Atishoo! My sneezometer had just shattered the hell out of me. The last thing I needed was to sound like a wild boar with a cold on local radio. Was there a choice? Not with a colleague screaming ‘‘Bless you’’ and shoving me out of the comfort of a newsroom. Having reached the RED FM office, I wanted to be anywhere but inside the studio, with or without my co-host Jose (pronounced Ho-say). Drive, the show, my virgin attempt at radio jockeying without a script was driving me insane. Jose’s endearments, which stretched from dude (for some strange reason) to psycho didn’t help. What the heck? It was the eve of International Women’s Day — it’s time dude got unisex. Before there was time to mull over the inherit masculinity in the word psycho, Jose put me on air. Yeah, he made waves. Having announced that I wasn’t anti-men to all those tuned into 93.5 FM, I was hoping some men would call to pronounce the importance of Women’s Day, how they love listening to radio, their undying love, how Hoshay sounds better than Hosay and so on. No such luck. I was at the mercy of a wailing Jose. ‘‘It’s Jose not Hoshe,’’ he yelped, attacking me for having mispronounced his name, once the Adnan ditty Aye udi udi blasted on air. Next, I’m told that I have to create a contest so that listeners could win free passes to Mikanos the next day. Dil to pagal hai crooned Lata Mangeshkar, while my heart did the salsa. But on second thoughts, it might just be fun to decide the fate of some poor bloke’s Saturday night. Rubbing my hands with a sudden, wicked cheer I went into Robbie Williams mode. So what if I let the caller Aishwarya get off easy? Jeez, how tough was identifying a famous song from Escapology — the Rock DJ’s latest album when she was given a multiple choice option! But we had another pass to give away, which meant another contest and it weighed like a bucket of lead. Jose kept reassuring me that we were doing great on the show (it’s just three links for heaven’s sake!) and even called me a ‘‘sexy journalist’’ on air. Now some people take compliments with a pinch of salt and I grab the whole salt shaker. Jose’s statement was enough to jam my inbox with juvenile smses from those who still believe in cricket. The ‘Hey Lolly maiden over,’ ‘Okay stump him’ variety. I convinced several hysteric smsers that this is radio jockey lingo. Jose had just asked several other women why they sounded so sexy on the phone to make them happy. Now that we’re on the subject of what a radio jockey does. For all those who believed that an RJ is the Lord and master of musicdom. He is. On his frequency. Okay programmers, production lot, marketing herd, stop gnashing those jaws! It’s just too bad that you don’t have a good enough voice to be an rj or ‘‘chose’’ not to go on air. A radio jockey talks 2000 words per five minutes, mends broken hearts, flatters crushed egos, makes up contests, plays requests by the click of a mouse and plays telephone operator-cum-traffic updater-cum cricket commentator. Now for some wake up calls. The floor of the studio does not resemble a snake park. No wires and no wicked gizmos to make you look like a techno freak in the studio. Just headphones, microphone, a sleek comp that displays the playlist and you’re ready to take stock of Mumbai’s music scene. Here I was, finally ready to take stock and a women’s activist walks into the studio. One more ‘segment’ of the International Women’s Day celebrations. The world did revolve around Eve. For two whole days.
