Opinion: When Power Can’t Take A Joke — From Aristophanes To Kunal Kamra

There’s a story from ancient Athens that still feels relevant. In 426 BCE, during the annual Athenian drama festival, the comic playwright Aristophanes staged ‘The Babylonians’, a biting satire of Athens’ conduct during the Peloponnesian War. Among the spectators were foreign dignitaries. The play didn’t go down well with Cleon, a powerful Athenian politician, who accused Aristophanes of embarrassing the city in front of outsiders and dragged him to court.

But Aristophanes didn’t retreat. Instead, he came back harder with ‘The Knights’, a scathing follow-up that satirised Cleon as a corrupt demagogue whose character arc ends with him selling sausages in the marketplace outside the city. Aristophanes, now remembered as the ‘Father of Comedy’, was never just a comic — he was a cultural insurgent, a reminder that, in a democracy, even the most powerful must endure public opinion, however embarrassing.

Fast forward to India today. The continuing scuffles between stand-up comedian Kunal Kamra and the ruling political dispensation feel oddly reminiscent of that ancient feud. No, Kamra may not be a cultural figure of Aristophanes’ stature. But the nature of the conflict — between the satirist and the state, the comic and the powerful — is eerily familiar.

Many might assume that this kind of political satire is a uniquely Western phenomenon. But that assumption is flawed. India has a rich tradition of comic figures mocking those in power, often with greater courage and cultural legitimacy than many modern satirists are allowed today.

Take the ‘Vidushaka’ of classical Sanskrit theatre — dating as far back as 200 BCE. A Brahmin jester in royal courts, the Vidushaka had remarkable licence to mock kings, ridicule court rituals, and expose hypocrisy. In Kalidasa’s ‘Malavikagnimitram’, he sketches the king’s romantic pursuits and palace politics as being ridiculous. These were absolute monarchs with unchecked power — yet their courts made space for ridicule. Satire was not merely tolerated; it was institutionalised.

Later, in the medieval and early modern periods, India saw the rise of iconic courtiers like Tenali Raman, Birbal, and Gopal Bhar — all of whom used wit to challenge the pride and silliness of rulers. Even under the harsh gaze of empire and monarchy, these characters (real or folkloric) wielded humour like a sword, cutting through arrogance with laughter.

In colonial India, figures like K.P. Khadilkar, a Marathi playwright, used theatre to challenge British authority. His 1907 play ‘Keechak Vadha’, framed as a retelling of a Mahabharata episode, was in fact a thinly veiled critique of colonial exploitation — and was promptly banned. The subversive spirit of comedy has long run through the Indian political imagination.

Which makes our current moment even more perplexing.

Today’s leaders do not rule by divine right. They hold office through democratic mandate, through ‘loktantra’ — the rule of the people. Yet, the tolerance for critique seems thinner than ever. Political leaders absorb barbs from rival politicians, but when a comedian or ordinary citizen dares to criticise or satirise, they are met with disproportionate fury.

Those in power often forget that their oath is to the Constitution, not to their vanity and narcissism. Their duty is to protect citizens, not punish them for speaking out. This is not the age of Ram Rajya, though we may construct as many temples across the country. The virtues of Ram — humility, self-restraint, service — are nowhere in sight. Instead, we have rulers who seem obsessed with their own mythos, allergic to critique, and vindictive toward dissent.

As the comedian Ravi Gupta put it: “Dharm nibhana hota hai, manana nahi.” Dharma must be practised, not just preached.

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Complicit Citizenry

In a democracy, governance is not domination. The will of the people includes the majority, but also the minority, the Opposition, and every single individual. Mockery is not a threat to democracy — it’s a measure of its strength. If elected officials believe that jokes are acts of sedition, perhaps they need to be reminded: they are not monarchs. They are public servants.

And yet, the tools of the state — police, legal notices, censorship — are often turned on comedians and critics for minor provocations. What does this say about our leaders? That they cannot stomach a joke from someone without institutional power?

It’s not just disappointing. It’s dangerous. Because when humour is criminalised, what remains is fear. And fear breaks a democracy. Worse, many among us, the citizens, have become complicit. As long as we are not the ones targeted, we shrug: “It’s fine, it doesn’t affect me.” But this is not the spirit of our ancestors, who believed in dialogue, debate, and dharma. We celebrate our ancient civilisation but behave like the weakest link in that lineage. We are the worst of the Indians that probably ever existed.

Somewhere, looking down at the spectacle of Indian politics today, Tenali Raman, Birbal, Gopal Bhar, and Khadilkar must be shaking their heads — not because we’ve failed to evolve, but because we’ve regressed.

We once laughed at kings. Now, we fear elected officials. In a democracy, that is the most tragic joke of all.

The writer is Associate Professor and Associate Dean at Jindal Institute of Behavioural Sciences.

[Disclaimer: The opinions, beliefs, and views expressed by the various authors and forum participants on this website are personal and do not reflect the opinions, beliefs, and views of ABP Network Pvt. Ltd.]

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