When you retire, companionship comes in many forms.

When you retire, companionship comes in many forms. For some, it’s the television. For others, it’s books, music, or the ever-present mobile phone. So when one fine evening your trusted VU 55-inch TV suddenly displayed nothing but vertical lines, your heart naturally skipped a beat. In panic, you shot off a late-night email to VU. Morning brought hope—and promptly took it away. Customer care politely redirected you to WhatsApp, and the WhatsApp response read like a digital condolence message: “Dear Customer, your model is 5 years old, parts are out of stock. A chargeable technician visit can be arranged. It will only cover the visit.” Meanwhile, you turned to the parallel universe of local mechanics. One quoted ₹200 for a home visit and possible ₹5,000 for parts. By late evening, two young mechanics landed up—just when you had nearly resigned yourself to the idea of replacing the TV and draining your savings a bit more than planned. They assured you they would “try their best” to save you from an unplanned expense bordering a lakh rupees. You didn’t know them—just a number stored long ago from a shop in RK Puram—and you quietly laughed at their confidence. After all, “experts” had already declared the panel dead and said it would take two days to source a new one. But these two? They opened the TV with the calm of surgeons. In minutes, the electronic card was out, and they were soldering components with the focus of neurospecialists. Tea and biscuits kept them company as they worked. Gradually, you felt they had reached the bottom of the malady. And sure enough, after assiduously putting in their best, they flipped the switch— and the TV sprang back to life, brightly flashing the latest news you had missed for 24 hours. The conundrum remains: How did the OEM throw up its hands, citing “no parts,” while these two repaired the set in one hour for ₹4,500, all the while insisting that their visiting charge would be only ₹200 if they failed? It is this jugaad, this unassuming brilliance, that keeps retired people like us afloat in an age where gadgets fail quicker than our patience. And as the young men packed their tools and slipped on their dusty sandals, they left behind more than a functioning TV. They left behind a reminder that in a world ruled by automated replies and scripted customer care, there still exist people who show up with sincerity, skill, and heart. My TV was repaired. But more importantly, so was a small part of my faith in the goodness of ordinary people. May their tribe increase—and may the light they bring into living rooms and into hearts never fade.