When the TV Went Silent - Part1

 

The Days Before “Seen at 9:32 PM”

It was 1994.

A time when phones were nailed to walls, not carried in pockets.
A time when Sunday mornings belonged to Ramayan, Friday nights to Chitrahaar, and the biggest tragedy in life was power cut during the final over.

In Shantivana Layout—a peaceful, middle-class society where every house looked exactly like the other—life moved slowly, loudly, and very socially. Doors were always half open. Gossip travelled faster than postmen. And if someone sneezed in Block C, aunties in Block A knew about it before the tissue came out.

Entertainment meant one TV per house, and often, one TV per five houses.

That was how the gang was born.

The Gang of Five

They met every evening at House No. 17, because it had:

1. A color TV

2. A rotating antenna

3. And a father who returned late from office

Ravi – The unofficial leader. Serious, idealistic, always reading newspapers and saying things like,

“We should do something meaningful for society.”

Meera – Sharp-tongued, fearless, and the only one who could silence gossip aunties with one look.

Karthik – The thinker. Quiet, observant, remembered details others forgot.

Anjali – Optimistic, full of energy, believed every problem had a solution… except power cuts.

And then there was—

Munna.

Munna was the comedy character the universe personally designed.

He laughed at his own jokes, tripped on flat roads, and once tried to fix a TV antenna by talking to it politely. Munna believed he was extremely intelligent. The rest of the society believed… otherwise.

“If common sense were electricity,” Meera often said,
“Munna’s house would be in permanent load shedding.”

One Idea Changes Everything

One hot evening, while waiting for the TV picture to clear (half screen green, half screen ghostly), Ravi suddenly stood up.

“Why are we wasting time just watching TV every day?” he said dramatically.

Munna nodded enthusiastically.
“Yes! Let us watch TV with purpose.”

“No, Munna,” Ravi sighed. “I mean—we should do something for society.”

That caught everyone’s attention.

“What kind of something?” Anjali asked.

Ravi unfolded a carefully folded newspaper clipping.

‘Local children lack access to books and guidance’

“We can start evening classes,” Ravi said.
“Free tuition. Help kids. Do something good.”

For a moment, silence.

Then Munna raised his hand.

“I can teach mathematics,” he said confidently.

Everyone stared.

“You failed mathematics,” Karthik reminded gently.

“Yes,” Munna replied proudly,
“Which means I know exactly where students get confused.”

Against all logic, the group burst out laughing—and just like that, the plan was born.

Shantivana Evenings Begin

Within days, the gang became local heroes.

Kids gathered every evening. Chalkboards appeared. Chairs were borrowed. Parents smiled proudly. Even the gossip aunties paused their commentary to say,

“At least these children are doing something useful.”

Laughter filled the courtyard. Munna’s teaching methods were… questionable, but entertaining. One day he taught multiplication using mangoes. Another day he forgot the lesson entirely and told a ghost story instead.

Life felt warm. Purposeful. Happy.

Too happy.

The Night Everything Changed

One Tuesday evening, the TV didn’t turn on.

“Power cut?” Anjali asked.

“No,” said Karthik slowly. “Lights are on.”

Then they heard it.

A scream.

Sharp. Sudden. From House No. 24.

The same house where no lights were ever switched off after 9 PM.

The same house where Mr. Krishnamurthy, the quietest man in the society, lived alone.

People ran. Doors opened. Someone shouted for help.

And when the crowd gathered—

Mr. Krishnamurthy lay on the floor.

Not moving.

A small pool of blood near his head.

Munna whispered, voice trembling,

“This… this was not there during Chitrahaar.”

The society that laughed together every evening stood frozen.

And somewhere between fear, shock, and disbelief, Ravi realized—

This was no accident.

Someone in Shantivana Layout was hiding something.

And the gang had just stepped into a mystery far bigger than evening TV and good intentions.

A Comedy of Errors - Part 10 - Final

 

A Comedy That Finally Got It Right

Raghav didn’t become rich overnight.
He didn’t become charming.
He didn’t suddenly enjoy loud music or networking events.

He became… settled.

With his steady job, he moved into a better house. The chair didn’t wobble. The tap didn’t leak. Peace existed in small, reliable doses.

Through family introductions (which he approached with the enthusiasm of a tax audit), he met Meera.

