The Day the TV Arrived in village Murran: CHANDER M BHAT

The Day the TV Arrived in village Murran

(A True Short Story)

Chander M. Bhat

It was most likely the year 1972 when a wave of excitement swept across the villages of Kashmir Valley. The government had distributed black and white television sets to every Panchayat, marking a significant moment in rural life. Even Murran, a beautiful village nestled in the valley, was not left out. A Western Black and White Television set had arrived at the Panchayat Ghar in Murran, and it was about to change the village’s evening routine forever.

The news of the television’s arrival spread in a way that was unique to the village. Early that afternoon, the steady and familiar beat of a “Nagara” drum echoed through Boni Bagh, the main marketplace. Ama Dumb, the village’s Nagara player, drumming to announce an important message. His voice rang out, calling all villagers, young and old, to the Panchayat Ghar that evening for what he described as a new "Tamasha", a toy.  No one was exactly sure what this “Tamasha” meant, but curiosity had already gripped the village.

By 4 o'clock, every child in Murran had gathered at Boni Bagh, filled with anticipation. The announcement had sent ripples of excitement through the village, and as the children assembled, they wasted no time and raced toward the Panchayat Ghar. When they arrived, they found the compound buzzing with activity. Elderly men had already gathered in large numbers, discussing the impending event with a mix of wonder and skepticism. Could this “Sheeshi Sandok,” this “glass box,” really show moving pictures, as some had heard?

The task of setting up the television was in the hands of Mohd Ismail, known to the villagers simply as Ismail of Dumbpur. Ismail had been entrusted with the responsibility of operating the television set, despite never having touched one before. Alongside him was Abdul Gani Ahangar, or “Gani Ahungur,” a villager known for his limited but handy knowledge of electrical work. Together, they were the heroes of the hour, working feverishly to connect wires and ensure that the new technology would work as expected.

The television set itself was placed on the left window of the Panchayat Ghar, resting on a sturdy wooden support. Gani Ahungur, with his sleeves rolled up, began fixing the wires with great concentration. The clock had already ticked past 5:00 p.m., and the villagers knew that the telecast would start promptly at 5:30 p.m. In those days, television was not an all day affair; programming was limited and precise, and missing even a few minutes meant waiting until the next day for another chance.

As the minutes passed, more and more villagers arrived. By 5:30, the compound was packed with people....men and women, children and elders, all gathered in eager anticipation. The women stood in small groups, whispering amongst themselves, speculating about what could possibly emerge from this “Sheeshi Sandok.” They were skeptical, yet fascinated by the mystery of it all.

At exactly 5:30 p.m., Gani Ahungur, sensing that the moment had come, called for silence. His voice, filled with authority, cut through the murmur of the crowd, instructing everyone to remain quiet as he prepared to switch on the television. There was a collective hush as Gani pressed the switch. For a few moments, nothing happened. The crowd held its breath, unsure of what to expect.

Then, slowly, the television screen flickered to life. A faint glow appeared, accompanied by a soft humming sound from the wooden box. The light grew brighter, and soon enough, a crackling sound emerged from the speakers. Gani fiddled with the switches on the side of the set, adjusting the controls as the villagers watched in wide eyed wonder. The screen began to stabilize, and, after a few tense moments, a clear picture appeared.

Suddenly, from the women’s section of the crowd, someone exclaimed, “Kodaya… Daabas manz ha insaan!” (“Oh my God, there are people inside the box!”). Laughter and chatter rippled through the audience. The program "Butraat" had started, and on the screen were people speaking....a sight most of the villagers had never seen in their lives. There was jubilation, amazement, and disbelief all at once.

The children cheered, while the elders watched with a quiet awe, marveling at the wonders of modern technology. Once the "Butraat" program ended, the screen transitioned to something even more delightful....a Kashmiri folk song began to play. The familiar music echoed through the compound, and people started to clap and hum along, their hearts filled with joy.

As the singers on the television performed, an elderly woman in the crowd turned to those around her and, in all sincerity, asked, "Who will give these singers their meals in the evening?" Her question, so innocent and sincere, caused a ripple of laughter among the villagers. Even though they had just witnessed a marvel of technology, the simple logic of village life still applied in their minds.

