Potus has fallen down

The pilot episode of The West Wing is one of the finest openings in the history of television. Creator Aaron Sorkin catapults us into the action. Sam Seaborn—a brilliant, if slightly dishevelled White House Deputy Communications Director—wakes up with a woman he barely knows. Still bleary-eyed and half-charmed, he is caught off-guard when she, having accidentally checked his messages, informs him that "Potus is in a bicycle accident." Sam rushes to his feet urgently, while she says, "Tell your friend Potus that he's got a funny name." "I would," Sam replies, "but he's not my friend, he's my boss. And it's not his name, it's his title." Vaulting out the door, he shoots her a look: "President Of The United States."

- RAJA SEN

This, we realise, is not just a work drama, nor a mere political thriller. With The West Wing, Aaron Sorkin gave us a White House where the President and his staff are humanised, nuanced, occasionally confused, but always brimming with energy and idealism.

Only Sorkin could have conjured a show with such intellectual velocity, one that celebrates the strength of wit, intelligence, and humour over sensationalism. From the opening moments, The West Wing offers a masterclass in the rhythm of dialogue, words cascading over one another in a quick, almost musical manner, as if every syllable matters because—well, it does. Here, words are more than words; they're the machinery of democracy, the wheels of government greased by the brilliance of those who wield them.