The vanishing depth of humour

One of the quieter casualties of our times is humour—not the loud, mocking kind, which thrives, but the deeper kind that includes the ability to laugh at oneself. Somewhere along the way, we have mistaken making fun of others for having a sense of humour.

The difference is not trivial; it is essential. The space for discourse has shrunk. We talk more than ever, yet we no longer converse. We do not speak to one another, but at one another. Conversation has become performance; debate, a contest of declarations. In such a climate, humour—especially the self-deprecating kind—finds little room to survive. 

Laughter requires looseness, proportion, and a willingness to appear foolish. A friend of mine, Elsa, calls such moments oolatharams—a Malayalam colloquialism for ‘silliness’, though it can mean less flattering things.

A college anecdote captures this neatly. As part of ragging, a first-year student was forced to present a play in Hindi at an inter-college festival, under threat of consequences. His handicap was simple—he barely knew
the language.

When the curtain rose, the setting was a doctor’s clinic. The “doctor”, in hesitant Hindi, asked, “Aapka naam kya hai (What is your name)?” The patient replied, “Kunniraman.” Without missing a beat, the doctor said, “Oh, you’re a Malayali,” and conducted the rest in fluent Malayalam.

No apology, no explanation—just presence of mind and an embrace of limitations. The absurdity became the joke. The ordeal ended. That is humour: not aggression or cleverness, but self-awareness.

A similar quality appears in another story. A man walked into a crucial job interview, tripped on a crease in the carpet, and fell flat before a panel. He rose, dusted himself off, and said, “Well, I suppose I’ve fallen into good company.” What matters is this: presence of mind flows from not taking embarrassment too seriously.

Its absence is stark in public life. Television debates are conducted from a bully pulpit. Anchors ask if one is “with the nation”, as though disagreement were disloyalty, and speak as if they represent millions: “The nation wants to know.” It is a tone that wounds, humiliates, and destroys reputations.

What passes for reporting is breathless and unmeasured—an attempt to compress words into time, drowning dissent through sheer volume. Decibels have replaced thought. Calmness is treated as weakness and listening as surrender.

One wonders whether R K Laxman, holding up his quiet mirror, would survive this climate without offending someone. The problem is not offence; it is fragility.

At the core of this frenzy lies a deficit of humour. For humour demands perspective, restraint, and the ability to see oneself as fallible. It cannot coexist with manufactured outrage or permanent righteous indignation.

A society that cannot laugh at itself doesn’t become more serious—it becomes brittle. And when we lose the ability to speak with one another, we inevitably lose the ability to laugh together.

That is not decline announced; it is decline ignored.

Disclaimer: The views expressed above are the author's own. They do not necessarily reflect the views of DH.