Vir Das: Abroad Understanding (2017)
♪ What you see right now ♪
♪ Is a man in a pool of light ♪ ♪
Camera swings around ♪
♪ You see he’s brown He isn’t white ♪
♪ You’re surprised Who’s this Indian guy? ♪
♪ He’s a Netflix Recommend ♪
♪ Plain to see diversity ♪
♪ Is policy ♪
♪ Let me introduce myself ♪
♪ Unless you’ve already left ♪
♪ Which makes you a racist ♪
♪ In the digital sense ♪
♪ If you come down to India ♪
♪ I’m a big deal ♪
♪ Check out this stadium ♪
♪ That I just filled with my family ♪
♪ And now you’re feeling alienated ’Cause you don’t anticipate ♪
♪ That I can make you laugh ♪
♪ You’ve never met an Indian bloke You’ve never heard an Indian joke ♪
♪ So will you understand? ♪
♪ Fucking relax ♪
♪ Let the camera track ♪
♪ ’Cause as the camera Goes around my back ♪
♪ You see my show has another half, eh ♪
♪ Now we’re in New York ♪
♪ City ♪
♪ In an American comedy club ♪
♪ That’s kind of small and pretty ♪
♪ I’ve traveled far ♪
♪ ’Cause in your market I’m just starting out ♪
♪ I haven’t made it ♪
♪ I have just downgraded ♪
♪ To this American crowd ♪
♪ Hey, hey, yeah, yeah ♪
♪ Yeah ♪
♪ Yeah ♪
♪ My bags are packed ♪
♪ And I think it’s time ♪
♪ To go ♪
♪ So make some noise ♪
♪ If you wanna start my show ♪
Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Vir Das. Thank you so much for coming out and being in my Netflix special. Thank you. It is good to be in my hometown of Delhi, ladies and gentlemen. I am a Delhi boy. This is my dream, ladies and gentlemen. Not the Netflix special or, like, the stadium. I’ve just never had eight clocks. It’s nice, no? This is what it takes to get a Delhi audience here on time, by the way. Eight clocks. What is tonight about, ladies and gentlemen? Tonight is about things that I don’t understand. That’s the whole show. And hopefully, at the end of the night, we cannot understand that shit together. I have to tell you something. This show is going to be shot half here and half in America. So at this point in the special, in three seconds, we’re going to cut to 200 clueless Americans sitting in a comedy club. And they’re waiting to hear what we have to say. And I’m just hoping to God that they understand. No English. Two hours. No English. Only Hindi. All the white people are like, “Oh, no. It’s like that time we watched Narcos.” Oh, ladies and gentlemen, my name is Vir Das. Thank you for coming tonight. Are you feeling good, New York City? Are you feeling good, yes? Listen. I have an announcement before we start the show, all right? Let’s just get this out of the way. I have an Indian accent. This is the next hour of your lives. This does not change. I’m not doing a bit. I’m not impersonating a hilarious relative. There’s no fucking Apu from The Simpsons joke coming up. Tonight, for the first time in your life, maybe the Indian accent can be a perspective, not a punch line. Wouldn’t that be nice, yes? But so give it time. My accent will grow on you guys. Give it time, all right? Just give it four or five generations, we’ll be fine. And it’s okay to not understand each other. There are things about me that you don’t understand, like my accent. There are things about you that I do not understand, like your women. I don’t understand American women. I don’t understand how you can resist this. Have you tried Indian yet, darling?
No.
Oh, you must. Once you go brown, the other colors let you down. There are two Mexicans in the back. “Write this shit down, man. This shit applies to us too, ese.” No, I apologize. I don’t mean to insult, like, Mexican people. I’m sorry. I’m just a comedian. I’m not running for president. Oh, come on. We have to talk about this shit. We do. Are you okay, guys? I’m so sorry. Are you okay? Fuck the Netflix show. We’ll turn the cameras off. We’ll just hug each other for an hour. Let’s do that. And believe me, as Indians, we understand. We understand. We have both, in a very poetic coincidence, elected very large, very popular, very scary, very orange leadership to run our countries. Do you like our new prime minister, yes? So do I. Like, not everything is Modi’s fault. You can’t blame Modi for everything. It’s a parliamentary system. Plus, to blame the prime minister, he kind of has to be here. And this is what I like about the American presidential system. At least you always know where the president is. Right? He is in the White House, and you know that house because you have seen it blow up in ten different movies. This is the other thing, like, with American movies. They keep blowing up their White House. Have you noticed this? It’s very cathartic. Like, aliens blew up the White House. Gerard Butler blew up the White House. Donald Trump will blow up the White House. But you never see that in, like, Indian movies, right? You never see an alien hover over Delhi and just blow up the Lok Sabha. ’Cause Indians wouldn’t believe that shit. Be like, “What a stupid alien. It’s parliament. There’s nobody in there. It’s Monday.”
