There’s a perfect world made of love and tears out there. You have only to reach out to your remote.

I watched Bigg Boss the other night for one full hour. It had Rakhi Sawant, with the other contestants, model Carol Gracias and actors Rahul Roy and Ravi Kishen, all cross-dressing. Which made Rakhi Sawant a man. Which was an act of sheer fantasy.

She seemed to like it. She was in S&M mode and repeatedly assaulted Ravi Kishen, the superstar of Bhojpuri films, who was bejewelled and in a sari and seemed to like it too. I had a suspicion that she was wearing a schoolgirl’s uniform underneath.

It was complex, tres complex. To decode such behaviour, you have to read Jung’s Anima Theory and How It Relates to Cross-dressing. Then Rakhi was thrown out of the “House” (and Rahul Roy won it on Sunday and the entire family of Ravi Kishen sobbed on camera).

Bigg Boss was quite different from the original Big Brother, said a visitor from abroad, who looked shaken. But the biggest difference, he said, was how “nice” the Indians were.

When Rakhi was thrown out, everyone hugged, kissed and went teary-eyed over her. It was so beautiful and lyrical, though she had been looked down on as a declasse item number. Plus it was clear some had a problem with her English, if not with her speaking.

Which makes me feel that the point of Indian reality contests is to prove that the Indian national character is nice, at bottom. And very teary. Because it is so on Indian reality shows, whose reality is much more real than the reality of everyday life; ask anyone who has lived from evening to evening watching Sanchita win her Lil’ Champs crown.

So much niceness makes me feel uncomfortable and Rakhi Sawant going away was only a mild example. What I positively dread is the talent shows. Once I was asked to find out what difference the consumption of glycerine on the sets of saas-bahu soaps was making to the glycerine manufacturing industry. I could not probe the story, but the most unnerving thing about Indian talent shows is that the tears are all real.

When the time comes on a particular day to announce the name of the person who is going to be booted out, my heart starts to beat. Not in anticipation of the name, but of the tears. As soon as the name is announced, the person concerned explodes into tears. His or her parents, seated among the audience, also explode into tears. Even that is somewhat understandable, though perhaps in the case of a child contestant, a mother fainting in grief because her daughter didn’t win makes me feel a little pukey. But I control my urges, only to find that all the other contestants are also exploding into tears.

On a dance show, the viewer finds it difficult to understand if a couple has been voted out or not, because both couples cry equally hard. Then the couple still in heaps praise upon praise on the outgoing couple — so that you wouldn’t know why they were voted out in the first place. The couple voted out would stress that the show was the biggest thing that had happened to them in their lives and bawl. Then sometimes the judges join in.

It’s the same with children’s shows. Children being so good, so fair, so understanding is as hard to digest as their adult make-up, clothes and accessories. Why can’t someone show that he is happy that the other person is gone? But we Indians are so nice, we don’t feel that way on our reality shows, which are more real than reality.

The wave of politeness on Indian TV — and goodness of heart — possibly started with Amitabh Bachchan on Kaun Banega Crorepati, when he would remain resolutely decorous even when the contestant facing him would exhaust all his lifelines if he had two lungs or four, and then get it wrong.

It’s the exact opposite of what happens in the UK, where last year I spent two lonely months watching afternoon TV. There would be reality show after bizarre reality show — and the point of it all would be being horrid to others. One had two women swapping their houses and families for a week and saying terrible things about her new husband, children and even the dog.

Everyone would specialise in saying awful things about the others. I still remember the look on the face of the lady who had gushed over everything at the house of an attractive young man and almost made a pass at him. But out in the car, she gave him 3 out of 10 and hissed: “Too nice.” I would like to know what she would have to say if she saw our talent shows.

And now they are saying those awful things about Shilpa Shetty on Celebrity Big Brother. I doubt whether we would be able to say half of that about a Black person on an Indian reality show; we won’t be able to call him “You Blackie, you brute”, as Suchitra Sen classically abused Uttam Kumar in Saptapadi, though we may still feel like that. In fact, I don’t think I can visualise an Indian reality show with a Black person at all.

Yet the British are so well-behaved in public life and we Indians get arrested on international flights for bad behaviour. The repressed side of the national character must be just coming out on reality shows.

But which is better, to be nice in reality, or on reality shows? Which is more real, reality, or reality shows? I am confused now. Complex, tres complex.

chandrima@abpmail.com