Meera didn’t ask about dreams.
She asked if he liked silence.

Raghav said, “Yes. Very much.”

They understood each other without effort. They talked about work, weather, groceries, and life—without pretending it was more dramatic than it was.

He didn’t impress her.
She didn’t expect him to.

They married quietly. No grand drama. No last-minute disasters. Even the priest arrived on time.

Raghav stood there, smiling awkwardly, married, employed, alive, and strangely content.

Later that night, sitting beside his wife, he thought about his life.

All the missed interviews.
All the wrong timings.
All the errors.

And yet—here he was at last happy and leading a beautiful life ahead.

Not lucky.
Not special.
Just… okay.

Raghav smiled.

For a man who had lost at almost everything, this felt like winning.

The End. 🌱

A Comedy of Errors - Part 9

 

When Luck Finally Got the Wrong Address

Raghav’s life became suspiciously normal.

He woke up on time.
The bus arrived on time.
His ID card worked every single day.

This worried him.

At work, people started trusting him with bigger responsibilities. One senior even said, “Raghav, you’re very reliable.”

Raghav went back to his desk and checked his pulse.

During a presentation, the projector worked.
During a meeting, his mic didn’t squeak.
During a deadline, he finished early.

Clearly, the universe had made a clerical error.

Then came salary day.

Raghav opened his bank app and stared at the number like it was written in a foreign language. He refreshed twice, just in case it was a temporary hallucination.

It stayed.

He treated himself to dinner outside. He didn’t look at prices. He ordered dessert first. This was reckless behavior.

At work, people invited him to a team outing. He went. He spoke very little. Nobody minded. This shocked him more than unemployment ever had.

One colleague said, “You’re calm. It’s nice.”

No one had ever complimented his personality before. Usually, they survived it.

That night, Raghav stood in front of the mirror and adjusted his shirt.

The mirror reflected a man who still wasn’t exciting—but no longer invisible.

He smiled.

Somewhere, fate was probably rechecking files.

A Comedy of Errors - Part 8

 

Employed, Confused, and Slightly Proud

Raghav’s first day at the prestigious company began with a badge.

The badge had his name spelled correctly.

He stared at it for a long time. This alone felt like success.

The office was massive—glass walls, soft chairs, people walking fast with purpose. Raghav walked slowly, carefully, as if the building might reject him if he moved too confidently.

His manager shook his hand.

“Welcome aboard!”

Raghav nodded. He had practiced nodding. He was good at it.

He was shown his desk. It was stable. It didn’t wobble.
This fulfilled one of his lifelong dreams.

His computer worked on the first try. No error messages. No mysterious beeping. Raghav logged in and waited for something to go wrong.

Nothing did.

During the team introduction, people spoke confidently about their experience. When it was Raghav’s turn, he said:

“I’m happy to be here.”

No one laughed.
This was unsettling, but acceptable.

He was assigned work. Real work. Important work. He completed it carefully, double-checking everything like a man afraid success might be a prank.

By lunchtime, someone invited him to join the team.

“Sure,” Raghav said, shocked at himself.

At the cafeteria, he chose food without checking the price first. This felt irresponsible but powerful.

Someone cracked a joke. Raghav smiled half a second late. They didn’t notice. Progress.

He returned to his desk, finished his tasks, and even helped a colleague fix a problem. The colleague thanked him sincerely.

Raghav sat very straight after that.

By evening, he received an email.

Subject: Great work today

He read it twice.

Then a third time, just to be safe.

At home, he placed his bag neatly, made tea, and sat on his bed.

He didn’t check his phone much.
He didn’t wait for messages.
He didn’t think of anyone missing.

He was busy replaying the day in his head—his chair, his badge, his work.

Raghav smiled.

Life, for once, seemed to be cooperating.

A Comedy of Errors - Part 7

 

Silence Has Entered the Chat

Raghav woke up to silence.

Not the usual silence—the familiar, loyal one.
This was new silence. The kind that checked your phone and then looked away.

No “Good morning.”
No meme.
No emoji doing emotional labour.

He checked his phone again. Nothing had changed. This was disappointing. Phones usually lied better.

He told himself it was normal. People got busy. People had lives. He had… mornings.

He made tea and waited for the kettle to whistle. It didn’t. The gas had finished. That felt personal.

