For the first time, our joint family had been broken up. I had taken up a new job in another city, some 600 kilometres away. That had meant my small family's separation from our mother, my brothers, their spouses and children who constituted our extended family.

If we were all happy over the better opportunity that awaited me, the sadness that had enveloped the large family owing to impending separation was no less pronounced. In the joint family, one television set was serving the purpose. But while settling down in the city of my new employment, I had to buy another one. However, the heavy expenses involved in my moving house did not leave much scope to purchase a new TV set. I had to wait.

Those were the days of black and white TV and every body was keenly waiting to enjoy that unique pleasure of watching coloured images on the idiot box. We were no exception.

I decided that instead of buying a black and white set and then going in for the colour one, I would better wait. This implied longer wait and as a consequence resulted in bitterness at home. Every morning and late evening, I was harangued by curt queries from my wife and daughter. "When are you bringing a TV set?"

The wait appeared to be never ending, adding to the prevailing unease and irritation. We stayed on the first floor and my wife and child could not have gone to the landlord's living room on the ground floor. But surely on hearing dialogue from her favourite serials, my wife felt like fish out of water.

My little daughter would implore her mother to let her go down to watch her favourite cartoon and other programmes. But we had another enthusiast in the house — Sundar, our domestic help. That 16-year-old village boy had been serving us faithfully and efficiently for about three to four years. In fact, it was his diligence and intelligence that some prospective employers constantly eyed him and tried to wean him away from us.

Sundar, too, had become a TV addict. So, he would manage an opportunity to go to the stairs below and watch the landlord's TV stealthily. As it happens, the house owner's wife started luring him to desert us and take up the same job on better emoluments with them. Using their TV as bait, she would offer him eatables.

Discovery of the game plan upset me and Sundar's willingness to desert us infuriated me. I could not imagine that temporary absence of TV could put to naught years of his loyalty so easily. The very thought that the boy whose disabled father had brought him from his village to work at our place would now work on the ground floor, mocking at us just blew my head.

I could not restrain myself and gave him a severe thrashing. Normally, I remain composed but I wonder even after three decades today how I lost my cool that day. "Oh, yes, the culprit is the TV. Why blame this poor lad?" I told myself. Like any other TV watcher, my wife and my daughter were no less fond of it.

Within minutes of this realisation, I was a changed person. I cupped my face with my palms and pondered for a while. Tears welled up in my eyes. I called out Sundar. He came near me trembling and froze. He looked into my eyes apprehending a fresh bout of dressing down. I had melted, much to his surprise.

I hugged him tightly. He broke into tears and started crying. I wiped his tears and consoled him. I said ‘Sorry' to him. I had won back the boy — with love.

Sundar did not even cast a glance at the landlord's TV thereafter. He waited till I bought our own colour TV set. He worked at our place for another two years before joining a radio transistor manufacturing unit — of course with our help.

 

Lalit Raizada is a journalist based in India.