RAISED BY THE TV

The truth we swallowed in 30-minute episodes

---

I. THE GOD THAT SAT IN THE LIVING ROOM

We thought it was just a box.

It was not.

It was the third parent,

the loudest teacher,

and the quietest thief

that stole our attention

before we knew what attention meant.

Amma was in the kitchen.

Appa was reading the paper.

The TV raised us.

It blinked.

It screamed.

It taught.

---

II. HOW WE LEARNED RIGHT AND WRONG

Before school,

before prayer,

we learned from Shaktimaan.

Good was wearing maroon tights.

Evil had yellow eyes and smoke.

We believed this.

We believed too hard.

Ramayan and Mahabharata showed us gods

with arrows, morals, and dramatic pauses.

We touched the screen when Krishna smiled.

We bowed when Ram wept.

But we didn’t stop lying.

We didn’t become better.

We just memorized the dialogues.

We thought morality was costume-based.

We thought truth was slow motion

with background score.

---

III. WHAT WE FEARED

Friday nights,

we watched Aahat and Zee Horror Show

under blankets with one eye open.

Dead grandmothers in mirrors.

Dolls that walked.

Men with no face.

But we weren’t scared of

corruption, pollution, loneliness,

or our own parents’ sadness.

Real life ghosts

were quiet.

TV ghosts screamed.

So we preferred them.

---

IV. HOW WE UNDERSTOOD FAMILY

We thought families were like Tu Tu Main Main—

always fighting, always funny.

We thought Hum Paanch was real.

We wanted a sister like Sweety.

We wanted a father who never worked.

But in our homes,

fathers drank in silence,

mothers cried in the bathroom,

siblings fought without punchlines.

TV made families look

loud, colourful, repairable.

Ours were just tired.

---

V. HOW WE SAW OURSELVES

Fair & Lovely said our skin was wrong.

Chitrahaar said hips must sway.

MTV Roadies said abuse is cool.

Bollywood said fat people are side jokes.

TV shaped our mirrors

before we ever looked into one.

We stopped loving our real bodies

because they weren’t edited.

Girls began to smile like serial heroines.

Boys walked like slow-motion heroes.

And nobody knew

who they were anymore.

---

VI. HOW WE DEFINED SUCCESS

We watched KBC and thought

knowing trivia could change our life.

We watched Office Office

and thought jobs were jokes.

But nobody told us

success means not crying at night

after doing what you hate

for thirty years straight.

Nobody told us

TV jobs don’t have sweat.

---

VII. HOW WE REPLACED CULTURE WITH SCREEN TIME

We watched Surabhi,

Turning Point,

Malgudi Days

and said, “Nice show.”

Then never learned pottery,

never asked why mangoes are grafted,

never read a full book.

We heard stories from Alif Laila

but never asked Ajja to tell his.

We watched folk dancers on screen

but mocked them in real life.

Culture became something we watched,

not something we lived.

---

VIII. WHAT WE DIDN’T LEARN

TV taught us about kissing, killing,

singing, hating, glowing skin,

ghosts, gods, and fake laughs.

But it never taught us

how to breathe when we panic.

How to care for a sick parent.

How to love without controlling.

How to grow a brinjal plant.

How to ask for help.

How to be still.

We became experts

in everything useless.

---

IX. WHAT WE DID TO OUR CHILDREN

We don’t raise our kids now.

We give them Peppa Pig,

YouTube Shorts,

and Instagram reels.

Because we don’t know any better.

We were raised by a screen.

And now we are passing on

the only thing we truly know—

distraction.

We don’t tell them bedtime stories.

We just lower the brightness.

---

X. THE ECHO THAT WON’T LEAVE

I don’t remember real moments.

I remember Shaktimaan’s speech,

Rangoli’s tune,

Mowgli’s friendship,

Wagle’s confusion,

Tara’s heartbreak,

Karamchand’s carrot,

Chitrahaar’s melody,

and Sansani’s crime headlines.

I don’t remember my grandfather’s smell.

But I remember the color of the Captain Vyom suit.

---

XI. THE TRUTH

I was not raised by my mother.

She was busy surviving.

I was not raised by my father.

He was busy obeying.

I was raised by a machine

that never loved me,

never punished me,

never explained anything gently.

It just kept playing

until I believed

it was real.

---

XII. THE ENDING

And now,

when I hold my own child,

I find no stories in my mouth.

Only jingles.

Only ads.

Only memories of glowing faces

that never knew my name.

I try to speak.

But the only voice inside me

is borrowed.

Because I was raised

by the television.

---

APPA, WERE YOU EVEN THERE?

