Homework Not Done.

         Whether it’s a surgeon doing a complicated surgery or a housekeeping sahayak sweeping from meticulously from corner to cobweb, I admire people who do their jobs perfectly, mostly thanks to years of training and diligent practice.

Some are born with talents and skills superior to the rest of us. 

I envy, for example, those who can hold the attention of an audience with endless behind-the-mike budbud whilst waiting for a late-comer VIP, or when the technicians can’t figure out why their wires/ sound systems/ computers/ bulbs aren’t behaving. Some are exceptionally good at inane chatter that keeps people from getting bored, even at company Annual Day functions.

Punn, nothing comes easily. To be a good MC, like in sugley professions, even the talented need to slog at homework. One needs to recall apt jokes and quotes when occasion demands, the presence of mind to use them correctly and the patience and stamina to carry the show so that the audience doesn’t a) snore or b) pelt obscenities (or handy missiles) at the stage.

Every time I see the fair quality of compering these days, even at wedding functions, I feel that the honing of that talent is one of the outcomes of watching television programs. Other good outcomes of watching tv are: you get to travel the world without putting shoes on your feet, learn unpronounceable recipes, watch stale movies without spending a paisa (when was the last time you read this word?), make your local ophthalmologist rich and never suffer from insomnia.

         Where was I? Haan, last week was one of the rare times I attended a ticketed, crowded Bollywood type program. Might not be tempted to attend one again.

         The program was to begin at 1830 hrs. It didn’t. About an hour later, the MC introduced herself (30 seconds) and told us that the program would begin with local talent in a couple of minutes. For the next hour, along with some eight hundred others, I watched the musicians playing around with their instruments whilst the mikes transmitted dreadful squawks over and across the Campal grounds. I waddled (bad knees combined with February sea-breeze) to the MC and told her that she needed to be on the mike, that it wasn’t right to keep us in the dark (literally, for this was out of doors).

She limped to the mike (empathising with my bad-knees-sea-breeze pain) after twenty minutes, to welcome on-stage two ‘fantastic, Goan, local talents’ whose singing was messed up because the mikes/ mixer/ speaker/ something scratched and hissed. Some important-looking guy passing by our row said the weather was responsible, that the sound system had behaved when the sun was still around.

Many minutes after the singing-duo went away, the MC returned to tell us to wait for “.. a couple of minutes… before (we) could start rocking”. Nothing happened.

Some thirty angry people walked to the stage and demanded their money back.

The MC went on-stage and asked us, the audience: “… (VIP) hasn’t come, what am I to do?”

Someone shouted “you sing”. Someone repeated “reeefund, reeefund”. Silly questions warrant matching answers.

Most chanted the name of the Bollywood singer, wanting him on-stage immediately.

Next chook: “… the delay is because someone’s left his bass guitar at the airport”. (Imagine someone telling a patient that his operation was getting delayed because a surgeon’s assistant had misplaced a favourite scalpel.) 

Tisree chook: “You must be patient. People once waited eight hours for the Beatles.” Maybe the MC employed by the Beatles or the organizers had a fantastic repertoire of funny stories and the ability to tell them brilliantly. Maybe he could narrate anecdotes about the Beatles. Our MC, if she knew anything about films, lyrics, composers, or the recent Filmfare awards connected with the VIP singer, she kept it secret from us.

Annee ek gem: “You must respect artists.” Hain? How about organisers respecting audiences and their time? Indians are forgiving. Delays of 15 minutes are expected, 30 minutes considered ‘ok’, but over an hour and a half?

Events have last minute hitches. An empty refrain of “… won’t we rock?” doesn’t make amends.

Finally, VIP aiylo anni paya padlo, filmi style, crouching, knees and forehead on floor. Then he wove ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry’ into the words of the first song he sang, delighting Youngistan.

The equipment gave trouble; yet the singer and his instrumentalists entertained effortlessly. Practice and professionalism paid dividends. Those guys had done their homework well.