The earth shook at 5:36 AM in Delhi-NCR. I shook at 8 when my alarm clock declared World War III. Apparently, the folks on the upper floors felt the quake like they were in a giant blender, while I, living closer to the ground, was left unshaken, quite literally. Chiragh Dilli Tale Andhera.
Clearly, I'm as sensitive as a rock. I'm so insensitive that I spoke for an hour on a podcast to dissect the dark humor of that guy whose name I am too indignant to take now. Months ago, I had laughed at a joke he cracked in a standup set. I am so emotionally dead inside that I didn’t shed a tear over a joke about a child with a rare disease. I am ashamed.
Now I feel guilty as I wake up to my despicable existence after witnessing a hue and cry over the ghinauna and ghatiya remarks of an evil, sick mind. He is the gandagi that we must sweep under the carpet. Tumhein Gandagi Bhool Jaani Padegi.
This crazy, crass comic was talking about a two-month-old child who had the misfortune of suffering from a rare disease that could be cured by an injection that cost Rs 16 crore. Sixteen crores—an amount so astronomical that most of us can’t even imagine earning it in our lifetimes, let alone spending it on a single injection. He thought of telling a joke around such a sensitive matter. What kind of sick person thinks of telling this to an audience that’s clearly there for a laugh? Kaun hain yeh log, kahan se aate hain? Who in their right mind takes a tragedy and turns it into a punchline? What kind of twisted mind does it take to highlight the absurdity of life with a joke?
Until yesterday, I thought comedy had a conscience, and some social responsibility; comics were supposed to be the truth-tellers of society. The jesters who exposed the emperor’s nakedness. The mirrors that reflected the ugliest realities with the brightest of smiles. Here, this guy was talking about Big Pharma’s daylight robbery in a country where his parents can’t afford a 16-rupee toy, let alone a 16-crore injection, for their boy all of two months on the planet.
The sheer absurdity of the conundrum should silence us. But, no, this guy has to extract a laugh out of the absurdity we don’t even notice? He has the audacity to force an audience of young, impressionable minds to think—of course, after laughing—about the grave injustice it is to simply exist in this fair country. The audience that paid Rs 800 for a beer after the 2,000-rupee ticket. People who spent more on a night out than most families make in a month were laughing at the cost of survival. And the comic was the villain for making them laugh.
He goes on to question the dilemma of parents who can produce 16 kids in 16 years but could never produce the number of zeros after 16 in 16 crore in 160 years. The cruelty of numbers. The sheer, crushing weight of math. For much less, some disgustingly poor people impose muscular atrophy on children because a visible disability helps at red lights where people melt at the sight and give them leftover biscuits. Only poverty is too common. The horror of horrors, he speculates about the parents’ possible reaction to Rs 16 crore in cash, in flesh. Who does this comic think he is? George Carlin?
How I was schooled by the "eminent" ones on X, formerly known as Twitter! Comedy, I learn now, should be clean, sanitized, and free of diseases and poor children. Only "accredited" journalists are authorized to write about the cruel irony of a life-saving drug costing more than the GDP of a small town. Only they should pen the tales of crowdfunding campaigns since elected governments do not have the resources to save a child. Anyway, why should the government save a poor child’s life when citizens can crowdfund? The government makes policy and budget for children, not for a specific child with a rare disease. Ae mohabbat zindabad.
I just rewatched that video and noticed that he slyly slides inflation into it. What has inflation got to do with it? Rare disease, rare price. Simple economics, demand and supply, reverse psychology. Why should an injection cost Rs 16 crore? Who is he to question it while pretending he is telling a joke? Why would he bring up a sad story in a comedy show? Yeh koi samay hai? This is a comedy show, not a symposium on pharmaceutical ethics.
This joke has rightly offended the people who wouldn’t give a second glance to the boy if he grew up to cross paths with their BMW. Five years later, the name of this unnamed kid begging at the New Delhi railway station wouldn’t be on the list of the dead in a stampede. His parents wouldn’t get compensation because of the lack of proper papers. Kaagaz qalam dawaat la.
While I agree that comedy is supposed to show a mirror to society, including to those who laugh at such lewd jokes, why would anyone in their right mind bring up the absurdity of pricing life-saving drugs when dirt-poor parents in this dirt-poor country would sell their child playing in the dirt at a dirt-cheap price if they aren’t fit enough to work in a brick kiln and die of tuberculosis? Why bring up a rare disease when we have common diseases killing children every day? Is this a joke? Are diseases a joke? Yeh hansne ki baat hai?
Diseases are to be discussed at a symposium sponsored by big pharmaceutical companies where doctors fly in on tickets paid for by the big pharmaceutical companies. They are qualified to discuss the latest research in prestigious journals sponsored by big pharmaceutical companies. It should be reported by accredited journalists who have seen the large amount of investment made by the big pharmaceutical companies during their PPT presentation on their last Thailand trip, all expenses paid by the big pharmaceutical companies. Is that Kashmiri comic a doctor, a pharmacist, or a journalist? He is a printing engineering dropout. Jiska kaam usi ko saaje!
Thanks to X, formerly known as Twitter, I learned that comics should stick to social issues like the superhit show Comedy Nights does. They can’t be sly and insert the absurdity of serious issues into a joke and expect people to laugh. About the people who were present in his audience, the less said the better. Most of them laughed because others were laughing. Only some of them were forced to think about the issue. The comic thinks that it’s a success even if only a few get that layer of the joke. Well, it’s a failure, I say.
Are all the in-laws, bahus, husbands, haathi-cheentis, Sardarjis, Biharis, Madrasis, Bhaiyaas, and Ghatis dead? What is the need to bring up poverty, diseases, dilemmas, dichotomies, and absurdities of our miserable lives in a comedy show? Are we supposed to laugh or cry or think and die? I don’t like it. Nonsense. Khatam. Tata. Bye-bye.
