Given a chance, I would love to host a television show as I have

Host: The television studio was half-lit — a cathedral of cables, cameras, and echoes. Red and green indicator lights blinked in the dark like small, patient eyes. Beyond the glass wall, the control room glowed with the soft pulse of monitors — screens looping faces, words, and laughter from earlier rehearsals.

Jack sat on the edge of the stage, his suit jacket off, microphone still clipped to his collar. His reflection wavered on the polished floor, fractured by light. The audience seats were empty now, just rows of silence. Across from him, Jeeny stood near the teleprompter, script in hand, flipping pages idly.

The air smelled faintly of makeup, electricity, and the last remnants of applause.

Jeeny: “You look like someone who’s trying to decide whether to stay or walk away.”

Jack: “You ever notice how quiet a studio feels after the lights go off? Like the room’s trying to remember what laughter sounded like.”

Jeeny: “That’s because television is an illusion of company. You talk to millions — but end the night alone.”

Jack: “Still beats talking to no one.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “You sound like Puneet Issar. He once said, ‘Given a chance, I would love to host a television show as I have good communication skills and am fluent in Hindi, English and Urdu.’”

Jack: “A man fluent in three languages — and still chasing one thing: connection.”

Jeeny: “Isn’t that what this business is? Every word, every gesture — a bridge toward someone you’ll never meet.”

Host: The overhead lights hummed back to life for a moment, flickering across the stage. Dust motes rose in the golden air — fragments of light pretending to be alive.

Jack: “You think communication is an art or a survival skill?”

Jeeny: “Both. Artists use it to reach souls. Survivors use it to be seen.”

Jack: “And which one am I?”

Jeeny: “Depends on whether you’re still talking or actually saying something.”

Host: He chuckled softly, rubbing a hand across his face — that tired laugh of someone who had said too much to too many and meant it only half the time.

Jack: “You know what I love about Issar’s quote? It’s humble. Simple. No ambition to dominate — just to connect. That’s rare now.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Everyone wants a platform. Few remember what a host is — a vessel, not a spotlight.”

Jack: “Exactly. A host’s job isn’t to be heard. It’s to make others speak.”

Jeeny: “You think you could do that?”

Jack: “Maybe. But it takes empathy to listen in three languages — and silence in all of them.”

Host: The sound of rain began to drum faintly on the studio roof, slow and steady. It filled the spaces between their words like a third presence.

Jeeny: “You ever notice how real conversation feels like translation?”

Jack: “How so?”

Jeeny: “Because we’re always trying to translate what we feel into what others can understand. Language just gives it structure.”

Jack: “And misunderstanding gives it drama.”

Jeeny: “Which is why television will never die.”

Host: She walked across the stage, her heels echoing lightly, and stopped by the camera at center frame.

Jeeny: “This thing,” she said, patting the side of it, “it doesn’t just record faces. It records longing — the human ache to be witnessed.”

Jack: “You make it sound spiritual.”

Jeeny: “It is. Every performer prays through performance. Every host hopes someone out there is listening.”

Jack: “And when no one is?”

Jeeny: “They keep talking anyway. Because silence is worse.”

Host: The rain intensified, a soothing percussion against the metal beams. The empty seats seemed to listen too — the ghosts of past audiences, still curious, still waiting.

Jack: “You know, I think that’s why Issar wanted to host — not to perform, but to connect. He wanted to translate humanity for people in their own language.”

Jeeny: “And he could. You can feel that kind of sincerity. It’s not charisma. It’s clarity.”

Jack: “You think that’s what makes a good communicator? Clarity?”

Jeeny: “No. Compassion. Clarity makes you understood. Compassion makes you remembered.”

Host: He nodded, eyes falling on the stage floor where tape marks still glowed under the soft light — tiny Xs guiding performers who’d stood there before him.

Jack: “You know, when the lights are on, you forget those marks exist. But they’re what keep you in frame.”

Jeeny: “That’s communication too — invisible structure holding meaning in place.”

Jack: “You ever wonder if words can betray us?”

Jeeny: “All the time. But sometimes, the betrayal is beautiful.”

Jack: “Meaning?”

Jeeny: “Meaning that sometimes we say more than we intend — and that’s when truth sneaks out.”

Host: She looked up at the control room — empty, quiet, the red ON AIR light dead.

Jeeny: “You think we ever stop performing?”

Jack: “Only when no one’s left to listen.”

Jeeny: “So, never.”

Host: He laughed, softly this time, the kind that carried fatigue and fondness in equal measure.

Jack: “Maybe Issar had it right. Hosting isn’t about performance — it’s about presence. Being there, fully, for whoever steps into your frame.”

Jeeny: “That’s rare. Most people wait for their turn to speak. A host listens like it’s oxygen.”

Jack: “And speaks like it’s gratitude.”

Host: The rain eased. The studio lights dimmed again, returning everything to half-shadow.

Jeeny: “You know, language is the first mirror we ever hold to ourselves. Every word reveals where we come from.”

Jack: “And every silence reveals what we miss.”

Jeeny: “You’d be a good host, Jack.”

Jack: “You think so?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because you don’t speak to impress — you speak to understand.”

Jack: “That’s the only way to be heard.”

Host: Outside, the night glowed faintly with streetlights reflected on wet pavement. The studio felt less like a workplace now and more like a confessional — where words didn’t just fill air, but healed it.

Jeeny gathered her notes, smiled once more, and said quietly:

Jeeny: “If language is power, empathy is fluency.”

Jack: “And if connection is art, then listening is the masterpiece.”

Host: She left. He stood there a moment longer, staring into the empty camera — its dark glass eye waiting patiently, like truth itself.

And as the rain softened into silence, Puneet Issar’s words lingered, gentle and sincere:

“Given a chance, I would love to host a television show as I have good communication skills and am fluent in Hindi, English and Urdu.”

Because mastery of language is not about words —
it’s about bridges.

And the best hosts, the best humans,
are not those who command attention,
but those who make others feel heard.

For every voice that fills the silence,
there’s another, waiting quietly,
just hoping someone out there
knows how to listen.