As a queer comic, I’ve often felt like I was speaking into a void the mainstream didn’t care to acknowledge. Having someone back my voice mattered. For years, I was lucky to have managers who vouched for me, fought for me, and believed in me even when I didn’t. And while that experience feels personal, it isn’t.

On some days, being a stand-up comedian in India feels less like a creative pursuit and more like being inventory: another face on a poster, another slot in a lineup, a jester stripped of all humanity.

After close to eight years of being managed, going solo felt like stepping out of a long-term relationship. Suddenly, you’re doing all the invisible work yourself. Because beyond the art and the virality, comedy today is a business, and cousin, business is a-booming.

Which raises a question the industry still hasn’t quite answered: what does a comedy manager actually do? And more importantly, who is managing whom?

Early comics did everything themselves—producing shows, negotiating fees, chasing payments, and somewhere in between, writing jokes. The YouTube boom of 2015–16, followed by the Instagram reel explosion, didn’t just grow audiences; it created demand, scale, and a need for structure.

Beyond the art and the virality, comedy today is a business, and cousin, business is a-booming.

Companies like OML helped formalise that structure. When I entered the scene, getting signed by them meant you were in the big leagues, even if it came with the understanding of how much it took to stay there, a dynamic that has since shifted with more comedians and management companies entering the space.

The landscape today is bigger, noisier, more fragmented, and yet, for all that growth, the rules of how this industry actually works remain surprisingly unclear.

The role hasn’t caught up with the scale.

The Indian scene blurs terminology, but the distinction between an agent and a manager is simple. An agent books work. A manager builds careers.

“An agent focuses on getting deals… A manager looks after the entire career – strategy, content, tours, PR,” says Manu Vijayan, who runs his own management company, MtO37. Or as Smrita Roy from OML, who found her calling during the pandemic when comedy was at its peak online, puts it, “An agent sees numbers. A manager sees growth and long-term trajectory.”

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In practice, especially in smaller setups, one person ends up doing both: negotiating deals, planning tours, handling content, and occasionally acting as therapist.

Ask any manager what their job looks like and you’ll get the same answer: follow-ups.

Endless follow-ups.

Everything else is just variations of that, chasing brands, locking dates, fixing logistics, smoothing expectations, managing artists, and absorbing blame so the comic doesn’t have to. It’s not glamorous. It’s barely visible. It’s constant.

“It can get overwhelming. You have to manage your anxieties and time,” says Utkarsh Jaiswal, who has been managing artists since 2018 and currently works with Curry Leaf (formerly Lasoon Live). Vijayan adds, “Enquiries can come anytime… the fastest response gets it.” And then there’s the part no one says out loud: emotional management. As Roy puts it, “Creative geniuses don’t always have rational thinking, you need the skin of a rhino.”

For all the talk of strategy, much of the job is making sure things don’t fall apart.

And yet, people stay. Some for the love of the work. Some for the upside when an artist breaks out. Because the upside is real: brands are spending, regional comics are breaking out, international touring is becoming routine. As Jaiswal says, “Micro is the game now. Many comedians are breaking out on formats apart from stand-up.”

No artist relies on a manager, you get maybe 20% more work. But their main job is reducing friction.
– Aditya Gundeti

For comedians, management often feels like relief.

Aditya Gundeti remembers accepting whatever money clients offered. “This was a poor way of working. Since I’ve been managed, it’s been much better. My manager is a great negotiator.” But he’s clear about the limits: “No artist relies on a manager, you get maybe 20% more work. But their main job is reducing friction.”

That word, friction, comes up a lot.

Pavitra Shetty describes her experience as mixed. “I definitely got more stage time. But because I wasn’t so popular, I felt I could manage myself. Giving away 20% felt like a lot then.” Jeeya Sethi points to a structural issue: there simply aren’t enough managers for the number of comics. “Not having management can hinder opportunities but on the flipside, sometimes managers take cuts even when the comic gets the deal.”

Management amplifies opportunity. It doesn’t create it. And often, that amplification is simply about access. Producers and curators still decide who gets stage time, usually based on a mix of draw, reliability, and fit. In that system, half the job is just being visible. As one manager told me off-record, “Half the job is making sure you’re in the room when people are making the list.”

Not everyone wants a manager. Or needs one. Or can get one.

Rupali Tyagi prefers independence. “I like doing things my own way. My needs keep changing depending on the phase of my career.”

But independence comes at a cost. You keep 100% of the money, but you also inherit 100% of the admin. Every negotiation, every email, every follow-up. The same work managers do, just unpaid.

Which is why, for many mid-level comics, the real question isn’t “Should I get a manager?” but “Is there even someone available to manage me?”

So who holds the power in this relationship? Depends on who you ask. Comics feel managed when creative choices are questioned. Managers feel disposable when artists switch agencies overnight. Clients think everyone is disorganised. Audiences don’t think about it at all.

The truth is, control here is fluid.

Most comics agree on one non-negotiable: creative control. As Gundeti puts it, “Advice is necessary only when the comedian asks for it. Not otherwise.”

But in practice, that boundary is constantly negotiated. A suggestion becomes a note. A note becomes pressure. And sometimes, pressure becomes silence.

And then there’s the question the industry is least comfortable answering: who gets managed in the first place?

Every manager I spoke to said some version of the same thing: a little progress, mostly not enough. Vijayan sees change in pockets. Roy points out that entire audiences aren’t even aware that comics from PWD, DBA, or LGBTQIA+ communities exist.

Very few comedians from these backgrounds have consistent management because agencies hesitate to invest in artists who aren’t already drawing massive audiences.

Which makes representation less about talent and more about perceived risk.

Very few comedians from these backgrounds have consistent management because agencies hesitate to invest in artists who aren’t already drawing massive audiences. I know comics who have come out to me privately but are afraid to do so publicly because their management discourages it.

Corporate DEI bookings have dropped. Pride month, once a reliable source of work, is quieter. For alt voices, survival still depends on independent showcases, supportive producers, loyal niche audiences, and community. The system helps occasionally. Mostly, artists help each other.

So who is really running the show? Nobody, and everybody.

Comedy in India still behaves like a start-up, messy, personality-driven, constantly evolving. Managers aren’t puppet masters. Comics aren’t entirely in control either. Everyone is improvising in an industry that scaled faster than its systems.

The relationship, in the end, is a partnership. A negotiation. A slightly dysfunctional arrangement held together by deadlines, panic, and the shared desire to make something work.

A manager can open doors, but you still have to walk through them. Being unmanaged gives you freedom, but also more admin than any artist deserves. No agency will fix your career if you’re not doing the work. And no comic will rise if the industry doesn’t make space for more voices.

So who is really managing whom?

Maybe that’s the point.