To you, it could be the ‘idiot box’. But to me, growing up in a village (approximately) four kilometres off the coast of Balasore, Orissa, it was so much more. I first heard of a device called television while I was in school, as we read about it in class; about television’s history, its first programmes, etc. I remember being smitten by the box that ran on electricity—which was another wonder. The bulb and ceiling fan were alien devices that were not a part of my growing up years. Since my home also was half-a-kilometre from the sea shore, I did not care much about artificial coolers. I got to live in the ‘lap of luxury’ from 1988 when I joined my elder brother in Mizoram, simply put, there we had electricity. My elder brother was a professor of political studies at North-Eastern Hill University (NEHU). I was depended on him for my further studies. Though I was a humanities student, my brother’s association with NEHU enabled me to get into the university’s electronics department where I completed my diploma. Growing up without electricity, it was ironical that I took up electronics as a topic of specialisation. Perhaps that was the reason why I did what I did, in order to fill a gap left in my childhood. My diploma in electronics got me a step closer to my dream of eventually doing something in the television and media industry. At that time I did not know what I was meant to do exactly. But I knew that I was in love with the medium. It was this conviction which made me appear for tests for the Film and Television Institution, (FTII) Pune. There I concentrated on television, documentary and film making courses. Most of my life I may have spoken Oriya, but I have always taken the effort to learn new languages. In Mizoram, I learnt Mizo Twang and much later, made two documentaries in that language. I have loved challenges—if they made it sound hard, I had to do it. My admission into FTII was the final stop towards a fulfilled career in media and journalism. I loved the two main types of programmes that were shown on television—documentaries and teleserials. The first teleserial that I ever watched was Kachche Dhoop, directed by Amol Palekar. It which to be aired on Sunday mornings between 10am and 11am. In 1995, I entered the hallowed halls of Doordarshan. For most students it would have been a dream job. To me it was fruition of all my hard work, dreams, aspirations—it was a journey which began in Madanapore and ended in the capital of the country. There I was the producer and concept in-charge. I had arrived. Soon my colleague and I were commissioned to start DD Sports. Albeit I was not interested in sports, I took it up as a challenge. As I have said before—if it seems impossible then I love to take it on. I took the concept of a sports channel further. I incorporated new ideas—such as India’s first-ever morning aerobic and exercise programme. It became a rage and completed 150 episodes. It was in that programme that I introduced a relatively unknown model called Neha Dhupia as the anchor. She later went on to win the Miss India crown and became a Hindi film heroine. Though Doordarshan was great after a while I started to feel restless there. The work was becoming easier, predictable and there were less and less daily challenges. What I could do there, I had done. I had successfully launched a sports channel, I had several documentaries to my credit and had risen through the ranks. That was when I saw two advertisements—one of them asking for camera experts for a non-government organisation called Aina Media and Culture Centre. The centre endeavoured to strengthen civil society through education and empowerment of women and children. It also trained men and women in communication and information skills. It was fascinating to note that National Geographic Fellow and worldrenowned photojournalist, Reza Deghati, was the man behind Aina. The minute I saw the advertisement, I knew this was just the challenge I was seeking. But there was a problem. How would I convince my father? I had the cushiest job in Doordarshan. And there I was, dreaming of Afghanistan and making a new beginning in a war-torn nation. I took the easy way out—I lied. I informed my father that I was being sent off on an assignment and would be back in a matter of days. I have often regretted the lie—even though my father is rather proud of my choice today—but never the decision to pack up and go. Because Aina has been the biggest adventure that I have ever had. Aina began operations in Kabul exactly three days after the Taliban regime fell and till date, it has trained some 1,000 women and men in media and communication skills. I believe that we have been fortunate enough that more than 90 per cent of our employees have found meaningful employment. The organisation also runs eight publications—two for women and one for children. We regularly shoot documentaries and short feature films. One of our short features produced by an all-female team (a first in Afghanistan) was nominated for an Emmy in 2005. My first assignment in Aina was to train apprentices in video photography. I remember when for the first time an all-women camera crew visited a rural area to film, there was a mild furore. But it all died away as they became more and more familiar with the sight of us. My trainees and I meant business. The team of women were dedicated to their tasks. As time passed, and I became more involved in Aina’s functions, my colleagues encouraged me to use my expertise—direct teleserials in this country. Before I embark on that story, a little needs to be said about Afghan people. Irrespective of which part of the country they may come from—all love a good cry. That is why Bollywood and Indian television serials have such a presence in that country. They adore the good-versus-evil theme. To them, a family is equally important. They love the exaggerated rituals, rows, drama and joy of Indian television and the silver screen. So, my team and I conceptualised the first teleserial as a family drama. The core subject of women emancipation is a hard story to narrate in any patriarchal society—it was doubly difficult in Afghanistan. We coated the bitter pill with laughter—my team and I decided to make a comedy. We thought about using the struggle of a woman doctor to drive home the point of emancipation among male and female viewers subtlely. People always ask me whether it is very difficult to work in Aghanistan—I say a yes and a no. Language poses a problem. I was not familiar with the several dialects of the country as I am now. At the beginning the citizens were wary of strangers like me. And then, there were the ‘difficult’ people. But such problems exist everywhere— I would have faced them all over the world. Instead of mulling over the negatives, one needs to see beyond; lessons that this war-torn country offers to everyone willing to lend a sympathetic ear. It is inspirational to see people fight for their freedom of expression every day. The stories inspired me to write my latest teleserial— Palwasha, which means the sun’s first rays. I thought of it laying on my bed, watching the rising sun and hearing the day’s first azan. Granted, making a teleserial in Afghanistan is not easy. One needs to be mindful of religious sensitivities. Despite problems when we get the viewers’ endorsement—it is that much sweeter. And Palwasha, the story of a woman who rises to be a lawyer fighting for women’s rights, has received that stamp of approval. We have not dumped a ‘dull story’ on our viewers. The story is about the need to trust a legal system based on Shariat and Quran laws. Like Indians, Afghans too resort to kangaroo courts for quicker settlement of local matters. Our message is hidden under layers of masala— music, action replays, reverberating dialogues, tears and tense drama. As I said earlier, Afghans love a good cry. So far, Palwasha has been aired in Dari and Pashto with 40 per cent of the funding coming in from Usaid. We have cast Mumbai-based actor Sonal Udeshi in the main role. We also flew in our technical, make-up and sound teams from Mumbai. The popularity of the three teleserials produced and directed by us has taken us by surprise. Only 10 to 15 per cent of Afghanistan has electricity being produced from hydroelectric power. For those who don’t have supply, homes and TVs are run by diesel generators. Yet, Kabul stops when these serials come on air.