The television screen displayed a succession of young and attractive ladies emerging from what had to be an `undressing' room. With an unsmiling, devil-may-care countenance, each commenced a perambulation and pirouette on a straight, narrow platform -- the ramp.

Intrinsic beauty had been rendered redundant by cosmetics dexterity. Their uniform expressions of disdain was understandable -- the exercise is called hauter couture or something equally unpronounceable.

I pitied them. For, they had a common physical affliction that denied them the unalloyed pleasure of a normal gait and forced them to almost trip over the front foot at each step.

On either side of the ramp was an audience of droolers, some goggle-eyed shutterbugs, and swarms of unrestrained weirdo. I would have taken it in my stride had it not been for a distracting observation. Each young lady was wearing an outfit that could not be particularised. In fact, there wasn't enough of it to particularise. Fortunately, I was in the company of an understanding and knowledgeable friend, patient enough to explain each baffling feature. The friend steadied me on those increasingly frequent occasions when I lapsed into open-mouthed wonder.

My curiosity about what these ladies were attempting to gain was short-lived. I soon learned they were engaged in a "campaign".

However, anyone with a modicum of honesty would prefer describing it as an exhibitionist's stroll down Oglers' Lane. Since they wore little more than their skins, and since so little of their anatomies was left to imagination, this might be the ideal place for one entirely devoid of sight. Then, there was the incessant jostling of the camera that made viewing difficult. I assumed that the cameraman was being tossed around by the excited audience.

A rap on the knuckles with the remote and I was told about this new technique of photography to keep the viewer in a continuum of high trauma to create an abiding interest in the proceedings. The high-frequency jerks, the rapid panning, the blurring sweeps, the alarmingly fast zooming, the multi-image lenses designed to leave you cross-eyed, the overlapped and doubly-exposed images, and a host of other wonders of modern technology are part of this latest shock-inducing methodology.

We had come a long way, since producing images so crisp and clear that even the blind might almost have `seen' them. After their individual bit, the bevy of ladies then appeared on the ramp all together (almost in the all together), accompanied by a person of indetermineable sex. A cautious inquiry revealed it was a female. I decided to go along with his tall claim. I was informed that this entity of doubtful humanity and indeterminate gender was mainly responsible for the shocking apparel donned by the ladies. She was a `fashion designer.'

Her appearance was jubilation time in the audience. Flanked by two of the more scantily clad ladies, whom she hugged patronisingly, she pranced frivolously along the ramp, waving here or throwing kisses there. She took the bow and the blame. I complimented her for her courage. This final conglomeration of pulchritude concluded that segment of the show, giving the channel a well-deserved respite.

I was in a state of dazed awe. Deciding it was more than I could stand, my friend switched over to that channel showing creatures performing excited gyrations to a certain trying, periodic noise called a beat.

But for my friend's act, I might have dissolved in tears. The intrinsic entertainment value of the new channel effectively restored my composure. My present condition is a tragedy. I see things where there aren't, and none where there are. On the street the other day, I asked a casual female acquaintance what I still consider an innocent question. But such is our impulsiveness in judging our fellow-creatures, that she promptly landed me one in the region of my left ear. She might have persisted in her efforts had it not been for the timely, intervention of a couple of bystanders. Such incidents have been occurring with uncanny regularity of late. It's only a matter of time before I land in hospital with a fair assortment of broken limbs.

I have wasted a fortune on doctors' fees and the medication prescribed. I now hold a record of sorts, having become the first patient to visit a dozen ophthalmologists, earning me a visit by a nice gentlemen from Guinness.

I have even tried a witch doctor nestled high in Siwaliks. So strong was the influence of my condition on him that he has abandoned his flourishing practice to accompany me home. If you happen to spot two dazed individuals encouragingly coaxing one another, while expertly dodging fisticuffs, be warned. It's us! I am convinced that the disappearance of this channel will finally heal me.

Readers suffering from similar symptoms may close ranks in appealing to the Information & Broadcasting Ministry if not to stop its distribution, at least to make a statutory health warning compulsory. Failing that, we could supplicate the aid of the sublime authorities, like our local cable operator, for the much-needed relief. We might even ungrudgingly concede the distribution of yet another channel inspiring us with more of those admirably persistent, interminable gyrations to an other- worldly beat.