Azeem Banatwalla’s latest standup special Minor Celebrity begins with an explanation of the curious conundrum he finds himself in, as an Indian Muslim man making jokes about the incumbent government. If his popularity keeps increasing and exceeds a certain level, he says, the powers-that-be would have to find a way to silence him. 

“There are two options: acquire or shut down,” Banatwalla says, channeling the tenor of enthu tech-entrepreneurs (the recording is from a venue in Koramangala, Bengaluru). He then alludes to Munawar Faruqui, saying, “The roadmap to success in this industry has been charted, right? You go to jail, and then two years later you win a reality show. I haven’t completed the first step!”

This is a solidly tragicomic beginning to a 67-minute special that, despite occasional missteps, contains some of Banatwalla’s strongest work till date. Minor Celebrity is a show about the rapidly-shifting ways in which we process ‘fame’ in the era of social-media-saturation. The narrative begins on an existential note—‘if I’m not ‘proper’ famous like a Bollywood star, who am I?’ wonders Banatwalla—and gradually expands in scope across the hour. 

The comedian has a great deal of fun with the idea that both standup comedians and politicians share elements of their craft. He uses the language of corporate boardrooms and yuppie hangouts, and applies their argot to everyday socio-political scenarios (like the aforementioned ‘acquire or shut down’ joke). Banatwalla’s laidback yet assured delivery style ensures that this methodology has enough variation to keep the audience locked in.

A recurring theme that I particularly enjoyed: the insane binary of ‘toppers’ and ‘duffers’ in Indian education. One group gets almost all the resources directed towards them, while the other gets nothing but scorn, neglect and derision. Without spelling it out for the audience, Banatwalla gently suggests that because of the topper/duffer binary, young Indians are basically indoctrinated into a winner-takes-all mentality. 

He then extrapolates this idea to the realm of celebrity, both online and IRL. You’re either flavour of the season—brand deals, Insta reels and all the other accoutrements of red-hot virality—or you are a forgotten item tucked away on Page 17 of yesterday’s newspaper, wanted by nobody and destined for nothing. “You do you, we’ll get mad at somebody with more followers,” Banatwalla imagines a patronising government censor telling him.

There’s also an extended routine in the special’s midsection, about 30 minutes in, where Banatwalla satirises both the Prime Minister and Leader of Opposition. This segment suffers from some of the same problems evident in his last special Between the Lines, albeit to a much lesser extent. Gandhi and Modi are presented as two polar opposites on the same ‘Indian education spectrum’, which depends on (as Banatwalla says) talent, confidence and education. Engineers have talent but not confidence, while MBAs have it the other way around and such. 

Minor Celebrity has a solidly tragicomic beginning to a 67-minute special that, despite occasional missteps, contains some of Banatwalla’s strongest work till date.

In this framing, Modi is presented as the uneducated bloke bursting with confidence—and Gandhi as the talent-less, insecure individual who “over-compensates” by acquiring multiple degrees overseas. I understand the architecture of this setup. However, the depiction of Gandhi is an egregious case of forcing symmetry and equivalence where none exists. 

It feels inaccurate to suggest that foreign education makes one automatically disingenuous, and electoral success is certainly no universal marker of ‘talent’. If it smells like centrist crap, I usually hold my nose and call it exactly that. During Between the Lines, too, Banatwalla made a few jokes in this misguided ‘left-right, same-same’ vein. Mercifully the problem is much less significant in Minor Celebrity because here, the comedian doesn’t waste nearly as much time with this bogus framing. 

Minor Celebrity is on much stronger ground when Banatwalla is examining his own insecurities regarding fame, and the elusive nature of online validation in general (the latter of those themes is tied up very nicely with a doppelgänger joke). There are a couple of technical innovations that I also liked, as much for the smoothness of the execution as the concepts themselves. 

One, at the 22-minute-mark, the special transitions seamlessly (mid-joke no less) into a wholly different recording. The other is the special’s subtitles, which include not only the words Banatwalla is speaking—but also a kind of wry director’s commentary on proceedings (used especially well during periods of extended applause). 

For example, when Banatwalla is telling us that the Modi government would have shut him down had he been more popular, he just says the beginning of the line: “As an Indian Muslim comedian if I was any good at my job…” Even as the audience bursts into rapturous applause, you see these words onscreen: “*It’s borderline insulting how hard they agree.*”

These enjoyable little touches, the strong material about online celebrities and the overall smoothness of Banatwalla’s delivery ensure that Minor Celebrity has your undivided attention throughout. Some of his jokes are still a little rough around the edges, but this special confirms a definite level-up for this very talented comedian.