A joke can do what politics cannot: The independence we often forget

Laughter is an involuntary reaction. You cannot contain a determined laugh. If you have ever been in on a joke in a setting where it’s forbidden to mock an authority figure — a teacher, a parent, an elected leader — you know only too well that actively suppressing the giggles only makes the joke funnier. Hold it in long enough and eventually tears start to flow. The laugh will exit your body, in one form or another. Laughter is possibly the only truly social emotion we possess. It’s infectious. If you’re the only one not laughing, chances are, the joke’s on you. Of course, collectively laughing at a single person could well be construed as bullying. But what if the person we’re laughing at is the bully? That’s called “punching up” — the bedrock of satire.

Modern life is a recurring cycle of tension and release, at different scales. From my tight hamstrings to the Strait of Hormuz, it’s the same pattern. A joke is no different. The setup creates tension to be released by a punchline, a swift verbal blow that disarms you enough to let your guard down and let your body laugh.

Laughter is the only truly social emotion we possess. If you’re the only one not laughing, chances are, the joke’s on you. But what if the person we’re laughing at is the bully? That’s called “punching up” – the bedrock of satire

Australian comic Hannah Gadsby wonderfully illustrated this in their 2018 Netflix Special Nanette, a show I highly recommend everyone watch (skip to the end of this paragraph if you don’t want spoilers). I had the privilege of watching it live in Edinburgh, an intensely surreal experience. It ended with Hannah talking about a horrific, traumatic story of sexual assault, the burden of which they have been carrying all their life but defusing it with jokes to make it more palatable to strangers. By the end of the show, Hannah no longer wished to do that, and left us abruptly, storming off stage on a crescendo of unbearable tension, with no punchline for release. An audience of a hundred walked out in silence, guts wrenched for hours to follow: An illustration and a reminder of the importance of humour to process trauma, suffering, anger and shame.

Azeem Banatwalla

The contradiction of a generation

India has long been a nation of tension and release, usually through non-violent resistance. Satyagraha — a term that hasn’t been edited out of our history textbooks just yet — translates to “insistence on truth” and no truth hits harder than a rock-solid punchline. The country has been in a constant state of resistance for the best part of two centuries, from foreign colonists to those of our own making. From boycotting British salt and sugar that laid the foundations of civil disobedience to Gen-Z “spilling the tea” on examination paper leaks.

India has been in a constant state of resistance for the best part of two centuries. From boycotting British salt and sugar to Gen-Z “spilling the tea” on examination paper leaks. We have long been a nation of tension and release

Not everyone has the time or appetite to be a part of resistance on the ground. But in 2026, the creation and sharing of reels and memes feels like real participation; the impact has been emphatic. That being said, revolutions led by community-led content are not new. Nor are they the exception.

The French Revolution, which essentially birthed modern politics as we know it, spread through cartoons and slogans scratched on walls. Graffiti remains the ultimate symbol of defiance. The civil rights movements of the 1970s saw the foundations of hip hop with the likes of Public Enemy and N.W.A. giving the African American youth of the United States an urban identity.

My generation — the millennials — will probably go down in history as an obedient, in-between generation that did nothing of meaningful political consequence in India. We were born into the newly liberalised economy post the 1991 economic reforms, raised by parents hell-bent on securing our futures by any means necessary. By 2010, we were young enough to see buying a house as a realistic dream and old enough to ride the IT wave into corporate slavery.

Healthy democracies thrive on healthy criticism and that criticism hits hardest through art. Satirists doing their jobs ensure that politicians are compelled to do theirs

It’s morbidly funny that we grew up listening to Rage Against The Machine but resigned ourselves to doing exactly what we were told to. We were content to go to a heavy metal gig and vent our frustrations on random strangers in mosh pits — bloodying noses and bruising ribs, with enthusiastic consent. It was oddly cathartic. That mosh pit is now on social media; nobody really wants to be there but it’s addictive. Your discontent rests at the tip of your thumb, just waiting to type out a “ragebait” comment in reply to an absolute stranger. An AI algorithm knows exactly what triggers your dopamine, drawing you deeper and deeper into your own echo chamber. And while distracting the youth and sending it down an infinitely scrollable rabbit-hole of brainrot seems like fertile ground for authoritarianism, sometimes the algorithm does its job too well. It shows you exactly what you need to see to abandon your apolitical aloofness and lend your voice to a cause. India’s voice for the last month or so, driven by a cartoon cockroach, has been satire fuelled by a cocktail of irreverence and unseriousness that is Gen-Z’s signature. Watching 20-something Gen-Z activists troll the British out of India would have been a sight to behold. “Let Gandhiji cook!”, they would have said, “Bro woke up and chose non-violence!”

A generation of angry teens managed to not just ridicule one powerful minister into resignation but also compelled others to pivot hastily to the role of influencers, rebranding themselves with hot-take selfie videos and khadi-based GRWM (Get Ready With Me) reels to appeal to their new young “friends”. However, being funny and relatable comes from being self-aware and reading the room, a skill that differentiates comedians from politicians. If you cannot convince your audience that you are playing the fool, unfortunately you are the fool. A ‘melody’ selfie is not particularly endearing to desperate students standing in the crosshairs of pellet guns.

When you are the fool

As the dust settles on last month’s protests at Jantar Mantar, the fallout has predictably become a stealthy, surgical crackdown on dissent. As I sit writing this, Instagram is blocking posts deemed to be problematic. Comedians are cancelling shows due to fringe right-wing groups threatening to wreak havoc (despite permissions being in place). Recently, I was scheduled to perform at a college event that was cancelled owing to disagreements between faculty and students about whether stand-up comedy is a good idea.

I’m asked ever more frequently now about what the future holds for stand-up comedy and satirical content creators. Truthfully, I don’t know. Live stand-up and content creation are huge industries that generate eye-watering amounts of revenue in 2026. Having said that, the sudden downfall of Dream11 and the online gaming industry this year has shown us that nothing is too big to be vanquished overnight.

Being funny and relatable comes from being self-aware and reading the room, a skill that differentiates comedians from politicians

It bears reminding though, that we now live in what will go down in history as the “post-cockroach” era. And those pesky things seem to find their way through the cracks. Healthy democracies thrive on healthy criticism, and that criticism hits the hardest through art. A well-crafted joke opens the eyes as much as it flaps the jaw. It provides dopamine and releases tension. It speaks the truth you were struggling to articulate. Satirists doing their jobs ensure that politicians are compelled to do theirs. Still, it is not unusual to see stand-up comedians derided and called attention seeking clowns, trying to run down the saintly establishment to make a quick buck. I would argue that, if anything, the clowns are doing the establishment a favour. For without us, they would be the only jokers in town.

Azeem Banatwalla is a stand-up comedian and content creator with multiple stand-up specials on Amazon Prime and YouTube. He is currently touring his 90-minute special ‘Generational’ across India