A little curiosity about the titles we casually throw around at public functions
Mathew Rongmei
Dimapur
Having attended quite a number of public programmes over the years, I have discovered that sometimes the most interesting part of a function happens before the main speaker even gets to the microphone. It is the introductions.
The master of ceremonies clears his throat, adjusts the microphone and begins: “May I now invite Sir George…” Sir George? I look around. Has George been knighted? Did the King secretly visit Nagaland? Or have we simply developed our own way of making a teacher sound more important?
Then, at another function, comes an entirely different introduction: “We are honoured to welcome the Lady Wife of the Hon’ble MLA…” Lady Wife? And before long, almost everyone important on the stage appears to be a “Chief Guest”.
After hearing these expressions often enough, I began to wonder whether we actually know what some of these words mean—or whether we simply like the sound of them. There is certainly no shortage of respect in Nagaland. Sometimes, perhaps, there is just a shortage of correct titles.
Let me begin with “Sir”, because this is one I hear particularly often in connection with teachers. We are perfectly comfortable saying, “Good morning, Sir,” “Sir, may I come in?” or “Thank you, Sir.” Nothing is wrong with that. But when a teacher is introduced from the stage as “Sir George”, we have entered slightly different territory.
In standard English, “Sir George” is not simply a more respectful version of “George”. It has a specific historical meaning. A man who has been formally knighted by the British monarch may use “Sir” before his first name—Sir David Attenborough or Sir Elton John, for example. So unless our schoolteacher George has recently received a sword tap on both shoulders from the King, perhaps “Mr George” or simply “Sir” will do.
The distinction is actually very simple. When speaking directly to the teacher, “Good morning, Sir” is perfectly appropriate. When referring to him by name, “Mr George” would normally be used, assuming George is his surname. If he has genuinely been knighted, then “Sir George” is correct. Three situations, three different uses. And no, respecting our teachers becomes no less meaningful because we don't turn them into British knights.
The funny thing is that nobody who says “Sir George” means any harm. It comes from respect. We are a society that likes to show respect to teachers, elders, public representatives and guests. When someone is standing on a stage before hundreds of people, we naturally want our language to rise to the occasion. Sometimes it rises a little too high.
We add “Hon’ble”, “respected”, “esteemed”, “distinguished” and “Sir” until a simple introduction becomes almost a paragraph. Perhaps the person's actual designation is already enough. MLA, Minister, Professor, Principal, Director or Deputy Commissioner—these are respectable designations by themselves.
Then there is my favourite: the “Lady Wife”. I have heard organisers introduce the wife of an elected representative as the “Lady Wife” of the MLA. I understand what they are trying to convey, but “Lady Wife” is not a standard English title. The wife of an MLA does not automatically become a “Lady”. Neither does the wife of a Minister or Chief Minister. She can simply be introduced as Mrs [Name], or by her own profession, position or public role. “We warmly welcome Mrs X, wife of the Hon’ble MLA” is perfectly respectful.
The word “Lady” has its own historical and formal uses. It should not become a universal substitute for “wife of an important man”. Otherwise, one day we may have “Lady Wife” of the village chairman, “Lady Wife” of the principal and perhaps even “Lady Wife” of the football coach. That would certainly make our public programmes colourful.
And then comes the great “Chief Guest”. This one is particularly interesting in Nagaland because the State has already had a very clear conversation about VIP culture. In April 2018, the PDA Government announced measures to curb the practice, with the Cabinet deciding that its members would abstain from attending functions as Chief Guests. Government officials and employees were also directed not to attend functions as chief guests. The broader idea was to move away from the culture of VIP treatment and elaborate ceremonial practices around public representatives and officials.
Yet, years later, the expression continues to appear on invitations, banners and programme sheets. Sometimes I suspect the organisers simply don't know. They are not necessarily trying to ignore government policy; they have probably attended hundreds of functions where the same expression was used, so they naturally use it themselves. Someone important walks in, the microphone goes on, and “Chief Guest” appears almost automatically.
But that is precisely why organisers should update themselves. The policy was not about disrespecting Ministers, MLAs or government officials. It was about changing the culture surrounding public functions. A Minister can attend a programme, an MLA can speak and an official can participate without necessarily being elevated to the status of a ceremonial VIP. They can be invited as participants, speakers, resource persons or simply dignitaries, depending on the nature of the programme and the applicable protocol.
I sometimes think microphones have a strange effect on us. Someone who normally speaks perfectly ordinary English suddenly becomes extremely ceremonial: “On this auspicious and momentous occasion, we are deeply honoured and privileged to welcome our most respected, distinguished, esteemed and honourable…” By the time the introduction ends, I have sometimes forgotten the person's name.
Perhaps we should relax a little. A public function does not become grander because its vocabulary becomes complicated. A good master of ceremonies really needs to know only three things: who the person is, what the correct designation is and what protocol applies. Everything else is decoration.
I am not suggesting that we stop respecting our guests. Far from it. Hospitality and respect are deeply woven into Naga culture. But respect does not necessarily mean putting someone on a pedestal. A public representative is elected to serve the public. A government officer is appointed to serve the public. A teacher teaches. A professor teaches and researches. Their actual roles are already important. We don't need to manufacture additional titles for them.
Perhaps that is also the spirit behind the State's move away from VIP culture: less ceremony, more substance.
Before the next big programme, perhaps organisers could spend five minutes checking the introductions. Is it “Sir George” or “Mr George”? Is she actually entitled to be called “Lady”, or is she simply “Mrs X”? Is the invited Minister supposed to be called “Chief Guest”, or should the programme follow the State's anti-VIP protocol?
These may appear to be small things, but public language matters. Words tell us how we understand authority, status and even our relationship with the people we invite to our functions.
And perhaps the next time I hear an emcee announce, “Please welcome Sir George, the Lady Wife of our Chief Guest,” I will have to resist the temptation to look around for a crown, a sword and a royal carriage.
Because sometimes, in our effort to sound important, we make perfectly ordinary things wonderfully complicated.
Maybe we should simply get the titles right—and let the programme itself do the talking.