A reflective dialogue between a father and son

(After the television is switched off)

---

(Evening. Lights dim. TV just switched off. Silence for a few moments. The father looks tired. The son, 16, sits cross-legged on the floor, fiddling with his phone. A brief silence follows.)

---

Son:

Appa… were you even there?

Like… when I was small?

When I started walking?

When I started drawing?

Do you even remember?

Father (softly):

I was there.

But the TV was louder.

---

Son:

I don’t remember you talking.

I remember Shaktimaan.

I remember you laughing at Office Office.

But I don’t remember you ever asking me what I liked.

Father:

I didn’t know how to ask.

I thought feeding you, sending you to school,

keeping the TV on—that was enough.

It was what I knew.

---

Son:

Amma says you’d come home,

eat silently, and just stare at Sansani or news.

You didn’t even notice when I cried once.

Father:

I know.

I know.

---

Son:

Why didn’t you switch it off?

Why didn’t you just… talk?

Father:

Because I was tired.

Because it was easier.

Because the TV didn’t argue back.

Because… it raised me too.

---

Son (startled):

Wait—what?

Father:

Yes.

I wasn’t taught how to be a father.

I was taught how to be a viewer.

I grew up on Rangoli, Byomkesh, Aahat, Tehkikaat,

Ramayan, Mahabharata, Wagle Ki Duniya, Mowgli,

and the evening news.

They told me what a man should be.

Silent. Angry. Strong.

And I copied that.

---

Son:

So you were also raised by television?

Father:

Worse.

We believed it.

We didn’t question anything.

When Fair & Lovely came, we thought fair skin meant respect.

When news said Pakistan, we said enemy.

When serials showed crying women,

we thought that’s just how women are.

---

Son (quiet):

I guess I’m not better.

I’m raised by reels now.

Sometimes… I don’t even know what I feel.

I just scroll.

Father:

Exactly.

They changed the screen.

Not the addiction.

---

Son:

You know what’s weird?

Sometimes I feel closer to cartoon characters

than to you.

Father (looks down):

I understand.

Because I felt closer to Mowgli than to my father.

---

Son:

Appa, did you ever want to talk to me?

Really?

Father (long pause):

Every day.

But when I tried,

I didn’t know how.

So I switched the channel.

---

Son (softly):

Is it too late?

Father:

If we switch this off… (gestures to phone)

maybe not.

Maybe we can sit here,

without screen light

and just…

try again.

---

(Both look at the phone. The son slowly puts it aside. The father switches off the last LED light from the TV panel. Silence.)

---

Father:

Let me tell you about the day Shaktimaan ended.

I cried. I didn’t tell anyone.

Son (smiling):

Tell me.

And then I’ll tell you about the day

I realized Instagram was making me hate myself.

---

(They sit. Talking begins. Slowly. For the first time in years. Without screenlight.)

---

AMMA, WERE YOU EVER LIKE ME?

A mother-daughter reflection

(After a reel stops loading)

---

(Afternoon. The power goes off. The inverter hums. The phone loses signal. A teenage daughter looks irritated. The mother wipes her hands after doing dishes and sits down nearby. A silence follows.)

---

Daughter:

Amma… were you ever like me?

Like… confused?

Angry for no reason?

Wanting to look like someone else?

Mother (after a breath):

Yes.

Before filters.

Before selfies.

When Chitrahaar was enough.

---

Daughter:

I don't believe that.

You look like you always had control.

You wore a simple saree.

No makeup.

No drama.

Mother (smiling):

That's because our drama

was outsourced to the TV.

---

Daughter:

Like what?

Mother:

Shanti. Tara. Tu Tu Main Main.

We watched women cry, fight,

fall in love, get betrayed,

rise again — all in 22 minutes.

So we stayed quiet,

pretending we were strong.

---

Daughter:

But did it help?

Did watching them make you stronger?

Mother:

No.

It made me tired.

It made me think

that silence was power,

that suffering was style.

I waited for someone to write my script.

But life had no writer.

---

Daughter (softly):

I wait too.

I wait for likes.

For comments.

For a DM that makes me feel seen.

But they don’t last.

The emptiness stays.

Mother:

We had the same emptiness.

We just filled it

with Chitrahaar,

beauty ads,

celebrity marriages,

and mehendi specials.

You scroll.

We stared.

---

Daughter:

Did you ever want to be different?

Mother:

I wanted to be like Tara —

brave, modern, unapologetic.

But I was told:

real girls don’t talk back.

So I cooked.

I cleaned.

I smiled.

And watched Tara do all the things

I never could.

---

Daughter:

You know what?

Sometimes I watch reels

and feel ugly.

Like… my skin, my hair, my thighs —

nothing’s good enough.

Mother:

I used Vicco Turmeric cream

every day for ten years.

