The Indian comedy scene—lacking a better term—is not very inclusive. I know a comedian saying that isn’t great optics, and yes, it’s a bold statement. But after being in the scene for a decade and travelling extensively outside India, I can say this with confidence. There’s a deep-seated bias that used to simmer under the surface—now it’s become a clear stance. If you’re not an able-bodied, cisgender, straight male, you’re just not seen as worthy of being included in comedy spaces. Happy Pride Month, eh?
At a time when DEI policies globally are under fire—thanks to an orange-hued bag of turds nursing a breakup—it’s become clear that, much like those companies that didn’t bother with a tokenistic rainbow flag in 2025, inclusivity in Indian comedy was always performative. Everyone’s left to fend for themselves. Even the most cringe, basic, hacky comics now have their own fanbases. So yes, every type of comic has an audience—but those audiences don’t overlap.
And with all the external threats to comedy in India, is this even worth bringing up? Yes. Because the call is coming from inside the house, and no one really wants to answer it.
Why do we need alt comedy spaces?
Before I started doing comedy, I attended a lot of shows locally. While I got to watch some truly trailblazing comics early on, I never saw myself represented as a queer person. What I did get, though, were stray homophobic jabs. That’s exactly why I got on stage—to change that. The same goes for many comics who heard nothing but sexist, transphobic, ableist, casteist jokes from a privileged bunch to whom comedy was all just fun and games.
It’s not like coming out made producers suddenly embrace me with open arms either. The more time I spent around that crowd, the clearer it became: most comedy producers in India see comics as nothing more than cash cows—whether they’re renting venues or operating out of their daddy’s hotel.
When many of us realised just how much of a circle-jerk the comedy scene had become, we started our own rooms, in an attempt to create slightly more inclusive spaces. Today, Jeeya Sethi runs all-women lineups, the Blue Material team curates all-Dalit shows, and my partner and I host all-queer shows through Queer Rated.
That same impulse motivated others to get on these stages and try to bring a different vision of stand-up comedy into fruition, one that wasn’t just the broligarchy punching down. “The initial catalyst for me was to talk about disability in a realistic way—from lived experience,” says Sweta Mantrii, a Pune-based comedian and disability inclusion advocate. “I wanted to call out the problematic ways society views disability, highlight our issues without victimising us, and hold space for the community with honesty and humour.”
Ankur Tangade, a Dalit queer comedian from Beed, Maharashtra, says that she didn’t feel safe and comfortable enough to be truly herself in the more mainstream cis-het/savarna spaces. “The comics on those lineups were men talking about their lives and relationships,” she says. “I tried doing the same, thinking people wouldn’t relate to my real story. But after Queer Rated, I started sharing my truth—and it felt amazing to be understood by the audience. That’s when I stopped trying to fit in and started being myself.”
We still run into other comics on mainstream lineups, and we share green rooms with them. But many comics who perform at my mics say they don’t feel safe or seen in those spaces. So while it’s wonderful to have alternate spaces for niche voices—do we need all these scenes to eventually converge if we want a truly inclusive comedy community?
Lack of access at every level
Comedy was supposed to be egalitarian. Or at the very least, accessible. But the ground reality can be quite different. At a recent Queer Rated mic, one comic asked if they had to bring a plus-one or pay to perform. I was baffled. Open micers should only have to worry about delivering a tight, funny five. Even when Canvas Laugh Club charged ₹300 for stage time, it felt excessive. But access isn’t just about money—it’s spatial too.
“I’ve been doing stand-up for over five years and haven’t once performed at a fully accessible venue.” says Mantrii. “Steps are one issue—but the real problem is when the performance area and washrooms are on different levels. Don’t even get me started on stages without ramps. I’ve often had to perform in front of the stage, not because I want to—but because I have no other option.”
She says the stress of navigating inaccessible venues often overshadows her set, and she’s even skipped shows because of it.
An ideal green room
Once you navigate all of that as an alt comic and finally make it to the green room—the melting pot of gossip and ideas—you realise there’s still a hierarchy. Much like Twitter, vulnerability is off-limits unless it’s being used on stage to seem cool. I once shared a misadventure during anal sex with a fellow comic, and the next week, a senior comic asked me about it to my face—because apparently, half the scene already knew.
Tangade said her ideal green room would be about writing and craft. Instead, she’s learned almost nothing from the regular lineup crowd.
Mantrii imagines a green room that’s pro-women and less sexist. “There’s constant commentary on the topics women joke about, and the tired stereotype that women aren’t funny,” she says. “It creates an intimidating environment where women get side-eyes, subtle digs, and so-called ‘harmless’ jokes. This pressure not to bomb is intense—because if you do, you just proved their point.”
A message to cishet, able-bodied comedians
It’s not that we enjoy the “woe-is-me” narrative. Nobody wants that in comedy—we’re jesters at the end of the day. But the cultural bar for comedy has shifted, and Indian comics haven’t caught up.
Yes, we now have all these amazing voices among us. So how about being more accommodating? How about not just going to a queer comic to vet your queer joke, and then doing it anyway even when we say it’s offensive?
How about calling out your peers when they say sexist, racist, transphobic, or just plain unfunny shit?
A lot of you clearly didn’t want us here.
Well—now we are.
What now?
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