By Suresh Unnithan
Every evening our television screens enthusiastically erupt into a dazzling spectacle of nationalism. Flags wave in hyperactive graphics, bugles blare like they’re announcing the conquest of Lahore, and anchors—those self-anointed sentinels of Bharat Mata—thump their chests with the ferocity of a wrestler who’s just spotted a camera. “This is an insult to the nation!” they roar, veins popping, as if the fate of 1.4 billion souls hangs on their vocal cords. These are the same channels and anchors who brandish their “nationalist” credentials like a badge of honour, day in and day out. They trumpet Vande Mataram, demand loyalty tests from opposition leaders, and label any domestic critic of policy—or even a mild joke about governance—as an “anti-national” traitor funded by shadowy foreign hands (or worse, George Soros).
Yet, come prime time, the script flips with the smoothness of a well-oiled TRP machine. “Joining us live from Pakistan…” the anchor intones solemnly, as if welcoming a long-lost cousin rather than the supposed enemy. And in strolls the guest—often a Pakistani voice perfectly cast for the role: ready to bash India, question its leaders, and occasionally take a swing at the Prime Minister himself. The anchor protests theatrically (“I will not allow this!”), the panel shouts in orchestrated chaos, and the nation’s honour is defended… by letting the abuse flow freely for ratings gold.
This isn’t debate; it’s dinner theatre with a side of hypocrisy.
Consider the business model. A YouTuber or social media user dares to criticize a government decision—not with profanities hurled at the PM, but with data, questions, or satire—and swift action follows: notices, demonetization, blocks, or worse. The authorities, ever vigilant guardians of national sentiment, pounce with the zeal of hawks protecting their nest. But when a Pakistani guest on national television profusely abuses India, mocks its democracy, or targets its leadership? Crickets. No raids on studios, no urgent advisories (well, occasionally there are polite ones after major incidents, quickly forgotten), no dramatic press conferences decrying “anti-national activity.”
Why the duplicity? Because these so-called nationalist channels have discovered a delicious secret: nationalism sells best when it has a rented villain. Real debate is boring—policy details don’t spike adrenaline. But a Pakistani panelist calling out “Modi’s India” or questioning national resolve? That’s pure adrenaline for the viewer, pure gold for the advertiser. Even when the outrage is half-manufactured, as in those viral clips featuring figures like Atta Mari Baloch (where fact-checkers revealed digital edits inserting mockery that never happened on air), the ecosystem laps it up. The clip fits the template perfectly: foreign insult + anchor fury + replay value = skyrocketing engagement.
Hamid Mir, the Pakistani journalist, once alleged that certain Indian anchors allegedly pay guests to “abuse India” for a few minutes, only to spend the rest of the segment bashing Pakistan in return— a neat little TRP tango where both sides win attention, and the audience gets its daily dose of righteous anger. Whether literally paid or not, the incentive is crystal clear: provocation pays. Domestic critics get the “anti-national” tag and the regulatory hammer; imported ones get airtime, polite interruptions, and a platform that boosts the show’s visibility.
These anchors, who lecture endlessly about “respect for institutions” and “national pride,” suddenly develop the tolerance of saints when the slur comes from across the border. A homegrown journalist questions farm laws or demonetization’s impact? “Urban Naxal!” “Toolkit gang!” But a Pakistani voice suggesting India’s progress is illusory or targeting the PM? “Let’s hear the other side, though we strongly disagree.” The spine, it seems, is remarkably flexible—stiff as steel against fellow Indians, jelly-soft against the “enemy” when TRPs beckon.
Watch closely: the format is as predictable as a Bollywood masala film. Loud anchor in the centre, token opposition voice (quickly shouted down), hyper-patriotic panelists, and the pièce de résistance—the Pakistani guest. The anchor interrupts everyone except when the guest delivers the money shot of abuse. Then, magically, the show “continues” because “we must expose their mentality.” Expose? Or exploit?
This is nationalism as content strategy, not conviction. The same voices who demand bans on books, films, or social media posts that “hurt sentiments” treat prime-time Pakistani bashing as harmless entertainment. “It improves TRP,” they might shrug privately. And it does. Sensationalism drives viewership; confrontation creates clips that go viral on YouTube and WhatsApp, feeding the algorithm beast. Meanwhile, genuine criticism from within—nuanced, evidence-based, even patriotic in intent—gets painted as sedition. The message is loud: abuse from “them” is useful spectacle; questions from “us” are dangerous dissent.
The irony deepens when you notice how these channels trumpet their love for the armed forces, cultural pride, and “Ek Bharat, Shreshtha Bharat.” Yet they willingly turn their studios into echo chambers where anti-India voices from Pakistan get amplified for commercial gain. It’s like inviting the rival team’s cheerleaders to your victory parade and then acting shocked when they boo your captain. The outrage is real for the audience; the calculation is coldly professional for the producers. Even fabricated clips thrive because the audience has been conditioned to expect nightly humiliation rituals—real or edited—to fuel the fire.
The government, quick to act against digital platforms spreading “misinformation” or criticism, shows remarkable restraint here. Advisories against Pakistani panelists do surface occasionally—especially after security incidents—but the pattern persists because the format is addictive. Channels chase ratings in a crowded market where serious journalism costs more and delivers less immediate dopamine. Shouting matches are cheap to produce: no field reporters, no deep research, just heated voices and graphics. Add a Pakistani accent for exotic outrage, and voila—prime-time success.
These “nationalist” anchors aren’t defending the nation; they’re defending their market share. They wrap themselves in the tricolour while outsourcing provocation to keep the outrage economy humming. Domestic critics face the full might of regulatory scrutiny for “divisiveness”; foreign abusers get a seat at the table because they make the host look heroic by contrast. It’s a win-win for the channel: appear ultra-patriotic by battling the “enemy” on air, while raking in the metrics that matter to advertisers.
The real anti-national activity? Turning patriotism into a nightly soap opera where villains are rented, heroes are performative, and the audience is left angrier but none the wiser. Real national strength comes from robust debate, accountability, and self-reflection—not from curated confrontations that blur the line between enemy and entertainment.
When anchors who scream “Jai Hind!” the loudest are the same ones providing prime-time platforms for those who mock it, the satire writes itself. Nationalism isn’t supposed to need imported enemies to survive prime time. But in the TRP trenches of Indian television, it apparently does. The flags flutter, the drums roll, and the nation’s honour is… profitably defended.
Until the next episode, of course. Same time, same selective spine.