Because they said it made you glow.

It didn’t.

It just made me feel

I was always not enough.

---

Daughter:

So… is this never-ending?

Each of us copying someone else?

Mother:

Unless someone breaks it.

---

Daughter (after a pause):

How?

Mother:

By sitting.

By talking.

By looking into each other’s eyes

without distractions.

Like we’re doing now.

---

Daughter:

Will you tell me what you were really like

before TV told you how to behave?

Mother:

Only if you tell me

who you are

when Instagram stops loading.

---

(They both laugh. Softly. And sit in silence, without judgment. For the first time in years.)

---

THREE WOMEN IN A ROOM, BUT NO ONE SPEAKING

A dramatic three-generation reflection

Indian. Honest. Unfiltered.

---

(Scene: A late Sunday afternoon. A small rural house. Ceiling fan turning slowly. The phone is dead. The inverter is off. Power cut. Ajji sits on a mat, shelling tamarind. Amma folds clothes. Puttamma stares blankly at her lifeless phone. The silence is awkward. Finally, someone speaks.)

Each woman represents one era:

Ajji – raised by radio, rituals, real people

Amma – raised by TV, serials, beauty ads

Puttamma (daughter) – raised by smartphones, reels, validation loops

They sit in the same room, yet are worlds apart, until silence forces truth out.

---

Puttamma:

I hate this silence.

No Wi-Fi. No power. No charge.

How did you all even survive?

---

Amma:

We survived.

With TV, boredom, and imagination.

---

Ajji (laughing):

We survived without any of it.

No TV.

No phone.

Just real life.

---

Puttamma (mocking):

What is "real life", Ajji?

Boiling water and gossip?

---

Ajji:

No, kanna.

Real life was sitting near cows

listening to birds,

hearing Appaji's flute,

and the temple radio crackling with Lata Mangeshkar.

We didn’t scroll faces.

We memorized them.

---

Amma:

When I was your age,

we didn’t have phones either.

But we had Ramayan, Shaktimaan,

Chitrahaar, and Sansani.

TV gave us everything —

but slowly, it took everything too.

---

Puttamma:

Like what?

---

Amma (quietly):

Our ability to speak truthfully.

To ask uncomfortable questions.

To sit still.

TV taught me how to cry on cue,

how to suppress,

how to smile even when I was breaking.

---

Ajji:

TV made your mother silent.

She was a talkative girl, once.

After 12th, she stopped asking questions.

Just watched.

---

Puttamma (whispering):

I don’t know who I am without my phone.

I feel… lost when it switches off.

Like I'm nobody.

---

Ajji:

That's because your mind is not your own.

Someone else is feeding it all day.

When we were young,

we sat under the neem tree

and asked,

"What kind of person should I be?"

Now you ask your screen,

"What do people like today?"

---

Amma:

I was the in-between.

Ajji had earth.

You have pixels.

I had soap operas.

And none of us escaped.

---

Puttamma:

But Appa also watches reels all day now.

He doesn’t listen to me.

---

Ajji:

Neither did your Thatha.

But he wasn’t watching reels.

He was listening to AIR news

and nodding like a sage.

---

Amma (sighs):

We thought education would help.

We sent you to school.

Gave you phone.

Let you speak English.

But we forgot to give you ourselves.

---

Puttamma (looking up):

Amma…

Do you want to know what I really feel

when I post photos?

---

Amma:

Tell me.

---

Puttamma:

Empty.

Like… I'm shouting in a well.

Everyone claps,

but no one stays.

---

Ajji (softly):

In my time,

you cooked something good

and shared it with neighbors.

Now you post it online

and eat alone.

---

(They all fall silent. Something has shifted.)

---

Puttamma:

Ajji…

what did you fear growing up?

---

Ajji:

Rain destroying the harvest.

Snake in the field.

Father's death.

---

Amma:

I feared not looking good enough.

Not marrying on time.

Being called too loud, too modern.

---

Puttamma:

I fear not going viral.

Not being seen.

Not being loved.

---

(Ajji gently puts the tamarind aside.)

---

Ajji:

Child, you are not a trend.

You are not a story for strangers.

You are someone's blood.

Someone’s memory in waiting.

---

Amma (tears up):

Maybe it’s time

we switch off the things

that have been speaking for us.

---

Puttamma (quiet):

But what will we do then?

---

Ajji:

We’ll learn again.

To sit.

To sing.

To tell real stories

without ads between.

---

(Silence. But now it feels different. Warm. Safe. Honest.)

---

Amma:

Let’s make tea on the chulha.

No filters.

Just us.

---

Puttamma (smiles, finally):

Tell me the real story, Ajji.

Not the one you saw on TV.

The one you lived.

---

END