Ialways thought parenting was the most thankless job in the world—until I started compering public functions. For free. Being an emcee (Master of Ceremonies), you are the official host of a ceremony and have to be on your toes, always. You would be given the programme sheet in advance, and you would have prepared accordingly. You would think everything is under your control.
Then one of the organisers whispers: “There is a slight change in the programme.” Your heart sinks. Now, live events are notorious for having “slight” hiccups: Experience has taught you that “slight change” is the mother of all troubles. The rhythm would be lost. Adding to the woes, your lone contact point in the whole melee is nowhere to be seen. The emcee is flustered. No wonder, poor MOC souls at star-studded functions are left holding the wrong end, and ridiculed relentlessly, for no fault of theirs.
It is worse when the chief guest is a VIP (a minister for example). There will be a minimum of 20 speakers to offer felicitations on such occasions. You would have a tough time matching the names and faces—an emcee has to be alert while the welcome speech is going on to identify the absentees as well—and the VIP will be the last to arrive and the first to leave. Then comes the last-minute changes to accommodate that person’s whims and fancies. Your carefully prepared script is meaningless now.
The cruellest cut of them all is yet to come: The chief guest departs and so does the major chunk on the dais. You cannot, obviously. Another torture is when all the speakers plunge into lengthy speeches. One by one the audience flee. Once there was this Brahmanda Garjanam which turned out to be not even a weak whimper. But the organisers were very brave and at the end of the programme at 10 pm, only two were left—the sleepy mikewalah and the ever-pleasant announcerwali.
But even on such occasions when the helpless face of the emcee is too visible to be omitted, they would forget to mention or thank the braveheart. I have heard that the job of the emcee is to be ‘invisible’ and make everyone else the ‘stars’, but who imagined it would be taken too literally! Sometimes, for special occasions, one may be required to even research and present a brilliant literary piece. A paid professional may not mind not being thanked but when the compering is done for friendship, it hurts. “Then why do you do it?” is the question put to me quite often. I don’t know. Maybe I love to hear my voice, in spite of being Mostly Omitted Conveniently.
Dr Lalitha Ramakrishnan
Email: maashu1@gmail.com