What were you doing on the day when civilisation, as we know it, came to a grinding halt? I refer, of course, to last Sunday fortnight when cablewallahs around the country decided to deprive us of their variegated delights, or bilge - depending on how one looked at it - by going on strike. Don't know about you, but this was how my morning went..It's nine o'clock and nothing disturbs the calm. No MTV madness, no disembodied dialogue wafting in from soaps that have clearly run out of lather, no shrill screeches from cartoon mice and men, no political popinjays lecturing the nation. No TV. Bliss. A tidal wave of silence engulfs the home. The morning papers lie before me, waiting to be discovered. The mandatory cup of tea sits in its saucer impatient to be sipped. Paradise.Alas, all good things come to an end - usually in about five minutes flat, that is. As someone (a harassed mother no doubt) so wisely observed, the quickest way for a parent to get a child's attention is to sit down and lookcomfortable.The 12-year-old has just dragged himself from bed, bringing a good part of the bed linen with him. The third button of his pyjama shirt characteristically ensconced in the first buttonhole of the garment, his still sleepy eyes unwashed, his teeth unbrushed.Like a pre-programmed robotic contraption, he heads straight for the TV set. I watch him with a studied disinterest.A jab at button one. Blank screen. A jab at button two. Blank screen. Another jab. Still blank. By now, there is mild surprise written all over my son's face. He reaches for the remote and furiously punches away. No luck. Surprise slowly gives way to alarm. Alarm is then replaced by desperation.``W-h-a-t's happening?'' he finally asks, in a choked voice that you would ordinarily employ if the doctor is to suddenly inform you that you have a heart condition.I decide to be as succinct as possible. Barely looking up from the newspaper, I say, ``Forget TV for today, son.''``W-H-A-T?'' screeches my 12-year-old, in theincredulous tones that one would requisition when informed that the sky had just fallen on the neighbour's house.He keeps jabbing at the buttons, refusing to even consider such a possibility. Like the sun, the TV has always shone on the world. ``Why is there no TV?'' he demands to know, half-suspecting a diabolic conspiracy against him.``Cable operators on strike, son,'' I say, trying to make sense of a news report on the Pachmarhi deliberations.``Oh God,'' he exclaims. If he had been told that he was to live on bread and water for the next seven days, it is unlikely that he would have summoned up a quarter of the grief that now visits his visage. It's deprivation of the highest order. ``You mean, no Cartoon Network?'' he queries.I nod sympathetically, ``No. No Cartoon Nework.''Slowly the horror of it all sinks in. ``You mean, no Mastercard Family Fortune, no Different Strokes, no Pop Junction, no US Opens live?''Once again I commiserate with him. ``No. No Mastercard Family Fortune, noDifferent Strokes, no Pop Junction, no US Opens live,'' I pronounce sadly.By now his 12-year-old frame has collapsed on the sofa, embodying utter dejection and defeat. ``What should I do?'' he wails, from the very depths of despair.It was an opening that I had long been waiting for. ``Well, for a start, you could clean your teeth, wash your face, change your clothes, eat your breakfast.,'' I begin.In reply he places a cushion over his face as if to shut out such blasphemous suggestions.``.and yes, after doing all this you can settle down with a nice book,'' I conclude, breathless but triumphant.Still no response from the prone, dishevelled figured before me.``You know a book? That squarish object made up of pages, with interesting pictures on the front cover, which one reads for enjoyment and information.?'' I go on.The cushion moves. ``That is not what I meant,'' says my 12-year-old, for whom life had clearly lost its savour. ``I mean, how am I going to survive today?''Ah, thatsuch tragedy should visit one so young.
