Shashi Warrier | Could a comedian be our next CM?

Ex-professor Raghavan dropped in unannounced one morning in late March, looking rattled. He looked so angry that I offered him a drink even though it was only eleven in the morning, and he was so upset that he accepted it.

When I brought his drink to the drawing room he was pacing up and down. “Sit,” I said. “Relax. What’s got you so fired up?”

“I just found out about that comedian,” he said, sounding angry, “that comedian who said something about a politician being a traitor.”

I tend not to follow up on controversial stories such as this one. “What’s about him?” I asked. “He’s just another a comedian who likes to poke the ruling party and its friends.”

“But the ruling party in that state doesn’t like to be poked,” said Raghavan, “so they’ve responded in their usual heavy-handed fashion. Just look at all the attention this thing has got.”

“So are you complaining about what the comedian said?” I asked. “Or is it about the government’s reaction?”

“I don’t care what some stand-up comedian says,” said Raghavan. “He’s free to say what he wants. I don’t find this one funny, and sometimes he seems nasty. There was this time when he cornered a TV channel anchor on a flight and began to ask him all kinds of unpleasant questions… Not that I like the anchor, but there are some kinds of behaviour I don’t like… So this comedian called a politician a traitor during a comedy sketch and the government’s going after him hammer and tongs.”

“Why, what have they done to him?” I asked.

“They only filed a case or two against him,” he replied, “but they bulldozed the place where he said things they didn’t like. They said the building was in violation of some regulation or other. They haven’t the courage to do something to him directly.”

“Well, if the building was in violation…” I began.

“Well, then they should go after all the thousands of buildings that violate some regulation or other, right?” he said. “Why pick this one? And why so fast?”

Just then, the doorbell rang, and on the doorstep stood Murthy. His sixth sense for my scotch must have been working overtime. “I was passing by…” he began.

I was glad to see him, and cut him off. “Raghavan’s inside,” I told him, “and he’s worked up. Talk to him while I fix you a drink.”

“Right!” he said, his face lighting up at the mention of the drink.

He had caught up with the Raghavan’s feelings by the time I got back with his drink. “Raghavan doesn’t like the idea of a government being run by people who like to demolish the houses of their enemies,” he said. “It started in Uttar Pradesh, and now it’s spreading, and he’s worried it’ll go further.”

“Yes,” said Raghavan. “There’s no free speech any longer.”

“What gives you the impression that there ever was?” asked Murthy.

“Well, there was,” said Raghavan. “In the old days you never got your office demolished for saying something unpleasant about the government.”

“In the old days you went to jail if you offended someone in power,” said Murthy, finishing his drink and holding out the glass for more. “The first time it happened, a gentle poet called Majrooh Sultanpuri went to jail for two years for calling Nehru a disciple of Hitler.”

“Are you justifying the demolition of someone’s house on the basis of a jail sentence more than six decades ago?” asked Raghavan, visibly angry.

“No,” replied Murthy. “These things started happening soon after Independence, and have continued ever since. The ban on Rushdie’s book, for example. All governments do such things, not just this one. It’s just that some do it harder than others, or make more noise in the process.”

“Well, they’ve crossed all limits now,” said Raghavan, still hot under the collar.

“What if it’s not about freedom of speech?” asked Murthy.

“What else can it be?” asked Raghavan.

“It could be someone flexing his electoral muscle,” replied Murthy. “It’s this politician – the one who claims to have been insulted – showing the chief minister how many votes he can gather. The CM sees the numbers, so the government defends him. The comedian is collateral damage.”

“But that’s terribly unfair!” said Raghavan.

“It’s a fact of life,” said Murthy. “Besides, this comedian fellow might well benefit from all this. For all you know, he might be in on it!”

“How does he benefit from being dragged off to court?” asked Raghavan. “Or spending some time in jail?”

“He’s just got a whole lot of free publicity,” said Murthy, “and more than half of that is in defence of him. There are lots of people around who defend his right to poke fun at public figures.”

“That’s right,” Raghavan said. “A lot of people across the country are taking his side.”

“If you really want to prove that,” said Murthy, “get out on the streets for him. Numbers count.”

“Are you saying that the majority always gets its way?” Raghavan asked.

“Not at all,” said Murthy. “I’m only saying that there’s a risk of that in an electoral democracy.”

“Yes,” said Raghavan. “It depends on how willing the government is to consider other viewpoints. To negotiate.”

“Of course,” said Murthy. “But the basis of the negotiation is electoral power, not principle.”

“If you want to make a point you have to get a lot of people to make a lot of noise about it?” asked Raghavan.

“Yes,” said Murthy. “Get used to the new rule for today’s politics.”

“What?” asked Raghavan, suspicious.

“May the biggest nuisance win!”