But they get a cool address in America. They get the White House, man. What is Modi’s address? Who knows where Modi lives, apart from the hearts of Hindus and memories of Muslims? Huh? Who knows? I’m just saying. But they do that shit in their movies. I remember watching an American film called Air Force One. Do you remember that movie, guys? They hijacked the president of the United States’s plane. You can’t do that shit to Modi. He flies Air India. Do you know how hard it is to hijack an Air India plane? “All right, everybody get down on the floor.” “Uh, excuse me, sir.” “Shut up. Okay, put your hands up in the air.” “Uh, excuse me, sir.” “Shut up. This plane belongs to the Caliphate of the Brotherhood of the… ” “Excuse me, sir.” “What?” “Sir, veg or non-veg?” “Are you serious? I’m trying to take hostages.” “Sir, we don’t have that. We have chicken tikka or palak paneer.” “Fine. Veg. All right?” “Sir, we are out of veg.” “Then why did you…? Stop crowding the aisle, all right? Lose some weight, would you? Get out. Okay, who is the pilot of the plane?” “Sir, I am the pilot of the plane.” “Okay, you are going to call your government and tell them not to expect your prime minister tomorrow.” “Sir, they are not expecting him tomorrow. They never know when to expect him, sir.” “How can they not know when to expect him? He’s a prime minister, not a monsoon.” “Sir, frutti?” “Bitch, I will behead you and shoot your beheaded head. Okay, where is the prime minister?” “Sir, he’s in economy.” “Don’t lie to me.” “No, sir, in Air India, the first-class seats don’t recline. But if you get three economy seats, it becomes a flat bed. It’s very comfortable, sir.” But I don’t mean to insult my country, ladies and gentlemen.
I am a patriotic Indian. Are you, yes?
Yes! My patriotism is based on a very simple fact: that this country is where I live. That’s it. I live in India. I am proud of India. If I lived in Estonia, I would be proud of Estonia. If I lived in Zimbabwe, I would move to Estonia. There is no middle ground in India anymore. We all have to align ourselves. You’re left wing or right wing. Left wing or right wing. It’s like you think India is a bird. India’s not a bird. Birds are free. India is a goldfish, ladies and gentlemen. It’s a really good goldfish, but it’s a goldfish. We have a memory of 15 seconds. This is India. “I’m India. I live in a bowl. I love my bowl. I want nothing more than what is in my bowl. But look. The bowl is made of glass. There’s another world outside the bowl, a world with different cultures, different ideologies, different beliefs, different sexual orientations. I must learn. I must embrace. I must… I’m India. I live in a bowl. I want nothing more than what is in my bowl.”
But don’t worry. I think there’s a bright side. The way I see this whole thing working out for you guys is you’re like a girl. You know what I mean? And you were in a relationship with a guy for about seven years. Barack was a good guy, but it didn’t work out. And you broke up. And then you met this older guy, Bernie, but he was too geeky for you, but he had good ideas. And then you were, like, in a long-distance relationship with this chick called Hillary, but everything was on e-mail and you didn’t like that shit. And eventually, your parents forced you to marry a boy. This is your arranged marriage, ladies and gentlemen. In the most literal sense, your parents picked this guy for you, ’cause you didn’t vote for him. Look at the sad Indians clapping. But I don’t think it’s going to change that much. I think it’ll just… It’ll be a temporary thing, but it’ll redefine what American patriotism is for a while. ’Cause your patriotism, it should be very open, very accepting. It was like, “Man, welcome to America, land of the free, home of the brave. Give us your tired, your poor, your huddled, your jet-lagged, your peckish, whatever.” It was everybody. And now it’s just going to change for a while. It’ll just be like, “America. We’ll see.” I want to leave you with a bright side. Even this huge orange cloud has a silver lining. All right? Now, this is it. I genuinely think this will cut down on terrorism. I do. It will cut down on terrorism, because, honestly, what’s the point? “We must bomb America.” “Well, why should we bomb America?” “To leave them in a state of despair, hopelessness and collapse.” “They beat us to it. Seems a bit redundant.” But this is a scary man. We saw him on TV every day. “We’ve got to ban the ‘Muh-slims.’ Kick out the ‘Muh-slims.’ Ban the ‘Muh-slims.’ Throw out all the ‘Muh-slims.’ No ‘Muh-slims.’” And the entire world is watching that going, “It’s Muslim, you son of a bitch. Learn how to pronounce it before you ban it, would you? Muslim is a religious belief. Muslin is a fabric. What, are you going to ban stretchy clothes, you moron?” I understand religious phobia, ladies and gentlemen. Do you believe we live in a world, in an atmosphere of religious phobia?
