Obviously, there is a place for politics in comedy. But the comic rationale should not be compromised by single-minded nationalistic – or 'anti-nationalistic' – rhetoric.
A still from Vir Das's 'Two Indias' video.
“I think capital punishment works great. Every killer you kill never kills again.”
When comedian Bill Maher rants against the American establishment, his speech is carefully filtered through persistent and unyielding satire. Maher’s comic career has been built on pulling down senators and presidents many notches; his TV show Politically Incorrect hits out at all sacred subjects; he is critical of the left, the right, even the centre. With his vicious brand of humour, he blasts the US for its racism, its war-mongering machinery and blatant consumerism. “The true evil in America,” he says, “is the brilliance of our marketing combined with the stupidity of our people.”
By comparison, Indian stand-up can sometimes be a comedy of errors. The recent performance by comedian Vir Das in Washington called ‘Two Indias’ caused more distress than laughter when it rushed headlong into the staccato-like comparison between good and bad India. With statements like, “We worship women by day and gang-rape them by night”, the monologue addressed issues of gender, politics, COVID-19 and others, managing to raise the hackles of both right-leaning Hindu nationalists as well as ‘Khan Market liberals’. More than that, it threw up the more critical question: Was the Kennedy Center show satire, comedy or just plain political bluster?
Satire and stand-up practiced in the US, France and Denmark certainly call on comedians to be similarly ruthless in their criticism. Cartoons of the Prophet, Christ as a convict, the president as a brothel madam – there is no subject out of bounds. Dirty lyrics have been added to the ‘Star-Spangled Banner’, the American national anthem, so it can be performed in porn clubs and underground bars. During the #MeToo Movement, comedians suggested an official ‘Harassment Day’, when executives could openly express sexual desire to co-workers, without repercussions.
Indian humour, however, is either staid or malicious – neither fulfilling its prophecy of laughter nor commenting effectively on societal blunders. With the old Sardarji jokes dead and buried, the pungency of satire is still shamelessly missing in stand-up comedy. Das’s content and delivery to a largely Indian audience at the Kennedy Center was not a comic rendition but a blunt, frontal attack – an effective messaging tool in a culture that rarely reads between the lines. It was to Das’s credit that he understood this flaw and turned to ramming the incendiary material down Indian ear drums, invective, vitriol and all.
Sadly, his blistering tirade mistook political stand for comic interpretation. The Washington audience was clearly mesmerised because the words were spoken in a monotonic rant, without the mildest cloak of humour – a convenient ploy used by politicians to amplify a simplistic message. Transgressing into the more familiar terrain of a political rally, the awkward alliance between the intended performance of humour and actual performance of politics may even have left some people disappointed. Those who paid $15/seat for an evening of laughter should have been allowed their money back.
Obviously, there is a place for politics in comedy. But the comic rationale should not be compromised by single-minded nationalistic – or ‘anti-nationalistic’ – rhetoric. Could it be that one of the reasons some Indian stand-up comics have legal cases slapped on them is that when they constantly – and sometimes tactlessly – make a political point, the state ends up treating them in as intolerant a fashion as it treats dissidents, activists and opposition politicians? Of course, resorting to more nuanced satire – sheltering within understatement and irony while condemning current Indian views and practices – may still not keep the politicians and the troll brigade at bay, and the lawyers at a safe distance.
Still, the more insular Indian society becomes, the more religion enters politics, and the more curbs placed on people and speech, the greater the subject range for the comic. Indian audiences are starved of entertainment that makes you think, laugh, respond and react in discomfort. So far, neither Bollywood nor stand-up comedy has been able to provide it. Till such time that the country could do with a few lessons in self-criticism, Indian comedians should be provided an official license to offend, hurt and insult with carefree abandon – a licence that can be regularly renewed by the government Department of Corrective Humiliation. They should be granted a stay of execution to do their work as effectively as possible. After all, it is only they who can set the moral standard back on track.
True satire however has a vivid history. In the 18th century, Irish author Jonathan Swift wrote A Modest Proposal, a story suggesting that poor people should sell their children to the rich for food. The tale went into elaborate detail on the many recipes possible, including roasting, frying and boiling children’s flesh in a way that would keep the meat succulent and tasty. The article’s deadly serious tone held the painful subject in a difficult balance, and left many wondering what Swift really meant. Could he really suggest something so foul and grotesque? The matter-of-fact tone of the essay could in fact be read as either a cruel support of chilling cannibalism or as a clever satire on class relations in England. Swift was neither prosecuted for hurting sentiments nor arrested for indecent suggestion.
Obviously then, it is easy to take offence when the message is taken at face value. Rightfully, satire struggles to keep its audience away from the obvious and suggest multiple readings. Had Swift lived in today’s thin-skinned India, a place of growing fear and reprisal, he may have been bumped off on Delhi’s Ring Road. Indian comedy still has a long way to go.
Gautam Bhatia is a Delhi-based architect and sculptor.
source ; the wire
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(With input from news agency language)
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