Comedians have always played with fire, but especially this year in India, it feels like some of us have swapped out the friendly bonfires to walk around with kerosene and matches instead. The result? A collective flinch every time a joke lands.

We did this dance once before, remember? October 2018, #MeToo at full volume, involving some pretty  big voices. Forty-plus comics and producers felt compelled to put aside their differences and cram under one Mumbai roof to look for solutions to the scene’s growing problems; a blueprint of sorts, for a cleaner, safer circuit. A promise to swap back-room whispers for proper accountability. Top of the agenda was a comedians’ union. Great chat, zero follow-through. A historic “all hands” that everybody forgot about the minute the immediate crisis was averted. Is it time to consider Take 2? 

Why does comedy need a union, anyway?

In most industries, a union means someone has your back as a worker. It’s common in fields like mining, factories, film, and TV—where unions protect workers from unsafe conditions, fight for fair pay, or help resolve disputes.

Indian comedians could use all of that. We’ve been physically and verbally assaulted far more often than anyone should. Creative integrity? That’s another conversation for another day.

In practice, a union would campaign for fair pay, safer working conditions, legal help, and dispute resolution. Such bodies exist elsewhere: the UK has Equity, the performers’ union, and Norway has the Norsk revyforfatterforening.

Right now, though, power in the Indian scene is concentrated in a few hands: prominent comedy management collectives, venues, and ticketing platforms decide everything—who gets booked, who gets promoted, and what they get paid. If Munawar steals your joke, your best bet is an Instagram rant.

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Because the comedy scene here blew up almost overnight, nothing got streamlined. There’s no standard channel to raise grievances. Venues and producers blacklist comedians they don’t like—and vice versa. If bans are going to happen anyway, why not at least formalise them through proper processes?

“Everyone should get a fair say”

Comedian Masoom Rajwani has long advocated for a union, arguing it would level the playing field. “A union will have an office address; our parents won’t be endangered by letters or people showing up at our homes,” he says.

At venues like The Habitat, comics currently have to submit Aadhar card copies to get on stage. If there’s trouble, there’s nothing stopping attackers from tracking comedians down at home.

Then there’s the question of pay. Almost none of the comedy venues in India pay artists for doing lineup spots. And there’s no one to complain to. Once, a venue that could have paid artists offered the midnight comics a meal instead—and we accepted, like the hungry, depraved morons we are.

Representation could be made a norm rather than an afterthought.

Rajwani points out that the last time comedians were paid consistently was during the Canvas Laugh Club days, before even they defaulted and the venue shut down. “Right now, The Habitat is the only venue that can actually pay comics because it’s not a rented venue. But we’re still fighting with them to get paid,” he says. “But with a union, that would become standard—rules would apply across venues, not just at one.”

According to Rajwani, The Habitat plans to start paying comedians from August 2025—though that remains to be seen.

A union would also help ensure more representative lineups. Right now, most shows are “sausage fests” because of poor planning or laziness. Representation could be made a norm rather than an afterthought.

So why hasn’t it happened?

Given all these issues, it might seem surprising a union hasn’t been formed already. In fact, we did come close once.

After #MeToo, a committee was set up to discuss solutions. It eventually included poets, improv artists, and even some musicians. But, as comedian Pavitra Shetty recalls, it fizzled out before the pandemic. “After three meetings, it became difficult to get everyone to turn up, and we needed a certain majority to make decisions. To hire lawyers and formalise the process, money was needed—but the big question became: who will pay for it?”

Without a consensus solution, the momentum stalled.

Rajwani points out that most venues and management collectives have their own lawyers, giving them an edge. But he adds that there are also plenty of lawyers who are happy to help comedians pro bono or for small fees—and that better-off comedians could chip in for those who can’t.

Shetty adds another challenge: comedy is an inherently individualistic craft, making consensus difficult. Another source who was on the committee says: “If comedians didn’t show up for free meetings organised for them, expecting them to pay to join a union seems unrealistic.” And few comics want to publicly hold peers accountable—unless it’s via WhatsApp groups or Instagram stories.

Plus, comedy “scenes” in Mumbai, Delhi, Bengaluru, and elsewhere operate differently. What works in one city might not work in another.

So what now?

Until the push for a comedy union finally gathers momentum, there are still a few things comedians can do to protect themselves:

• Call out problematic comedians who say and do problematic things. Try and make the green rooms safe and accessible. When a venue owner uses casteist slurs, maybe don’t go running back to their venue. 

• Producers can stop whining privately and do real work: promote shows, finalise and publish lineups early.

• Run your material past comics outside your immediate circle.

• Get legal eyes on your jokes: lawyer Apar Gupta (of Internet Freedom Foundation) has offered to vet material pro bono.

When it comes to the art form of stand-up comedy, a handful of management companies and venues cannot act as gatekeepers and rule makers. If comedy is supposed to be a playground, let’s at least make sure everyone gets a go on the ride.