Yes or no.
Yeah! Do you believe that 99 percent of that phobia is irrational?
Yes or no.
Yeah! Do you believe that religion is the problem?
Yeah!
I don’t. Religion is good at its heart. Right, ladies and gentlemen? It’s always good. What is a religion? It’s five don’ts. Five things you shouldn’t do, they wrote it down. Four of them make sense. The fifth one they added just to fuck with you. Just to see if you’re paying attention. That’s a religion. Don’t lie. Don’t cheat. Don’t kill. Don’t fuck. Don’t eat non-veg on Tuesdays. Don’t wear panties on Sunday night. That’s a religion. Ladies, it’s a religion. Take them off. I swear to God. We’ll go to heaven together. Come on. Like, to me, the problem is not religion. It’s religious text, ladies and gentlemen. Think about what you’re reading. The Quran, the Gita, the Holy Bible. You are reading some ancient dude’s written version of what he heard some really magical dude he has never met said to some other really magical dude he has never met said to some human dude he has never met. There are no facts. There are no verification. They just printed that shit. You are reading the 3,000-year-old Times of India, ladies and gentlemen. That’s what you’re reading. And people said crazy shit back then all the time. People used to say things like, “He who questions the authority of God shall open the chasm of death, as the blood of the infidel shall spill into the ocean of locusts, and the arrows of the meek shall ascend into the kingdom of heaven in the paradise of stolen butter.” Fuck. That was a sentence back then, ladies and gentlemen. Because people back then were high as balls, okay? It wasn’t drugs. There was just so much good oxygen in the atmosphere. And all the shit that was said back then made complete sense for back then. It did. Like, Islam has a saying, “A thief must have his arm cut off.”
Have you heard of that, yes?
Yeah! Now, it made sense for back when it was written, because back then, there was no good way to identify a thief. So it was a system. You saw a one-handed dude, you were like, “Fucking thief.” Nowadays, there are databases full of thieves, right? You know where all the thieves in your neighborhood live because once a year, they come over and ask you to vote for them. So you know who they are. You know where they live. Or like Christianity has a saying. “Don’t have premarital sex.” Have you heard of that, yes? Now, it made sense for back when it was written, because back then, people got married at 12. So it’s pretty good advice. “Hey, don’t try and fuck someone when you’re eight and a half. You may not make a very good impression. Learn to write the letter ‘G’ before you look for the spot that is associated with it.” We need to update the religious texts of the world. Do you agree with me, ladies and gentlemen? Yes or no.
Yes!
Good. So I have a plan. We shall take all major religions and just give them to the company Apple. Every six months, Apple can update and relaunch the religion to the world. How nice would that be? That’s what we need. We need Islam 6s, ladies and gentlemen. We need Jesus Pro. We need the GitaBook Air. If nothing else, you’ll cut down on fanaticism. You’d slow it down. Can you imagine how much we would cut down on fanaticism if every time you wanted to commit a jihad… you first had to sign a new online agreement with Apple? Suppose you had to get a jihad ID? Then you had to sync all your bombs and your devices to the same jihad ID. Except that one bomb didn’t work with the old version of iTunes, so now you have to download the new version of iTunes. And then you’re all set to go up to heaven and get your 72 virgins, but your iCloud only holds six virgins, and now you have to upgrade. You know what my favorite part of that joke is? It’s just Android users going, “What the fuck is he talking about? What cloud? There’s a cloud? You have a cloud? My Samsung explodes, then there’s a cloud. Is that a cloud? I don’t know.” And anyone being Islamophobic in today’s world needs to take a long, hard look at their own religious history. Let’s talk about it, huh?
