Had a run-in with a young Delhi comic recently who asked me what language I perform in when I do standup abroad. “English,” I said, instinctively. He looked at me like I’d just spat on my passport. “So you betray your roots abroad?
I asked him who his favourite comedians were, and sure enough, the usual suspects: Louis CK, Seinfeld, Norm Macdonald. “And what language do they perform in?” I asked. Silence.
Here’s the thing: with India’s size and diaspora, it isn’t that wild to see a Hindi special being performed in Iceland anymore. Hindi standup is growing fast, exploding even, and I genuinely admire it. They’re the ones selling thousands of tickets every weekend, building audiences, making actual money. Meanwhile, English comics like me? We’re the endangered species, playing to the same rooms, trying to convince people that this shrinking island of irony is still worth visiting.
They say you should always perform in the language your brain thinks in. But envy? That doesn’t need translation.
This casual green room conversation made me nostalgic for the silent comedy era—Chaplin, Keaton, Laurel and Hardy—when humour didn’t need translation. Even Mr Bean carried that legacy into the ’90s, proving that a good pratfall is universal. India’s comic traditions, however, were founded in satire, through poetry, literature, and theatre. Standup comedy, as a stage art, came much later.
When it first arrived in India in the late 2000s, English was the default. The Comedy Store in Mumbai opened its doors in a glitzy mall and brought in UK comics to mentor the local, upcoming scene. And then came the Hinglish wave—a mashup so unique and bizarre it could only have been born in Indian cities. Think: “Chal na bro, why you fokat ka stressing?” Half the sentence in Hinglish, the other half in existential despair.
Comedian Rohit Shah recalls the shift. “When I started in 2017, it was premise in English, punchline in Hindi. But now, it’s fluid; I switch without thinking.”
It isn’t just Hindi vs English either. It’s also North vs South. In Delhi, Chandigarh, Jaipur, you’ll hear Hindi; Bengaluru, Kochi, Chennai skew English, with thriving local-language scenes in Kannada, Tamil, and Malayalam.
As Ramya Ramapriya, fresh off her Australia tour, put it: “I grew up on Kannada comedy. But when I started, there were hardly any Kannada comics. So the choice was between Hindi and English. English felt more natural.”
Today, line-ups are often a mixed bag. But if a show is advertised as “English” and unsuspecting foreigners turn up, they’re often baffled by the unpredictable dance between languages. Comics love that moment of course, sometimes milking it by pulling the cheap trick of teaching them a Hindi cuss word just to bask in the collective joy of their cluelessness.
But here’s the reality: in India, the mainstream is Hindi. English comics get their flowers abroad, but at home, the stage is getting smaller.
Hindi comedy has undeniable upsides. The audience is massive, the algorithm loves it, and the path to financial stability is far clearer. Crack a viral Hindi set and you’re suddenly in demand across the country—club shows, college gigs, corporates, festivals, OTT specials, the works.
But success in Hindi also changes the texture of the scene. The greenroom vibe changes. The politics are different. Jokes about global affairs or niche references sometimes bomb because audiences aren’t primed for them. Comedy has gone mainstream, yes, but has the audience evolved with it?
As Rohit Shah remembers when the doors to go global first opened, “When Atul Khatri and Amit Tandon started touring internationally, we realised Hindi comedy wasn’t just for India anymore—it had a global market. Soon, comics were performing in the US, Europe, Australia. Newer markets opened up.”
So yes, Hindi is where mass appeal and mainstream fame live. It’s where you get the big tours, the OTT specials, and the ad money. But it can also narrow your creative canvas—the more you cater to the majority, the more you risk being locked into a cultural bubble.
English comedy, on the other hand, is both a curse and a blessing. The biggest pro: reach. You’re speaking in a language multiple countries understand—your jokes can land audiences from Berlin to Boston is its own high. My overseas shows often have 80% non-Indian audiences, and that feeling, that universality, is priceless.
But the cons? Many. Within India, English comedy can feel isolating. On mixed lineups, English comics often struggle to connect when sandwiched between Hindi comics who are instantly relatable and have just killed on stage. Commercial success comes slower too—the Indian internet doesn’t push English content with the same enthusiasm. And let’s be brutally honest, NRIs are notorious for being stingy with tickets unless it’s a big “marquee” Indian name on the bill. This “cheap NRI mentality” has bled into comedy culture too.
Daniel Fernandes puts it best, “There’s a big market for English comedy in India. The challenge is building it through the chaos of the internet and the hurdles on ground. It’s tough, but not impossible.”
So where do we go from here?
For Fernandes, the answer is clear. Switching to Hindi just to appease desis abroad isn’t an option. “While I love my Indian fans abroad, I want my work to be accessible to a global audience at all times,” he said.
Ramapriya agrees with caveats, “Biggest pro of English comedy? I don’t have to add fuel to the tired ‘Madrasi Hindi’ stereotype. Biggest con? I can’t always write about my parents. Their scolding in English doesn’t sound real. My dad saying “You are useless!” just doesn’t have the same punch as “Nikammi.”
Other comics like Simar Singh are happy to go bilingual, translating their sets into Hindi, pleased to see that it sounds sharper, funnier even. At the end of the day, it isn’t about betraying a language, your roots, or selling out to a market. Comedy in India will always be multilingual, messy, and constantly shifting. And that’s not a weakness—it’s our superpower. If anything, it forces us to be sharper writers, better performers, and smarter navigators of culture. Because the true language of comedy isn’t Hindi or English. It’s survival. Whoever adapts fastest, and keeps the room laughing, wins.
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