At 11:47 a.m., he finally sent a message.

“Hope your day is going well.”

He stared at it after sending, as if it might crawl back into the phone and apologize.

No reply.

Raghav placed the phone beside him carefully, like a fragile animal that had chosen not to speak today.

He didn’t double-text.
He didn’t check “last seen.”
He didn’t read old messages, except once. Maybe twice. Okay, several times.

To distract himself, he applied for jobs.

Something unusual happened.

An email arrived within ten minutes.

Subject: Shortlisted

Raghav blinked.

He refreshed.
Still there.

The company name was impressive—one of those names people lowered their voice while saying. The package was better than anything he had ever imagined. So good, in fact, that Raghav assumed it was spam.

He checked the sender.
He checked the website.
He checked his bank balance, just in case destiny was mocking him.

It wasn’t.

He read the email again, slowly, as if it might disappear if startled.

Raghav smiled. Not big. Not dramatic.
A careful smile. Like someone testing a chair before sitting.

His phone buzzed.

He looked.

Not Nisha.

A spam message.

He sighed, stood up, and ironed his shirt.

For the first time, the interview mattered.

A Comedy of Errors - Part 6

 

Texting: Raghav Enters a New Dimension

Raghav discovered very quickly that texting was harder than unemployment.

When Nisha sent,

“Good morning 🙂”

Raghav stared at it for six minutes.

“Good morning” felt too cold.
“Good morning 🙂” felt copied.
“Good morning!!” felt emotionally unstable.

He finally replied:

“Good morning.”

He immediately regretted the period. It felt aggressive.

Nisha replied with a meme. Raghav did not understand it. He laughed anyway—alone, quietly, just in case.

Their conversations developed a strange rhythm.

Nisha sent voice notes.
Raghav sent carefully constructed sentences that looked like legal documents.

She asked,

“What are you doing?”

He typed, deleted, retyped:

“Thinking.”

She replied:

“About?”

“Whether to reply quickly or after five minutes so I don’t seem desperate.”

She laughed. He could tell because she sent three laughing emojis, which made him nervous. Three felt serious.

They texted daily. About small things. Tea. Rain. Missed buses. She told him about her office frustrations. He listened. She liked that he didn’t interrupt with solutions.

Meanwhile, Raghav still attended interviews.

One day, he texted her:

“Interview went well.”

She replied immediately:

“Really?”

He clarified:

“No. But I reached on time.”

She sent a thumbs-up emoji. Raghav considered it emotional support.

That night, lying on his bed, Raghav realized something unusual.

He was still unlucky.
Still unemployed.
Still boring.

But now, someone waited for his replies.

And that felt dangerously close to happiness.

A Comedy of Errors - Part 4

 

Free Advice, No Refunds

Raghav didn’t ask for advice.
Advice, however, found him anyway—like spam emails and mosquitoes.

His aunt called one afternoon.

“So, still no job?” she asked gently, with the softness of a hammer.

“Yes,” Raghav replied.

“You should wake up early.”

“I do.”

“You should sleep early.”

“I don’t sleep.”

“Ah,” she said wisely. “That’s the problem.”

She suggested astrology. Another uncle suggested motivation videos. A neighbor suggested marriage, because apparently a wife doubled as a career solution.

Raghav nodded through the phone, making sounds of agreement while staring at a crack in the wall that had been there longer than his hope.

That evening, he sat on his bed scrolling through motivational videos.

A man on screen shouted, “If you really want it, the universe will respond!”

Raghav whispered, “I’ve been sending reminders.”

Another video said, “Failing is part of success!”

Raghav counted. He had failed approximately 417 times. Success seemed to be stuck in traffic.

He tried affirmations.

“I am confident,” he told the mirror.

The mirror disagreed.

“I am successful.”

The mirror remained unemployed.

“I deserve happiness.”

The mirror flickered slightly, possibly laughing.

The next day, he followed one piece of advice seriously: dress well and walk in confidently.

He wore his best shirt and walked into a random office building.

“Do you have an interview?” the guard asked.

“No.”

“Then leave.”

Raghav left.

At night, lying on his bed, Raghav realized something comforting. Everyone around him was full of advice, but none of them were actually listening—to him or to themselves.

That thought made him feel strangely light.

He smiled. A small one. Practice, maybe.