♪ If you’re Hindu and you know it Clap your hands ♪
♪ If you’re Hindu and you know it Clap your hands ♪
♪ If you’re Hindu and you know it Then you really want to show it ♪
♪ Join the government and implement Subliminally fascist policies ♪
♪ Hey ♪
Hey, Hindus, remember sati? Yeah, we did that shit for 2,000 years. Remember when a woman’s husband would die and we would cremate him, just not alone. So the entire village would gather around the wife. “Sushma, I’m so sorry. It’s just terrible what happens. Whenever you’re ready.” “What?” “No, take your time. Sing a song. Take a breath. Whatever you need. But eventually, just mosey on in there.” “In the fire?” “Yeah.”
“Why do I have to go in the fire?”
“B-B-B-Because he’s going to heaven.” “Why can’t he go alone?” “It’s no stag entry.” But I’m a bad Hindu, ladies and gentlemen, ’cause I’ve kind of been unfaithful with Christianity. And I don’t think I’m alone. Come on, Hindus. Raise your hands. Let me see, people. Raise your hands. Come on. Raise your hands. Now, keep your hands raised if you, as Hindu people in New York, have celebrated Christmas. See, we’re going to hell together, all of us. But it wasn’t religious. You just wanted the fucking trees and the shopping, right? That’s why you did that shit. ’Cause Christmas is this amazing, confusing, exhilarating festival, right? Especially for Hindus in New York. There’s snow everywhere. We don’t know whether to play with it or just stand there and ask for an independent Kashmir. Christmas is all about the trees, ladies and gentlemen. The trees overtook Christianity a long time ago. Jesus would come back from the dead today, on Christmas Eve, the only person at JFK to receive him would be one Hindu cabdriver. “I’m Jesus, Son of the Lord. I have returned. Take me to my people.” Hindu cabdriver. “Mr. Jesus, you come here, please. See, I’m very sorry, Jesus. Your people are all with the trees.” “What do you mean, trees? That’s ridiculous. I’m the Son of God.” “Yeah, you know, it’s kind of ironic, Jesus. Second time in your life you are defeated by a piece of wood.” Ooh! Yeah, but ten minutes of Muslim jokes were okay with you guys, huh?
But it’s good to be here, ladies and gentlemen. The best part of my job is I get to travel and perform for people who I don’t understand and they don’t understand me. Clearly. And we work that shit out. Like, my whole life has been a long journey of travel. Let me tell you a little bit about myself. I grew up in Lagos, Nigeria, in Africa. I then went to school in Delhi Public School, NOIDA. I then went to college in Galesburg, Illinois, in the Midwest, and I finally settled down in Bollywood. It’s been a long journey towards fairer skin. But I wanted to come to America. This was my big dream. The first time I landed in New York City, I was 18 years old. As the sun rose over the Manhattan skyline, I wept. And it had nothing to do with America or the American dream. I had breakfast. ’Cause I grew up in a world of cornflakes, guys. Imagine a universe of endless cornflakes. And not even real cornflakes. That dirty Mohan Meakin’s bullshit. Ostrich feces cornflakes. And then I landed in New York City, and somebody gave me Cinnamon Toast Crunch. Whoo! And I… It fucked with my head. ’Cause my brain knew that what I was eating was not cinnamon… or toast or crunch. But my heart believed, ladies and gentlemen. ’Cause what was cereal originally? It was just a way to get milk into kids. Right? Make milk interesting for kids. What God did with tits, America did with breakfast cereal. The best version of that transaction. You don’t appreciate your American luxury. I went to your supermarket the other day. You have an aisle for cereal. An aisle for cereal. There are countries with apartheid still. You have an aisle. It is 60 feet by ten feet. That’s 600… In Bombay, that’s a school, okay? In Africa, that’s a university, ladies and gentlemen. And your food looks so good.
