Growing up in the '90s, films were more than just entertainment; they were cherished experiences. Unlike today, where content is available on-demand, my access to television was limited to just a few channels. But within that narrow range, Fridays and Sundays stood out as special. Friday nights were dedicated to Hindi films, while Sunday evenings brought the best of Malayalam cinema. These two time slots were my only chance to immerse myself in the world of films, and I eagerly awaited them every week.
The anticipation was part of the charm. Every weekend offered a mix of genres, from light-hearted comedies to thought-provoking dramas. Even though I didn’t fully understand it at the time, I was being exposed to cinematic masterpieces that subtly laid the foundation for my future passion for filmmaking. Each film felt like a window into a different world, and I became engrossed in the storytelling, completely unaware of the technical artistry behind the scenes.
I wasn’t just watching for entertainment either—many films on Doordarshan were focused on educational content. This added another layer to my experience, making films feel both informative and enriching.
The Antenna Ritual
Our TV was a small 15-inch Hitachi, modest by today’s standards but more than sufficient for those times. We had no more than 10 channels, and Doordarshan was the primary one we watched. Later, when the Metro channel arrived, it added a few more options, but the choices remained limited. Despite that, I never felt like I was missing out—those two weekly film slots were all I needed.
However, before enjoying the film, there was a critical task that needed attention—fixing the TV antenna. The antenna was a thin copper cable, quite different from the thicker, better-insulated cables that came later. Any slight misalignment or wear could lead to static or grainy images, so it was my job to ensure the clearest picture possible.
Often, the image would degrade into grainy visuals, and when that happened, the sound would also take a hit. The noise wasn’t just visual—it was audible. The sound would become loud and noisy, like a constant modulated “zzzzzz,” similar to the sound of sand dripping onto the ground. It was a strange and frustrating combination, almost as if the poor picture quality directly affected the audio. This wasn’t just an issue of clarity—it became a matter of survival for the viewing experience. So, while I worked hard to assure the best video quality, I found myself equally concerned with ensuring clean, clear sound. Every adjustment to the antenna had to resolve both the visuals and the noise.
I became adept at adjusting the antenna, cutting fresh copper from the cable when needed, and locking it into the right position. The ritual became a routine, one that I took pride in, especially knowing that my efforts led to the best possible viewing experience. Despite the occasional frustration, like seeing the dreaded color bar with the caption “Sorry for the interruption,” it only added to the sense of occasion. After all, there was no other option—we couldn’t just switch to another movie.
Curiosity About AV Connections and the Speaker Setup
Another part of my growing curiosity around technology was the connection behind the TV. Back then, it was all about AV cords—those red, green, and yellow pins that needed to be plugged in correctly for the picture and sound to work. I was fascinated by the fact that these colorful pins could make or break the entire viewing experience. My curiosity often led me to experiment with them, though I didn’t fully understand the technicalities.
We had custom-made wooden blocked speakers that were extremely heavy for me to align at that age. They added depth to the movie-watching experience, but getting them to work was a task in itself. The setup included a custom-made preamp that extended the sound to the speakers, but it didn’t always work when we needed it to. The connections had to be manually switched, and if I wanted the sound from the TV to play on the speakers, I had to unplug the source from the music system and connect it to the TV.
However, this simple action often led to conflict. My dad’s elder brother had built this custom setup, and he was very protective of it. One wrong move could collapse the entire system, and he would kick me out for even attempting to switch the cables. He had configured multiple sources—from the music player, VCR, and radio—to play through the speakers, making the cable management behind the TV a mess. One wrong connection, and the whole system might fail. Understandably, he was worried about it, so most of the time, I ended up listening to the tiny mono output from the TV itself, tucked away in one corner.
At that time, I didn’t know the difference between mono and stereo sound. All I knew was that I could see the labels “L” and “R” (Left and Right) on the speaker systems and audio equipment. Those letters intrigued me, but my understanding of sound was basic—just enough to know that something special was happening when those big wooden speakers were working properly.
The Magic of Immersive Cinema
Looking back, those moments of adjusting the antenna and tinkering with the speaker setup were just as important as the films themselves. Watching films back then wasn’t something to be taken for granted—it was a cherished event. Unlike today, where we can scroll endlessly through streaming platforms, each film felt significant because it was a rare and fleeting opportunity. If you missed it, you had to wait an entire week for the next one.
That small 15-inch screen became my window to the world of cinema, where each Friday and Sunday I would dive into new stories. Whether the films were comedies, thrillers, or dramas, they captivated me in ways I couldn’t explain at the time. The magic of those moments stayed with me, forming the foundation for my deep interest in the art of filmmaking.
Even though I didn’t yet understand the technical intricacies of cinema—the direction, cinematography, or sound—I knew one thing: I loved how films made me feel. Those early experiences taught me that movies were more than just stories on a screen—they were a means to connect, reflect, and feel deeply. And those simple, imperfect movie nights played a major role in sparking my lifelong passion for the art of filmmaking.
The Radio: The Timecode
In addition to the excitement of Doordarshan films, another significant aspect of my childhood was the radio. It played an essential role in shaping the rhythm of our household. There was an unspoken rule: when someone woke up, they would switch on the radio, filling the home with the sounds of news, music, and jingles. The Suprabhatham, a devotional song, served as the wake-up call, and it became a familiar soundtrack to my mornings.
The radio had a unique way of synchronizing our daily activities. Specific programs and songs would play at the same time every day, almost like a musical clock. I remember lying in bed, gradually waking up to the sounds of the radio, easing me into the day. Even my morning routine became intertwined with the radio; the timing of a song often served as my cue to finish brushing my teeth and move on to the next task.
While no one in the house paid much attention to the radio, its presence created a comforting atmosphere. It served as an unseen guide, helping everyone stay in sync with the day’s rhythm. Whether it was a song, a news segment, or an ad, the radio became part of our routine, subtly influencing our actions without us realizing it.
Reflecting on these childhood memories, I recognize how the combination of Doordarshan films and radio sounds created a rich tapestry of experiences that shaped my early understanding of storytelling and sound. Together, they instilled in me a profound appreciation for the art of filmmaking and the power of narrative. These moments were more than just entertainment; they were formative experiences that have influenced my lifelong passion for cinema.
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