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Country of Angry Men

It was a sight to behold. One of the most respected and acclaimed actors in India cinema having a meltdown on national television. I stood transfixed on the spot as he railed against the host, his show and the media for sensationalising the issue and driving partisan politics. Once he had vented his anger, there was quiet. Arnab knew he had won. This was what his show was about and the ratings would go through the roof. All he had to do was stay calm, stay firm and so effortlessly use the outburst of the senile old man as irrational and worse, unpatriotic, in a time of fervent patriotism.

I was angered, because he had won yet again, to the delight of my father who never failed to catch the show first thing in the morning before he left for work. It was called a debate, but it was anything but a civilised debate. It was geared towards invoking passion, creating divide, making the panelists lose their temper (and meltdown) and it was all too brilliantly conducted by Arnab with his constant haranguing, interruptions and quickly made (and often wrong) conclusions. It was tabloid TV at its best.

Despite his brilliance, I hated the show, or more the timing of it. My father had a habit of turning it on first thing in the morning, a time when peace and quiet was of the utmost importance. Instead, while having my breakfast, I had to tolerate the shouting of all the angry men that went on in the background.

As I out my shoes on and made my way to the door, I could not help but remark to my father,

"Endina ee chavare kanninathe?" (Why are you watching this rubbish?)

"Ende chavare?" (What rubbish?)

I did not wait to respond but closed the door as I left.

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