Man. I saw an ad for french fries on TV the other day. Fucking should have won an Oscar. I don’t know why it didn’t. Maybe a black guy made it. I’m not sure. Thank you, racists. It was cinematic… There was a golden sunset and a philharmonic orchestra. And the fries fell down in slow motion, with, like, CGI sprinkles of salt. And then there was a chick in a bikini, and the fries rappelled down the side of the tittie really slowly. And I was just watching that going, “Oh, gods, gods, gods!” Potato. Potato! Potato. I shouldn’t have done that shit. Whoo! I just fucked myself. I’m going to do legitimately intelligent material tonight. Your only takeaway is going to be… potato! “How was the Vir Das show?” Potato. But it was an erotic experience. Chick in bikini. There was sex with food. You can’t do that shit with Indian food. Just get a naked chick and drop hot dal all over her. “Aah!” But let’s talk about this. Indian food. Clap your hands if you agree. Tastiest food on the planet. Not the best-looking cuisine on the planet. Indian cuisine all looks like you digested some other cuisine. Saag paneer for dinner looks like you had Greek salad for lunch. Yeah, close your eyes. Really picture it. Indian food is not visual food, ladies and gentlemen. Like, I watch MasterChef Australia. That is visual food, right? “Oh, I love what you’ve done with the platin
g and the arrangement. It’s amazing.” You show those three dudes a bowl of baingan ka bharta, they would lose their mind. “Oh, fuck. Was it in pain before it died?” “Can we make people look at this as a punishment for petty crimes?” Like, Indian food is not visual food. It is audible food, ladies and gentlemen. Like, if you walked past an Indian restaurant and there was beautiful pictures of food, you would not go into that restaurant, would you, ladies and gentlemen? You wouldn’t. But if the door opened and you heard somebody say… you would order everything on the menu. Also, Indian food is romantic food. There’s nothing romantic about sitting with somebody and having dinner. But if you can spend your life with somebody who’s just… Ahh! That is true love, ladies and gentlemen. This is why I believe you could never have an Indian Bond villain. ’Cause Bond villains are always eating or drinking something while they say some genuinely badass shit. “Greetings, Mr. Bond. You should not have come here today. Tonight you die.” “Bonsoir, Monsieur Bond. We have been expecting you. Tonight you die.” Indian food. “Yeah, hello, Bond. See, you should… You should not… Fuck it. Eat this vindaloo. You’ll die.” Plus, Bond knows how to fire a gun. Indians are not good with guns. That’s why I respect your country. You take entire control of the gun manufacturing process. You manufacture the gun, the bullet, the victim, all in house. Like, in India, we don’t have guns, so we don’t have gun violence. Right, guys? You couldn’t have typical American gun shootings in India. You couldn’t. Because firstly, in India, you would never find the gay nightclub. Because it’s a WhatsApp group. Followed by, like, tea at Raju’s house. Or, like, you couldn’t shoot Indians sitting in a cinema. You couldn’t. ’Cause Indians don’t sit still during a Bollywood movie, do we? You know how hard it is to shoot somebody going…? So you have the guns. And you’re not going to get rid of the guns. But can you at least change the guns? Or put your own technology into guns. America, you invented the iPhone. Well done. That has Siri. Well done. It doesn’t understand my accent. What the fuck? So… Use that shit. Siri for guns. You should have to convince the gun to let you shoot the gun. Can you imagine a terrorist? “Siri!” “How can I help you?” “I want to kill the infidel!” “It sounded like you said you want to sing ‘Jingle Bells.’”
’Cause guns are an audible experience as well, ladies and gentlemen. A sound happens over here. Something happens over there. The first time I realized this, I saw an American cowboy movie. It’s called The Good, the Bad, the Ugly. Do you remember that, yes? ’Cause they gave the cowboys such good sound effects, right? He used to walk in… You couldn’t give an Indian person those sound effects. We get too excited. We’d fuck around. We’re not violent people. This is why you don’t have Indian terrorists, ladies and gentlemen. Indians… We would never put a bomb in a building, would we, guys? That’s not our style. That is cruel. That is violent. But more than that, it is inefficient. We would put an accountant in the building, buy the building, make sure there’s real estate investments all around that building, wait ten years and sell the property back to you at an 80 percent escalation. That is Indian terrorism. Our business practices are our terrorism.
