Comedy, power, and the Indian public: A fragile equation

As comedy in India evolves from being just another source of entertainment to taking the risk of addressing issues that not only attract trolls but also have real consequences, comedians in India are shouldering a bigger responsibility—that of self-censorship

Comedy has never been solely about laughter—it’s largely been about who can speak freely, who becomes the punchline, and who can laugh along. Today, as roast culture in India—where wit often hinges on personal jabs—meets cancel culture, jokes become viral even before they go live. The real tension isn’t about humour. It’s about who draws the line—and who gets drawn in. 

Scenarios such as these aren’t playing out just in India. Around the world, comedy is being forced to reckon with its own boundaries—and its blind spots. TheWhite Lotus actor Aimee Lou Wood’s natural tooth gap became the punchline in a recent episode of Saturday Night Live. Lou Wood called the sketch “mean, unfunny, and misogynistic.” The fallout prompted the show’s writers to apologise—an act of contrition that is rare in a space that once prided itself on being untouchable.

The debate around what constitutes acceptable humour has grown more heated, especially as comedians continue to navigate the ethical faultlines of their craft and concerns with censorship in comedy. Television shows like India’s Got Latent faced both legal scrutiny and online backlash earlier this year for airing jokes laced with misogyny, vulgarity, and casual cruelty—often targeting people’s bodies, relationship choices, or social identities under the guise of “roast culture”. 

The discomfort with Indian comedians wasn’t just in the content, but in the optics: men ridiculing women on public stages, cheered on by largely male audiences. Roast culture in India, more often than not, defaults to cheap, predictable quotes: punching for easy laughs at the expense of women. From AIB Knockout’s (2014)  tired jabs at Sonakshi Sinha’s weight and Deepika Padukone’s cleavage, to the invasive digs at Kusha Kapila’s marriage on Comedy Premium League (2021), the humour in comedy in India often hinges on bodies, relationships, and private lives—the wit is almost always absent.

According to therapist Dr. Meghana Singhal, the urge to punch down on somebody, “says a lot about the individual and societal need to maintain status quo, and comes from a place of underlying insecurities.” The distinction between satire and cruelty becomes even more critical in roast formats, where humour is often justified under the banner of consent and performance. But when the jokes rely on recycled stereotypes, physical appearances or private lives, the intention becomes harder to defend. Consent may be given, but the power imbalance persists. “It is about power. When you punch down, there is this desire to assert dominance that comes into play, so you weaponise humour,” says Singhal. 

 But it’s not just gender or appearance that’s on the line. In an increasingly polarised climate, even political satire comes at a cost. Comedian Kunal Kamra, known for his biting political satire, found himself under renewed scrutiny in March 2025. At a stand-up performance in Mumbai, his material sparked institutional pushback, including the venue’s vandalism, followed by legal threats. What was once a space for provocation and rebellion is now defined by caution, self-editing, and the constant tightrope of gauging audience sentiment—fair or unfair.

Why Indian comedians are censoring themselves first

For many Indian comedians today, the first edit happens long before they take the stage. Tarang Hardikar, a Mumbai-based comedian who avoids sensitive topics and leans into the absurd and mundane instead, has learned that offence doesn’t always erupt from controversy—it can come from anywhere. “Now I try to make myself the butt of the joke, to avoid offending anyone. But you never know what’ll blow up,” he says, recalling how a throwaway line about Bangaloreans and their slang spiralled into online outrage. “I didn’t think a tiny Bangalore comment would upset people, but it did, because they felt like I wasn’t from Bangalore, so I had no right to make a comment about them.”

Hardikar’s experience isn’t an exception—it’s the new normal. That internal recalibration—editing oneself before speaking—has become second nature for many comics. Abbas Momin, comedian and host of the podcast Has It Aged Well?, doesn’t wait for backlash, it’s already built into the writing process. “As a comedian today in India, you draw two lines,” he says. “One, on a personal level as an artist. But even before that, there is a line based on  whether what I'm saying is going to be offensive or not.” An instinctive risk-mapping begins before a joke is even shared aloud. "We pre-empt it all. Will this line get me in trouble? Will that reference get misread? It’s not censorship from the top, it’s self-surveillance at the base.”

Even Hardikar practices self-surveillance despite not joking about topics one considers offensive. “Personally, I don’t like to speak about things that might get people riled up but recent events have made me subconsciously think about what might get people offended, other than the usual sensitive topics, because offence can be taken on anything right?”

In India, this fear of backlash often silences comedians more effectively than any official ban. “We are all self-censoring ourselves, which is also the reason why it's become very difficult for comedians to grow as artists in the last couple of years,” continues Momin. This constant negotiation with risk—what to say, how to say it, and whether it’s worth saying at all– has reshaped not just the creative process, but also the very essence of comedy in India. Vagmita Singh, a New Delhi-based content creator, puts it simply: “In India, the division between the left and right is vast, so no matter what stance you take, backlash is almost inevitable. But I tell myself that if this is part of my value system and I truly believe in it, I have to stand by it.”

