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Journalism of Courage
There are game shows, and then there are game shows. Each one has its own unique silliness. Partly the reason you watch them, for you’re not looking for a cerebral work-out at the end of a brain-weary working day. You enjoy the silliness as long as it is at someone else’s expense.
In most cases, nothing could be sillier than the anchors. Have you ever watched Manoj Bajpai make a silly ass of himself? What else could you possibly expect from a show with a name such as Kam Ya Zyaada (Zee)? The format of the show demands that you have to know whether a man has 1,000 capillaries, more or less. Or, does the Indian team have 11 all-rounders more or less? Or how many cavities do Aishwarya Rai’s (teeth) possess? 28 more? On and on it goes, giving you statistical information of complete silliness.
Manoj Bajpai treats every question as though his finger is on a nuclear bomb release button. He smiles, yes, but only when a contestant gives the wrong reply. Otherwise, he delivers his lines with the gravitas of Lawrence Olivier playing Shakespeare’s Hamlet. Or a judge delivering the death sentence. Now, either he is practicing for his next film assignment or else that bandhgala he fancies wearing is constricting his behaviour. Now, isn’t that silly?
Or switch to Sony and the equally foolish Deal Ya No Deal. This game show does not bother to make any connection with the brain. It depends entirely on luck, chance, fate, fortune or other variations on the theme. What you are expected to do is choose a box which contains a notional sum of money. That amount is crossed off the amount you can win at the end of all your choices. On and on it goes, until you reach the very last box (thank God)? and of course it’s empty! Well, not always but you get an idea of the show’s absurd premise.
The rules of the game are silly; but the contestants and the anchor make Bajpai seem a bundle of joy. They behave so gravely, their emotions must have been interred long ago. No offence meant, but the contestants ‘lose’ Rs 25,000 when they never had it, but behave as though they had spent a year earning it. And new anchor Rajeev Khandelwal acts like he is still playing his first TV character, Sujal in Kahiin To Hoga. Sujal’s most endearing characteristic was his inability to smile. He was a real silly-billy and we loved him for it.
Add to this collection the latest game show on the box— Hearbeat (Star One). As the name suggests, it’s meant to be played by the pumping organ not the thinking machine. Silly, because that’s not how you play at all. You are given a set of alternatives and have to choose five correct answers. For instance, which of the following are the names of planets? Identify five countries which do not have an Indian living in them (are there any?) etc.
It’s not the questions which are so bad; it’s the space control room which hosts the contestant. It’s dome like and huge so you can hardly see the person. There are snacks, computers, soft drinks, telephones, GK books to help answer the questions and this voice that disturbs the few thoughts the contestants have as they try hard to slow down their heartbeat and quicken up the answers. Since this is physically impossible, the only way is not to bother trying to answer the questions yourself; instead ring up a friend (Ajay Jadeja calls Harsha Bhogle) and get their heart and mind working for you. For the viewer the show is devoid of any tension and the only reason your pulse rate increases is out of irritation.
Lastly, the unimaginable has happened. Tulsi’s heart has stopped beating for Kyunki Saas Bhi Kabhi Bahu Thhi (Star Plus). Last seen, she was draped in a white sheet. Oh dear. The dear has departed and left everyone crying copiously. They’ll devote the next few weeks to tears until their heartbeats rise alarmingly. Tulsi admirers should not be too lachrymose; she will return at the appropriate time in the endless cycle of birth and rebirth of soap operas. Silly, isn’t it?
