In 1969, the world watched America land on the moon — 650 million people, eyes glued to small black-and-white television sets.

I wasn’t there for that historic moment, but I often imagine what it must have felt like… one entire planet holding its breath together, watching a grainy image of a man taking slow, shaky steps on a distant world.

My own “TV moment” came many years later, in 1982, during the Asian Games in India.

We didn’t have a TV at home back then. In fact, in our entire neighborhood, only one family had managed to buy a television set. It was a small black-and-white TV, maybe 12 inches at best, sitting proudly in their living room like a VIP guest.

Every evening, as the Asian Games broadcast started, something magical happened.
The whole mohalla came alive.

People would begin drifting towards that one house — kids first, running ahead, followed by parents, uncles, aunties, and grandparents. The lucky few squeezed into the living room. The rest stood outside, peeking through doors and windows, craning their necks just to catch a glimpse of the screen.

Inside, someone would always be adjusting the antenna. And of course, there was that one person permanently “posted” on the roof, hanging on to the antenna and twisting it left-right based on the instructions shouted from below:

“Bas, bas, bas — ab thik hai!”
“Arey, ab to aur kharab ho gaya!”

Sometimes a kid got promoted to “antenna duty” and would proudly stand on the terrace, half technician, half hero. And when the picture became even slightly clearer, everyone reacted as if India had just won a gold medal.

No one talked about HD, 4K, surround sound, or WiFi.
We didn’t know what “screen resolution” was.

What we had was something else:
Togetherness. Curiosity. Wonder.

That little TV turned into a community event. The commentary from inside the room was often louder and more entertaining than the official commentator. Every good move by an Indian player was celebrated with claps, whistles, and instant analysis by self-appointed “experts” in the room.

Even the snacks were community-driven. Someone brought tea. Someone else brought biscuits. Kids would sneak in namkeen or peanuts. The host family’s living room became a mini-stadium, newsroom, and picnic spot — all rolled into one.

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Today, most homes don’t have one TV — they have multiple screens:
TVs, laptops, tablets, smartphones, and now smartwatches. Everyone in the family can watch their own show, in their own room, with their own headphones on.

Technology has evolved in ways we couldn’t even imagine in the 80s:

• From two Doordarshan channels to hundreds of satellite channels
• From community viewing to private streaming
• From waiting a week for a Sunday movie to on-demand content 24/7
• From black-and-white to colour, and now to ultra HD and VR

And now, we’re in the age of AI, where content doesn’t just entertain us — it can talk to us, guide us, and even create new content for us.

It’s incredible. It’s powerful.
But it also makes me think…

In this journey from one shared 12-inch TV to an entire universe of screens in our pockets —
What did we gain, and what did we quietly lose along the way?

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We didn’t scroll past moments. We lived them.
We didn’t “consume content” — we shared experiences.

That one TV in the neighborhood was more than an electronic device.
It was a social glue.

Yours Kunal

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