However, that internal filter is deeply ingrained, —it is a kind of self-censoring that often speaks louder than any club manager or authority figure.

When is a joke just cruel? Rethinking Indian roast culture

That comedy is a mirror to society is a cliché—but like most clichés, it is true. The question is: Which way is the mirror angled, and who is getting distorted in its reflection?  

“Comedy as an art form was born out of the need for people to stand up and talk about what's wrong,” shares Navin Noronha, one of the first openly queer comics in India. “When you  punch down… you're not doing comedy in its form anymore.” If comedy is meant to challenge power, mocking the powerless does the exact opposite. The form of stand-up comedy, originated from various modes of entertainment in the 19th century, but particularly finds similarities in humorist monologues, which demands satire and humour that punches up. When one punches down, one is essentially doing a disservice to the art of comedy in its authentic form, irrespective of how often comedy falls back on lazy stereotypes.

The optics matter. Those on stage doing the mocking often hold more social capital than those being mocked. The humour doesn’t challenge power, it only reinforces it further. And when the punchline consistently depends on cheap shots and stereotypes that are done to death, it stops being funny. 

Stand-up comic Kajol Srinivasan, known for her show Freelance Feminist, is blunt about it. “Unfortunately, I hate roasts in India, because they mostly come down to physical attributes. ‘You're so fat, you're so bald, you're so old.’ That’s bullying!”

The idea that consent alone sanitises cruelty is increasingly being challenged. “A lot of things that people deem dark comedy  whether it’s gender, racial, or class stereotypes is actually just bullying. They don’t want to face that,” says Singh. 

Censorship or strategy? Why Indian comedians are rewriting their own lines

The comedy ecosystem in India is shifting, and not subtly. “We’ve gone from asking ‘how far is too far?’ to ‘who decides what’s too far?’” notes Ravina Rawal, founder of  DeadAnt, a comedy and culture platform. “Audiences are sharper, more fragmented, and way more vocal. That’s not necessarily a bad thing—it’s just the new playing field.”

This evolution is forcing comedians to reconsider not just their punchlines but where and how they say it. “A set being performed in a comedy club in Mumbai will sound very different from one that makes it to YouTube, which will differ from a Netflix special,” adds Rawal. “And that’s not always censorship—it’s strategy.”

But for emerging comedians, particularly those from underrepresented communities, the stakes are even higher. “Every joke’s worth is measured by a simple fact,” says Mumbai-based comic, Shreeja Chaturvedi. “Is this joke worth losing possible future work prospects and putting my family at risk?”

The war of values in Indian comedy: Empathy, ego, and what’s still funny

Many comedians now rely on  internal barometers—not fear, but personal ethics—to decide where their line is. Comedian Supriya Joshi, known as Supaarwoman on Instagram, described her own filter as rooted in empathy: “I think about how I’d feel if I were on the receiving end of the joke. Would it punch me in the gut or make me laugh?”

Others turn to trusted communities. “I remain open to feedback from peers and colleagues whose opinions I respect and trust,” says Chaturvedi. “I may not accept feedback immediately, but, over time, I will drop a joke that my friends think is problematic.” Singh agrees, “I think you know you’ve gone too far when the laughs stop. But more than that, [it is] when you stop finding it funny yourself.”

Noronha explains how, with time, comedy evolves as a reflection of personal growth. “If you approach it with empathy and understanding, you realise that someone from a marginalised background isn’t trying to upset anyone, they’re just being themselves” he says. “That understanding comes with time.” 

Comedy, at its core, is a constant act of evaluation of the world, and of the self. Joshi adds: “Stereotypes are lazy. And I say that as someone who’s occasionally leaned on them early in my career. The real responsibility is to ask: Is this joke new? And is it saying something?”

These are not just personal choices. They are ways to preserve artistic integrity in a landscape that often  rewards cruelty and punishes complexity.

Even international acts aren’t immune to local sensitivities. Kevin Hart’s planned show in New Delhi was shelved recently, in solidarity with the victims of the Pahalgam terror attack. Performers like Singh recognise the changing tide, but insist that real accountability doesn’t come from public outrage. It starts with the self: “The responsibility,” she says, “is to gauge that as a person, what is your value system?”

Ultimately, the real conflict isn’t comedy versus  censorship—it’s comedy versus complicity. It’s not just about what comedians can’t say. It’s about what they choose to say. “The boundary should be shaped by empathy, not ego,” says Joshi. “But ultimately, the audience sets the boundary by deciding what they’ll laugh at and what they won’t [laugh at].”

And perhaps that's where the future of comedy rests—not just in freedom of expression, but in the intention behind it,  the sharpness of the punchline, and the direction it lands.

Also Read: Why being one’s true self is the only way to success in stand-up comedy

Also Read: Why dealing with online hate as a comedian in India is no joke

Also Read: Art over identity: Sushant Divgikar calls for a focus beyond gender prefixes