As the Kashmiri folk song came to an end, the program on the newly arrived television set switched to the next segment....the English news. By this time, the crowd gathered in the Panchayat Ghar had grown accustomed to the flickering images and the sound coming from the wooden box. The audience, mostly villagers who had never encountered television or heard English spoken live, remained transfixed by the screen, even though they didn’t understand the language.

The English news anchor’s voice echoed through the compound, a series of unfamiliar words strung together in a language foreign to most of the villagers. Still, they watched intently, as if the mere act of seeing the news unfold was enough to keep their curiosity alive. Among the crowd was Karim Kral, a robust and spirited villager known for his larger than life personality. Illiterate, but never lacking in confidence, Karim Kral had a reputation for speaking with authority on just about anything, whether or not he truly understood it.

The news anchor continued delivering the global updates, and after a few minutes, the word "Japan" was mentioned. The moment the word "Japan" was uttered, Karim Kral, who had been following the broadcast with unwavering seriousness, suddenly straightened up. His face showed intense concentration, and without warning, he shot up to his feet. In a booming voice filled with urgency, he shouted, 'Chopeh haa, Japanas ha chu dazaan' (Please keep quiet, Japan is burning!)

His declaration startled the crowd, catching everyone off guard. For a moment, there was a stunned silence as the villagers tried to process what Karim Kral had just said. His tone carried such authority, as if he had fully grasped the English news being broadcast and was sharing some critical world event with the rest of the village. Of course, in reality, Karim Kral didn’t speak a word of English. He had merely recognized the mention of "Japan" and, with his natural flair for theatrics, made an assumption that something terrible was happening in that far off land.

 

The silence that followed his outburst quickly dissolved into fits of laughter. The

children giggled, the elderly men chuckled, and the women covered their mouths, trying to suppress their amusement. The idea that Karim Kral, who couldn’t even read or write, had somehow "understood" the English news and concluded that Japan was burning was simply too funny to ignore. His confidence, mixed with his complete misunderstanding of the situation, added a sense of lightheartedness to the evening.

As the laughter spread through the crowd, Karim Kral, unfazed by the reaction, continued to stand tall, looking around as if expecting everyone to heed his "warning." He seemed proud, believing that he had just provided vital information to the villagers. Some of the younger men teased him, saying things like, “Karim Kral, are you sure Japan is burning? Should we prepare to send help?” But Karim, ever the bold character, waved them off, his expression serious, as if he had seen it all unfold before his very eyes.

For the rest of the evening, Karim Kral’s exclamation became the running joke among the villagers. No matter where you turned, people were imitating his voice and repeating, “Japan is burning!” followed by bursts of laughter. It was a moment of pure village humor, the kind of spontaneous joy that comes from shared experiences and the quirks of colorful personalities like Karim Kral.

The incident was talked about for days afterward. Every time someone mentioned the new television or the news, someone would inevitably bring up Karim Kral’s declaration. It became a part of the village folklore....a story that would be recounted at gatherings, reminding everyone of the day the village not only saw television for the first time, but also got a glimpse of how one man, with his sheer confidence, could make an entire village laugh.

And so, Karim Kral’s famous outburst became yet another beloved chapter in the history of Murran, adding humor and character to the memory of the village’s first encounter with the wonders of television.

For the next few days, this event became the talk of the entire village. People couldn't stop discussing the magical "Sheeshi Sandok" that could show people and songs, and every evening, the Panchayat Ghar became the gathering place for the villagers. Watching television became a new routine, a shared experience that brought the community together in a way no one could have predicted.

And so, the arrival of the Weston Black and White TV in Murran was more than just the introduction of new technology....it became a cherished memory, an event that would be recounted in stories for generations to come. The village had been transformed, not just by what they had seen on the screen, but by the joy and wonder it brought into their lives.

(Chander M. Bhat, a former Assistant Director, Postal Services, Jammu & Kashmir, is a prolific writer and researcher with over 21 published books. He can be reached at chander.1831@gmail.com)