good times behind, a few might entertain the thought of becoming news anchors. This must be prevented at all costs, for these fine men with gilded caps and skimpily dressed air hostesses by their sides always finish their sentences with ‘over’. Calamity! The spokesperson would immediately know the next few minutes are his and his alone and the anchor won’t interfere unless he is answered fully and completely. Are we really going to have any of that?

Who knows – perish the thought – even the spokesperson may take to this killjoy ‘over’ business and use it as and when he finishes with his answer. The result? Peace and order and tranquility in the studio and on the streets outside. Unemployed debate-pushers idling in the back alleys. No, we’re certainly not having that!

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