750 word essay: A eulogy to what I thought was my comedy ‘career’

I’ve been in a tremendously toxic relationship with standup for 8 years now. It had all the makings of emotional abuse – I never felt enough. I didn’t doubt my skills as a ‘Creative’, as a copywriter, a copyeditor. But comedy was my cruel mistress. Egging me on with a promise of reward after every rite of passage. The rites of passage are many – your first open mic, your first open spot (a longer set for veteran comedians), your first hosting, your first paid gig, a Comicstaan auditon, getting screened for the second round of Comicstaan auditions, a stint at a comedy sketch writing room, a slightly expensive Habitat recording, a venue vandalised in your name. Would you consider me entitled to assume that at this point in my life I should be able to command a modest following and spots at a respectable comedy club? That’s the thing with abusive marriages – you’re almost always sure you’re the problem.

At my age, I am apparently past my “shelf life” as a comic. These are not my words but I’ve borrowed them because there is no other way to put it. Not because I am 33 years old in life, but because I am 8 years old in comedy and if I didn’t ‘make it’ yet, I never will. It’s now a vicious circle of ‘I am rusty because I don’t get spots’ and ‘We can’t give her spots, she hasn’t been doing this regularly enough and she is rusty’. I am a ‘has-been’ even before I could ‘be’.

I do not have the strength to research what stage of grief this is. But I know I bawled this morning when I woke up to message from a comedy producer who has convinced me that standup is no longer for me. We were friends. We aren’t anymore. Not because he refused me a spot. But because he Chatgpt-ed his way out of a conversation with a friend. He could have just blocked me like a normal person should.

I don’t actually believe there is any journey really worth navigating through in anonymous mediocrity. I see the thousands of people living their lives devoted to marriages and mortgages and Dmat accounts and appraisals. And now, I’ll have to be one of them. There is content, I’ve heard them say, but I don’t buy it.

I wish I could say it’s been a good ride all along. It wasn’t. The burn of an aftertaste will always remain branded on my tongue.

Yesterday was the first night of grief, washed in Jameson and Marlboro Fine Touches – still reeling from the shock of it all. I’ve to replace the open mic night with something else. As of now it’s a splitting headache and a hangover with eyebags the size of a tote. I wish I could be one of those people with life partners and babies, having a purpose to live for. I don’t have the constitution for it.

Cigarette Break.

• – – – –

The cigarette helped ( “Har Fikr Ko Dhue Mein” for the seventh time since last night).

I’ll be one of those people burying myself in making decks and strategy late into the nights. I will cook French Toast on weekends, take belly dance workshops and write “for myself”. There will be no glory, no respite from that nagging feeling of what “could have been” for this “has been” who could never “be”.

I am back to that first year of standup. I had an open mic night to attend at Toons Bar in Camp, Pune. And just as I was about to leave, a voice whispered, “But you are such a sound writer – shouldn’t you just be writing?” That was my mother. Her words cinged so deep that night, it hurt when I bombed. I had become brazen to bombing regularly because bombing is standard-issue. It doesn’t stop even after you make it. Catch our veterans in a room not filled with stands and you’ll see. Because comedy needs context. Without context on you, it’s hard to win over people. That challenge was what made it all worth it. That was the resilience I believed in. That was the resilience I was proud of.

What am I going to call myself now. It’s not a skin I can shed or slip out of. I have to surgically remove it from within, it’s embedded deep inside my veins. I remember what I was like with a mic. I am hoping to forget it soon. You’ll see me at the Karaoke at Den. I’ll hold the mic like someone who was made for it. I’ll lie to myself again.

मोहब्बत करने वाले कम न होंगे 
तेरी महफ़िल मे लेकिन ह्म ना होंगे | 
जमाने भर के गम या इक तेरा गम. . .