THE GREAT NEPALI FIGHT FOR THE REMOTE: WHO CONTROLS THE TV AT HOME?

 

In many Nepali households, the television remote is not just a tool—it is a symbol. A rectangular, plastic emblem of power, generational priorities, and unspoken hierarchies. Who controls it often says more about the structure of the household than any family tree ever could. It decides what voices fill the room in the evening, whose stories take center stage, and whose leisure time is valued over another’s. It is not just about television—it is about space, identity, and control within the four walls of home.

On the surface, the remote seems like a simple device. But in a multi-generational Nepali home, it can become a trigger for cold wars, dramatic standoffs, or subtle acts of passive resistance. The grandfather, already seated with his tea and biscuit, will demand the 5 p.m. news even if no one else is remotely interested. The grandmother, quiet all day, will assert her authority during her favorite serial, claiming that “yo ta mero bela ho.” The father, home from work, will nonchalantly flick to the sports channel, expecting everyone else to adapt. The children, tech-savvy and fast-fingered, try to sneak in cartoons or Korean dramas before being caught. The mother, caught in between everyone else’s preferences and the kitchen, rarely even gets the chance to make a claim.

What unfolds is not just a casual disagreement over entertainment—it becomes a miniature version of societal negotiations. Elders expect deference, younger people demand autonomy, and everyone, in their own way, believes they deserve a moment of peace. The remote, then, is the battlefield where affection, fatigue, entitlement, and resistance all play out in silence or sarcasm.

Unlike mobile phones or laptops, the television is still, in many Nepali homes, the shared screen—the communal window into the outside world. That is what makes the fight for the remote particularly intense. It is not about private preferences, but public ones. The volume is high, the opinions louder, and there’s no earphone option to protect yourself. The person who holds the remote controls the mood of the room, the direction of conversation, and sometimes, even the silence that follows.

Children often try to bargain their way in—finishing homework early or offering foot massages to tired grandparents. Teenagers usually resort to frustration, sometimes abandoning the living room altogether in favor of headphones and solitude. Women, especially homemakers, often remain in the margins of this negotiation—serving snacks during others’ shows, only to catch glimpses of their own interests while cleaning up afterward. The remote becomes a rotating crown, but only certain people are ever crowned.

This everyday domestic struggle also reflects changing media consumption patterns. As smartphones and personal devices become more common, the fight for the remote has reduced in some families—but not entirely. For those who still rely on the television as a central source of information, relaxation, or ritual, the question of who controls it remains deeply emotional. It represents a time when family members still gather in one room at the end of the day—even if it’s to disagree.

And there is nostalgia in it too. The shared experience of watching a serial together, cheering for the same cricket team, or sitting in forced silence during the 8 o’clock news—even when you’ve had enough bad news for a lifetime—has formed a certain texture of Nepali family life. The fight for the remote, irritating as it is, also binds people together in this routine chaos. It demands attention, conversation, and compromise. It keeps the house a little noisy, a little tense, but undeniably alive.

Perhaps, in a way, the remote is not just about what we watch, but how we live together. It forces us to negotiate space, time, and attention. It teaches us who gives in, who insists, who is listened to, and who is left unheard. In the long run, it's not just about whether you end up watching the comedy or the crime show—it’s about whether you were given the choice in the first place.

And maybe that is why, for all the teasing and tension it causes, the fight for the remote still matters. Because it reminds us that control—especially shared control—is never simple. But in small living rooms across Nepal, it remains one of the most relatable, human, and quietly meaningful dramas of everyday life.

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