Ouch Potato

Come May, comes one month of nothingness to celebrate, a month where pure unadulterated fun is available in glass bottles and tiny Styrofoam cups. In aluminum cans and brown paper bags. You laze, you lounge, you lavish yourself, doing all those things that couch potatoes are known to do. And then, what do you do? You turn to that one thing in your life which you are pretty sure will never leave you, in sickness and in health, for better or for worse, the television set.

Last year, While I struggled to keep up with Jack Bauer’s counter-terrorist agents, superheroes swept in discovering their powers, as a New-Yorker continued his quest to find his future wife while suburban housewives schemed and teamed. A medical resident trudged through nine years at every body's favorite hospital with his black best friend, while a private investigator finished high school.. Others partied and parted on the Upper East Side, and show choirs formed and performed. They called out to me from the TV set, in bits and bytes form, in monochromatic hues of red, green and blue. Each and every one of them, in their tantalizing seductive ways, while I watched. And watched. And watched.
For a month I watched. Glazed eyed and awe-struck. Secretly. In the dead of the night, when I was alone. Like a child caught stealing candy, like a teenager caught watching porn.
Eat, I didn’t.
Drink, I didn’t.
Sleep, I didn’t.
And then I realized. Like a scoffed girlfriend, it came out of nowhere and slapped me hard, squarely across my face. And walked away.

Sometimes life's greatest lessons aren’t the ones that you learn through moral stories and all those things parents tell children so that they get their judgments right when they grow up. They aren’t the ones that hit you after life changing experiences. Sometimes, life’s greatest lessons are the ones you learn from the very same character you watch every week. Those fictitious people who stay in make believe land. The ones you hate, the ones you admire, and even the ones you secretly want to be. And just like that, in a non-creepy and non-you-should-get-institutionalized kind of way, you realise that the voiceovers aren’t voiceovers at all.
Like the way J.D sums up life, or Mohinder Suresh discovers it, Or Mary Alice Young, who remembers it. Like Gossip girl’s summations, and Ted Mosby’s lessons, you realize that life is but the greatest show that you can be a part of. And if you are lucky, sometimes you get picked up for another season too.

Theses voice rush in, coming through to you when somebody goofs up and messes up your destiny, or even when you least expect it, like bad weather. Like the truth so naked, that it feels awkward to just look at it. You switch on the remote and stare at the TV screen, watching out for the white noise. The technical jargon. You watch and you learn, till those 42 minutes are up. What do you do then? Who do you listen to, when nothing else works or when the episode ends?
Well, you wait for the writers to come up with the next episode.