Kunal Kamra, no stranger to controversy, has once again found himself at the centre of a political storm. This time, it isn’t just heckling or outrage on social media—it’s physical intimidation, vandalism, and the full force of the state machinery cracking down, not on him directly, but on the venue that hosted his show. The irony couldn’t be starker: a comedian pokes fun at the powerful, and instead of rebuttal, we get demolition crews.
Kamra’s response to the outrage was characteristically sharp—pointing out the absurdity of attacking a studio for a comedian’s words, just as one wouldn’t overturn a tomato truck for bad butter chicken. But the incident is far from funny. The destruction of Habitat Studio, allegedly over civic violations, reeks of selective enforcement. This is not an isolated case; we’ve seen similar “coincidental” demolitions in the past, often following political disagreements. When did a municipal body become a political hit squad?
If the studio truly violated civic rules, the timing of the action makes it clear that laws were conveniently wielded as weapons rather than applied as neutral regulations. The real message is chilling: say something unpalatable to those in power, and retribution will come—not through lawful debate or rebuttal, but through brute force.
This isn’t just about Kamra. It’s about the larger erosion of freedom of expression in India, a right that should allow citizens—not just comedians—to criticise, mock, and question authority. Political satire has always been a litmus test for a democracy’s health. If a nation’s leaders cannot tolerate being the subject of a joke, it speaks volumes about their insecurities.
Kamra pointed out that his joke about Eknath Shinde wasn’t even his own—it was something Ajit Pawar had said earlier. Yet, no Shiv Sena workers ransacked Pawar’s office, no BMC squad arrived unannounced at his residence. The unequal application of “offence” reveals a deeper problem: in India today, freedom of speech increasingly exists only for those willing to flatter power.
The greater tragedy in this episode is not just the attack on a comedian or a comedy venue—it is the normalisation of such responses. When vandalism becomes the standard reaction to disagreement, when bureaucratic machinery is used for political vendettas, when those who should protect democratic values actively undermine them, we have to ask: how much longer before free speech is reduced to a legal fiction?
Kamra, in his usual irreverent style, suggested hosting his next show at Elphinstone Bridge, a structure long in need of demolition. His sarcasm carries a grim undertone—when voices of dissent are crushed, the demolition isn’t just of buildings. It’s of democratic ideals, bit by bit, until nothing remains but silence.