Mohalla to Madison Square, meet the new wave of Muslim comics

They say Muslims are the most unemployed. Others claim Muslims are the most backward. Still others insist Muslims are the most uneducated. But judging by the sheer number of mushrooming eateries in Muslim areas, it seems that Muslims are simply the most hungry."

That is a joke by Rehman Khan, born and raised in "Mumbai's most too much place" Kurla. His "tandoori-roasted, biryani-laced, full-spice" set 'Miyan Bhai Khana and Kurla' has racked up nearly three lakh views on YouTube. Fluent in street swagger and Bambaiya-laced slang, the now-Powai-based comic recalls the casual confidence of local boys who once approached him for a selfie saying: "Chal Rehman bhai ko famous karke aate hain (let's make Rehman bhai famous)." Legendary late comic Raju Srivastav too praised Rehman's grasp of language: "How did you get the nuance

so right?"

Indore-bred comedian Zakir Khan may have capped his blockbuster career with a sold-out show at Madison Square Garden in New York, but there is also a new wave of Muslim comics finding laughs in gullies and mohallas. From biryani to backstreet banter, they mine food obsessions and neighbourhood stereotypes while walking the tightrope of identity

and scrutiny.

Do not ask Haseeb Khan where he is from. Once, an uncle made that mistake. When Haseeb said "MP", the man's eyes lit up. "Where in MP?" he pressed. "Bhopal," Haseeb replied. The uncle hugged him. "Where in Bhopal," he asked. Haseeb stopped short of saying Jahangirabad - afraid the man might kiss him next.

"Why can't people believe two people can hail from the same city?" he wonders in his set 'Mein Karachi Se Hoon', which has earned him over one crore views on YouTube, apart from fans on both sides of the border. With over 4 lakh followers on Instagram spanning Lucknow to London, the Bhopal-born engineering dropout aka @a_sad_comic - who is sometimes mistaken for standup comic Zakir Khan's brother - has become a face of a small yet significant wave.

Yet behind that laughter lies a quiet tension. "There was a time when I used to perform and watch political comedy," says Rehman. "Now I've stopped watching the news," he says, half-joking. A year ago, he found two of his corporate shows in a state that he does not name cancelled suddenly because of his political jokes. "I have toned down my material a lot. It is suffocating and a bit sad," admits Rehman, who envies the freedom comics abroad enjoy.

In India, political satire remains a minefield. Junagadh-born Munawar Faruqui's brushes with FIRs and controversy have underscored how fragile a minority comic's voice can be. "There is always a fear of being targeted, especially in North India," says Adel Rehman, who hails from Arrah near Patna. His viral video 'Bihar' (2.8 lakh views) skewers stereotypes: "Comedians smoke and drink after shows. In Bihar, they go home and study for UPSC". Adel -who faced hecklers in Gurugram on two occasions - has now shifted base to Bengaluru, partly to be able to speak his mind.

"I have been denied homes here too because of my identity but I find the city more open," says Adel, who runs comedy venues in Bengaluru. "Jokes are jokes. They are not meant to offend. For instance, I do a lot of jokes on my dead father, both onstage and off it. It's not disrespect, it's how you cope with grief."

While A-listers can afford lawyers, many comics - who hail from tier 2 and 3 towns - cannot, he says. "Going to jail is the last thing but there are other personal costs - threats, family members getting hassled, venues being ransacked, brands stepping away, and boycott culture," says Adel, who thinks twice before posting his sets online. "I have also stopped reading the comments," he says.

Ask him about the ratio of Muslim voices in standup and Adel quips: "Just like in the Parliament, the representation is low." It's rarer still to find Muslim women comics within this minority. Apart from established Mumbai comics such as Sumaira Shaikh ("I love gangsters. You are like, you are from Dongri. Of course, you don't like poets") and Urooj Ashfaq, emerging voices include Delhi's Daahab Chishti, who grew up in a mohalla in Uttam Nagar, observing the "nau se

barah shows"

of gossiping aunties, a kirana store owner named Pappu uncle with capacious khatas (credit accounts) and his grandma who'd sit on a chatai, serving as the "CCTV" of the street. "A mohalla," Chishti says in 'Ladke', which has nearly six lakh views, "is an L-shaped gully which collects funds from residents to erect gates at both ends and calls itself a society."

In 2021, a severe bout of Covid landed her in an ICU for four months.

'Alive' - her first special - was mostly about surviving, about what happens when your

lungs fight to remember breath. "People are not comfortable with the idea

of joking about death," says Chishti, who cut out many bits from the show though she aches for a poignant special in the vein of Zakir Khan's 'Tathastu', an ode to his late grandfather.

Daahab also feels the weight of identity in every joke she considers posting. "Hundred percent, there is censorship," she says. "I am a woman. I am a Muslim. I am a comedian - enough fodder for a news channel for a month," laughs Daahab, who has a set about Muslim identity that she will never post. If she does, she says it will either go viral or get her family into intense trouble or both. "I have been given a new lease of life. I want to value it," deadpans Daahab.

Recently, at an event in Islam Gymkhana in Mumbai, Rehman noticed the audience gravitate toward the buffet counter as soon as he began his set. "I said, Assalam Walekum, mere bhooke musalmanon (greetings, my hungry brethren). They didn't like it," he says. On another occasion, when he joked about Muslims who were not getting vaccinated, members of the community said: "Why are you spoiling our reputation?"

While Rehman finds solace in a friend's refrain, "Yeh gaali nahin, dua hai" (these aren't abuses but blessings), he too, like Daahab, has learned to wrap political jokes in "malmal": not naming parties, using allegory, using subtext. In one of his sets, he gives his girlfriend a lotus on Valentine's Day.

As for Daahab, she takes a friend - who has suddenly lost his voice - to a doctor in one of her routines. The doctor diagnoses him with Stage 2 Apolitical Syndrome: "First, it takes away your spine, then your voice, then your mind and then the nation gets screwed over."


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