Once upon a time,
The hero was heroic.
The villain, villainous.
The comic? Comic.
Three roles. Three souls.
No one confused.
No one delusional.
No one demanding all the applause, the tears, and the punchlines.
The jester?
He had one job.
To poke fun.
To speak truth.
To take the powerful down a peg.
With humour. With heart.
With razor-sharp words masked in wit.
And the powerful?
They laughed.
Even the Mughals.
Yes, those Mughals.
Akbar made his jester a Raja.
Birbal.
Not just comic relief.
One of the nine Navaratnas.
A minister. A sage.
A man trusted to speak freely.
And laugh loudly.
At power.
Source: Wikimedia.
But today?
The jester is a threat.
The joke is contraband.
A cartoon can cause carnage.
A pun can spark protests.
A stand-up set can take you down.
To jail. Or exile. Or worse.
Once, a joke either landed.
Or it didn’t.
Now, it lands the joker in jail.
Or on trial.
Or in hiding.
Depending on who the punchline offended.
Or who pretended to be offended.
Comedians now scan rooms.
Not for silence.
But for sirens.
They check entrances.
And exits.
Not for fire.
But for arsonists.
They rehearse disclaimers.
More than punchlines.
What happened?
Why are we so scared of a joke?
So allergic to humour?
So utterly constipated when it comes to laughing at ourselves?
Once, kings chuckled at satire.
Now, our democrats bristle.
Once, emperors could take a joke.
Now, netas need trigger warnings.
We are a nation where irony is censored.
Where sarcasm is sedition.
Where mimicry is dangerous, and metaphors come with court dates.
We had Birbal.
Now we have FIRs.
We had wit.
Now we have warnings.
We had laughter.
Now we have lists.
Of banned films, blacklisted artists, and comedians in hiding.
The republic that once embraced the joke now arrests the joker.
The land that once saw humour as wisdom now treats it as war.
And still, the show goes on.
With louder speakers.
With brighter lights.
With thinner skins.
And no punchlines.
A long time ago,
In an India far, far saner,
We knew how to take a joke.
Now?
We are the joke.