Speaking of terrorism, ladies and gentlemen, I think I’m ready to be a father. Whoo! ’Cause I’ve stopped worrying about little things like proper segues between routines. Thank you, three people. No, I want to have a child, ladies and gentlemen, because, firstly, I know how to make them. Fuck it. I make kids like I make Maggi. Two minutes. Nobody’s satisfied. That’s what I’m talking about. But I’m at that age where I just find myself staring at children and having desires. Ohh! Oh, shut up, all right? I’m going to tell you this story. I was in Bombay and I had a car accident. And that’s the day I knew I was ready to be a dad. Right? I was in my Range Rover. We are at a speed breaker, stationary. All of a sudden, I hear… I get out on the passenger side, and I see a circle of people gathered around a scooter, two-wheeler, that had skidded, a boy who is on the floor weeping and a girl who is in shock bleeding. So I grab this boy, and I’m like, “What the hell happened?” “Sir, I was teaching her to drive the scooter, and it was the monsoon. She didn’t know how to drive. We hit a lamppost. Kept skidding for ten feet until we hit your car.” And right then, I experienced my first ever two paternal emotions. “Number one, I have to save this girl. I must save this girl.” But far more paternal than that… I want to kill this boy. Who teaches a girl to drive a scooter in the middle of the monsoons? I’m going to kill this boy. I pick up the girl, put her in the Range Rover. I’m trying to get the boy up, but he’s still weeping. I’m like, “I’ll kill him in the Range Rover. I have money. We’ll reupholster.” We then get to the hospital. We spend about 7,000 rupees. Get her into the emergency room. The girl’s going to be okay. The boy is still crying. I’m like, “You know what? Now we’re in the perfect atmosphere for me to kill this boy. We are in a hospital. There is a morgue downstairs. Somebody will write a report. I probably already have a bogus hit-and-run case against me. Fuck it. Double or nothing. Murder. Let’s go.” I grabbed this boy, who’s taller than me for some reason. I say, “Now give me her father’s phone number because we have to tell the family there’s been an accident.” He’s like, “Sir, I can’t do that.” Ho-ho-ho-ho!
♪ I’m going to kill this boy I’m going to kill this boy ♪
He’s like, “Sir, you don’t understand. She’s a Hindu.” “No, you don’t understand. She’s not a Hindu. She’s a banged-up Hindu. Are you familiar with the concept? No? Eat a cheeseburger in Maharashtra, and you’ll find out what that shit is.” He’s like, “No, sir, you don’t understand. I’m a Muslim. Her father doesn’t know. If he finds out she is with a Muslim boy, he will never let her out of the house again. Please call the mother. She knows.” “Fuck you, man! Fuck you! I was this close to killing you, bro. This close. I’m in an action zone right now. I am in Die Hard 4. You’re coming at me with the plot of Saudagar. Fuck you, dude.” And as I drove home, ladies and gentlemen, just covered in blood… I knew I was ready to be a dad. Not because I applied first aid, because I got to the hospital, because I saved the girl. I know I’m ready to be a dad because I didn’t kill the boy. And I think that’s what being a parent is. It’s resisting the urge to commit murder every single morning. Is that too emotional? Okay, fuck it. Let’s talk about things people aren’t emotional about. Racism. Let’s do that shit, huh? Come on.
♪ If you’re racist and you know it Clap your hands ♪
What the fuck, bro? What the hell? Was that…? I don’t even… We know who you voted for. All right. You know what’s weird? Two people clapped. One of them is brown. One is white. How did that work? It’ll be cool if they looked at each other. Like… Now, I understand racism, ladies and gentlemen. Indian people, we spend our lives claiming that we’re victims of racism. Don’t we? But yet, all Indians back home… Very racist. Pretty fucking racist, right? But it’s this strange dichotomous failed racism mixed with, like, feudalism and servitude and curry. Like if a beautiful American girl, blonde hair, blue eyes, comes down to Delhi and is walking down the road because she’s insane… within two minutes, there will be two fat, balding, paunchy Indian men across the road looking at her, like, “Madam! Hello, madam! Madam!” And think about the dichotomy of that racism. While they are creeping her the fuck out, they are still calling her “madam.” There is respect there. And look, like most Eastern cultures, our version of racism… is what we adapted from what was taught to us. By the British. I’m sorry. It’s true. Britain kind of invented this shit. Didn’t they, ladies and gentlemen? ’Cause they ruled the entire world. This isn’t the first Brexit to happen in history, ladies and gentlemen. It’s just the first intentional one, all right? Britain ruled America. They ruled Africa. The ruled the Orient. I feel like Britain must look at America the way Venus looks at Serena. Like, “Bitch, I trained you. You learned this shit from me.” Lob.
