The Market and The Jester
With viral videos like “I Come from Two Indias”, Vir Das and other modern comedians can afford to be more biting in their attacks against the ruling class, as they don’t receive direct patronage from them. But they are now bound to the attention economy, desperately pushing for extremes instead of striving for meaningful cultural critique.
In his recent video “I Come from Two Indias”, a viral performance from the Kennedy Center in Washington D.C., Vir Das discovered the precarious line between love and hate often straddled by comedians. Das’ performance, simultaneously a critique of today’s India and a hope for a better future, is nevertheless lined with many lowbrow zingers, lines like, “I come from an India where we scoff at the idea of sexuality, yet fuck till we reach a billion people,” and “I come from an India where journalism is supposedly dead, because men in fancy studios, in fancy suits give each other handjobs.”
His performance was familiar to me, a reminder of the world that I once inhibit myself, in the short time while working in at a now-defunct comedy collective. Many of the people I worked with would have the same opinions as his; some might even convey them the same way. Yet, there was something off, and it is a dilemma that I continue to consider as comedy becomes more ‘political’. It’s the question that tugged at me then, and rings again now, after the “Two Indias” video: Exactly who does the comedian owe their allegiance to?
The rise of political/social polarisation, and the response of comedians to the same, suggests that the comedian owes their allegiance to the people, as a truth-teller and critic in an era where journalists are neutered and fascism is de-rigueur. In India, there is no great proof of the same than the loyal followings of comedians like Kunal Kamra, Munawar Faruqui, Aisi Taisi Democracy, and more—exemplified by the discrimination, incarceration, and threats they face on a daily basis. Post the release of his recent video, Das faced similar consequences: two arrest warrants, a slew of online threats, and a ban from performing in Madhya Pradesh.
But the comedian is no activist. Ancient court jesters—a version of the earliest stand-up comedians—knew the delicate dance that placed them in the good books of the rulers and the citizens, but their allegiance still lay with the kings who gave them patronage. In Fools Are Everywhere: The Court Jester Around the World, historian Beatrice Otto writes,
The jester is in a sense on the side of the ruler. The relationship was often very close and amiable, and the jester was almost invariably a cherished rather than a tolerated presence. This leads to the kindliness of jesters: they could be biting in their attacks, but there is usually an undercurrent of good-heartedness and understanding to their words. If they talk the king out of slicing up some innocent, it is not only to save him from the king's wrath but also to save the king from himself—they can be the only ones who will tell him he suffers from moral halitosis...Yet (The jester) is no rebel or revolutionary. His detached stance allows him to take the side of the victim in order to curb the excesses of the system without ever trying to overthrow it—his purpose is not to replace one system with another, but to free us from the fetters of all systems.
Patronage affects allegiance, which is also clear in the case of the modern stand-up entertainer, who needs an audience to share their social media quips and pay for show tickets. The modern comedian can afford to be more biting in their attacks against the ruling class, as they don’t receive direct patronage from them. But they are now bound to the attention economy, desperately pushing themselves to certain extremes to ensure they receive eyeballs and start conversations. Via the overarching influence of late capitalism on all creative expression in the 21st century, comedians—like influencers, publications, corporations, and more—know that the ‘revolutionary’ aesthetic can pay off.
This is why the above extremes are still inextricable from dominant liberal consensus. A look at Das’ old and comedy videos explains the same, from attacking Mayawati during the height of public casteist outrage against her, to attacking the current government during public distaste for overt fascism. Even the most “edgy” of Das’ sets attack transness due to the silent, yet obvious public discomfort with fluid gender identities. Academics who research comedy have previously proved that the socio-economic background of an audience is pivotal to which comedian gets the most laughs—and which comedian tanks. In reverse, laughing at the jokes of a certain comedian signals a certain cultural capital. In this situation, a comedian can harness audience attention if they know to voice what people are afraid to say aloud—rather than what people are afraid to think.
