Comedy and tragedy are intrinsically tied together: Comedy disarms tragedy and tragedy informs comedy, something that has been thoroughly documented by leading comedic scholars. The comedy scene in the United States — and the rest of the world — is dominated by communities translating their pain into puns. But with the advent of the internet and increased globalization, comedy from peoples’ homelands is transforming the comedy of the diaspora in the United States. And the country leading this charge is none other than India.
Last year, one of the most watched comedians was neither a “Saturday Night Live” star nor a “Daily Show” graduate. It was Vir Das, an Indian comedian who performs for both Desis at home and the diasporas abroad. Though some of the statistics are padded by the huge numbers India brings as the most populated country in the world, Das’ 2023 Emmy win solidified the notion that he holds cultural capital. And it isn’t just limited to him: Zakir Khan just headlined a sold-out show at Madison Square Garden that was completely in Hindi. This exchange goes both ways: The diaspora from the United States is resonating with the Indian market in unfathomable ways.
But is this cultural shift necessarily a good thing?
Indian comedy has historically been built on the ideals of liberal progressivism and subversive dialogue which has shaped much of art generally: scathing cartoons were used to fight British colonialism, Manto’s scathing satire shaped the memories of Partition and in the ensuing communitarianism and civic discourse in India post-1947, comedy was used to critique corruption, jingoism and wealth inequality. In India’s history, and history overall, art has always been a way to self-reflect and comment on society in a way that pushes society forward.
When YouTube was invented in 2005, stand-up became global. It came to India, and South Asian comedy was never the same.
From All India Bakchod (AIB) to Aisi Taisi Democracy to East India Comedy, the digital world sent India into a comedy frenzy — an India that was rapidly liberalizing into a global economy with dime to spend. As audiences were introduced to this novel form, stand-up became the hottest cultural commodity. And beyond just being new, Indian stand-up became cool. It was self-critical and self-aware, advocating for a better India with every laugh. It became an ecosystem and an industry, and it started bringing in the big bucks. But somewhere in the twenty years between then and now, the comedy market became more saturated and competitive.
As India’s crackdown on free speech and increased censorship has pushed Indian stand-up out of its safe bubble of liberalism, Indian comedy has begun to undergo a second, more morally ambiguous transformation. From AIB’s #MeToo downfall to the misogyny of Zakir Khan, Indian stand-up has become a lot more nuanced than just the edgy kids fighting for civic equality.
No longer are comedians punching up and deconstructing patriarchy or religious extremism — instead they are perpetuating it. With the recent Riyadh Comedy Festival — which functioned as an overt propaganda tool for a regime marred by human rights abuses — being dominated by Indian and Indian American comedians, Indian stand-up must reckon with the question: Was the Indian comedy revolution a good thing?
As someone who spent years watching (and loving!) stand-up in India and then again in the United States, I was determined to find an answer. My quest led me to Hasan Minhaj’s latest comedy tour, featuring fellow Asian American “Daily Show” alum Ronny Chieng, titled “Hasan Hates Ronny | Ronny Hates Hasan.”
Now, don’t get me wrong — I love Minhaj, I really do. I’ve got a bootleg copy of the Netflix-removed Patriot Act episode about Saudi Arabia to prove it. But there was something about the show’s jokes that felt lazy. Instead of the brilliant, intelligent satire I’d come to expect from comedians of Chieng and Minhaj’s caliber, I was blasted with racial stereotype joke after racial stereotype joke. The “East Asian women love white men” bit got boring after the fifth time. By the time we got to the end, I’d moved on from being uncomfortable (and not in the good way) to bored.
The show itself is a scripted debate between Chieng, representing Asians (but really just East Asia — presumably poking fun at the fact that many people think East Asians are the only kind of Asians), and Minhaj, representing the proud South Asians. It’s moderated by an AI device that is a caricature of Siri satirizing the tech bros of the Silicon Valley that, unfortunately, all kinds of Asians are all too familiar with. This is a questionable premise in and of itself and can veer into blatant racism. But I’d (foolishly) trusted Minhaj and Chieng to steer us into the territory of cleverness rather than craziness.
Unfortunately, I found no answer to my dilemma on Indian comedy beyond anything I wouldn’t find in a second-grader’s “yo mama” joke. It left me feeling disheartened. It left me feeling aimless. It left me feeling like the state of Indian stand-up today.Yes, there is some great satire coming out of the South Asian subcontinent from the likes of Kunal Kamra and Manjeet Sarkar. But the truth of the matter is this: The time of Indian comedy has arrived. But while we were busy laughing, have we been left behind?
