Sunday mornings in the 90s were booked. Not by us, but by Doordarshan.
When Ramayan or Mahabharat came on, the entire colony seemed to move in unison. Families gathered at the one neighbour’s house with a colour TV. Shoes piled at the door. The living room packed tight—children cross-legged on the floor, elders claiming the few chairs.
I remember the hush when the opening music began. It was more than just television. It was a collective experience, almost sacred. Even the chatterbox uncles fell silent.
And then there was Chitrahaar. Wednesday and Friday nights, 8 pm sharp. Your opportunity to ‘see’ the song. The eclectic mix of songs that were played and how they were chosen still stays an enigma. No modern day personalized algorithm on OTT apps comes close.
A neighbourhood uncle had his own ritual with Chitrahaar. If a Kishore Kumar song came on, he would sing along—loud, cheerful, completely off-key. I’d roll my eyes, but secretly I loved it. It’s impossible to hear those songs today without hearing his voice layered over them.
And like many kids back then, I was often the one sent running upstairs to fiddle with the TV antenna. Someone would shout from below “Bas… wahin… ab mat hila.” The picture would clear, snow from the screen would vanish, and everyone would cheer. It felt like I’d just fixed the universe.
***
These weren’t just programmes. They were rituals. They stitched us together in ways we didn’t realise then.
Scarcity made moments precious. Waiting created anticipation. And when the moment arrived, it felt larger than life.
Today, everything is on demand. No waiting, no scarcity, no gathering. And maybe that’s why nothing feels quite as special.
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