This is like sheep in wolf's clothing; an attempt to look transgressive while safely toeing the boundaries of an echo chamber. What it also does is render the socio-political critique neutered and meaningless; with flashes of outright dissonance with the ideas projected. In Das’ spoken-word-esque recital of “Two Indias” he says: “I come from an India where we have maids and drivers and yet want to come to America to do their job.” It is received with loud cheers by a largely Indian-American audience, tapping into their wounded pride amid the white majority of the country, but with no self-awareness of the oppressive dynamics perpetuated back home.
Comedy isn’t antithetical to truly significant cultural critique; but its custodians are notoriously unreliable, as Das is above. A comedian like Dave Chappelle can put forth powerful cultural critique on anti-blackness, yet nosedive on transness. To even attempt to take comedy as critique is to require the destruction of gauging and responding to audience interest, a skill that is critical in the practice of stand-up comedy. Meaningful cultural critique does not exist to create the sort of laughs that are predictable and comfortable; it exists to encourage disquiet, even rage from the audience—all amid peals of laughter. Often, comedians who do produce such critique end up being individuals who hold a stake in their subject: whether it be Munawar Faruqui’s political commentary on Islamophobia, Navin Noronha, a queer man, on queerness, or Deepika Mhatre, a domestic worker, on class. The stakes tied to these comedians’ identities act as a deterrent against unpredictability, allowing them to hold a strong core critique.
Comedy isn’t antithetical to truly significant cultural critique; but its custodians, like Das are notoriously unreliable. Meaningful cultural critique does not exist to create the sort of laughs that are predictable and comfortable; it exists to encourage disquiet, even rage from the audience—all amid peals of laughter.
Yet, the solution can never be “Be Like Faruqui” as it is limiting and still encourages regurgitation. One of the great tragedies of late capitalism is that there is no inherent value in any comedian pushing cultural barriers; even as it demands the more privileged comedian to don the aesthetic of pushing them. Real transgression neither puts food on their table nor puts the star-stickers upon shiny career paths. This is also why many comics who offer meaningful critique usually remain niche—until, like Faruqui their shows are cancelled or they are arrested.
A revolutionary figure of influence taking on a reactionary government with respect to petrol prices or casteism would continue the cycle of receiving the same reactionary threats from a fascist government. But the comedian donning revolutionary aesthetics chooses petrol prices, since the audience he speaks to choose the comfort of everyday middle-class quibbles over every day genocide. The comedian gives what the audience wants. Their allegiance is to success, and the audience is the key. Look at Das: he’s hailed as a pioneer of the Indian stand-up comedy scene, with several Netflix specials and a sold-out Kennedy Center show under his belt, courtesy of devoted fan-following and prestige.
During the four months that I spent with the now-defunct comedy collective, I didn’t know much of the Marxist discourse—or where, exactly comedians fit in: Are they the professional managerial class by virtue of their liberal superiority complex, or are they informal workers, struggling to eke out a living as performers tied to the whims of their audience?
Towards the end of my tenure with that comedy collective, I went to an open mic evening for the first time. Amid beers and laughter, aspiring comedians tried out new material and crowd-work in front of a familiar audience. At one point, a comedian on stage chose me for crowd-work, poking gentle jokes at where I lived and how undesirable a location it was within Bombay. He then asked me what I did for a living, and I replied that I had a starter job writing social media copy for the collective. It was a shockingly desirable job in the cohort of people I was around. The comedian took a beat; the room’s mood dimmed a bit. “Well,” he said. “I’m pretty sure you know we’d all like to be there.”
A few years later, the collective disbanded, with several jobs lost over allegations of not practicing what they preached, and the founders rendered pariahs from good liberal conscience. Eventually, these founders made comebacks with their solo careers and now continue to thrive. I know for a fact that if the comics I spoke to in the open mic had even the slightest sliver of an opportunity to work with them, they would jump at the chance. Because no matter what you perform on stage, all is meaningless except success.
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Aditi Murti is an independent journalist covering environment, health, cities, and (some) culture. Her work has appeared in several publications like The Wire, Firstpost, Down to Earth, The News Minute, Citizen Matters, and more. In another lifetime, she made memes for a living. You can find her on Twitter: @aditmurti and Instagram: @adtgraphy.