I’m going to tell you a story about racism, ladies and gentlemen, and I guarantee you at some point, you’re going to get uncomfortable. But hang in there with me. There’s a good ending. So I was surfing in the south of India. Small village in Tamil Nadu. Kind of village where everybody spends ten hours a day on the beach, tanning, baking. Couple of different nationalities. Me, couple of Brits, couple of Aussies. Black guy named Marcus. As Marcus is holding his surfboard, walking down to the beach, he’s stopped by a Tamil villager who says, “Stop, stop, stop, stop, stop. You. You black. Blackie.” Now, hang on. Instantly, your educated mind explodes. Poof! This is racism. Even Marcus is shocked. He’s like, “Man, what the fuck did you just say to me?” He’s like, “No, no, no. You. You black. Blackie.” This man then goes to his house, wakes up two sleeping children from their afternoon nap, as they rub their eyes, and says, “See, see, see, see. He black. Blackie.” I submit to you that that is not racism on two counts, ladies and gentlemen. Number one, there is no malice in that man’s heart. There is fascination. There is curiosity. And number two, this happened in Tamil Nadu… where the villager and his whole fucking family are ten times darker than the black guy. And then the kids surround Marcus, and they’re playing with him, and he’s playing back, they’re looking at his hand and looking at their own hand. And they touch his hair and they touch their own hair. And anybody from a frontal angle looking at that says, “Yes, this is racism. It qualifies.”
But if you make a small left and look at that, it is one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen. It is the most honest, simple, nonjudgmental, naive way of acknowledging our differences. Acknowledging them. Because we are different. Aren’t we, ladies and gentlemen? My hair is different. My skin is different. My color is different. My values are different. And it’s okay to talk about that. If we just talk about the fact that we are different and acknowledge why we are different, instead of pretending that nobody is different and still secretly thinking we are different, we might finally all be on the same page and be less different. If you took that man out of Tamil Nadu and dropped him right here in the middle of New York City, he’d walk around in Harlem just going, “You black, black. You black, black. You black, black. Blackity, blackity, black, black.” And when he got out of the hospital… See, it’s okay. He wouldn’t understand what he has done wrong, because to him, political correctness is not a concept that he understands. Like, if there’s stupid shit in your head, say it once, learn, educate yourself, find out why it’s wrong, never say it again.
Do you agree with me? Yes or no.
Yes. Good. So let’s start tonight. So, white people, I submit to you this. All Indians, Pakistanis, Bangladeshis, Nepalis and Sri Lankans. We all look the fucking same. Please, confuse us all you like. We are essentially the same people. It’s okay. The only difference between me and a Pakistani person is increased musical quality and decreased life expectancy. That’s it, all right? Chinese people, let me talk to you. Let’s all chill out and talk about this. Chinese people, I know that China isn’t the same as Laos, isn’t the same as Philippines, isn’t the same as Cambodia. But I also know that, like, lilac, mauve and lavender are all purple at some level, all right? White people, can I please talk to you? Please stop overcompensating for shit that your great-grandparents did. Just ’cause your great-granddad was mean to us doesn’t mean you have to be nice. Every time I’m with white people, I feel like Robin Williams in Good Will Hunting. “It’s not your fault, man. It’s not your…” Just get over it. Be like Germany. Have you met German people? At least they’re over it, right? “Some shit happened. Was not cool. From now on, I’m going to be cool. High-five. Get on the train. It’s a good one. No gas. Electric.” Work that shit out! ’Cause we live in an angry world. We live in an angry world. We need more love in the world. Do you agree with me? Yes or no.
Whoo!
Good. So after that manipulative setup, I want to talk about India and Pakistan. Let’s begin. I recognize that what happens with India and Pakistan is official leadership largely on that side making officially bad decisions. I get that. But essentially we are the same people.
Yes or no?
Yes! Do we know why we hate each other, ladies and gentlemen? Do we know? We don’t understand the hatred. People do stupid shit because of that hatred. Like go to war and watch cricket. There are three types of Indians who watch cricket. Number one, enthusiasts. They watch it every single day. Number two, purists. Watch it a couple of months a year. Number three, Indians who watch cricket one day a year just because you hate Pakistan. You know who you are. And what is the big point of contention between India and Pakistan? Is it Kashmir? Right? We keep talking about Kashmir. We keep talking at Kashmir. Is anybody listening to Kashmir?
Really listening.
No! Kashmir is like a girl who’s on a date with two guys, and both of them are ordering food for her. So India’s like, “She will have the veggies. Veggies for Kashmir.” And Pakistan is like, “Oh, no, no, no, no. Get her the beef. She likes the beef.” “She has been eating veggies for 60 years.” “Yeah, but when you are sleeping, she tries the beef.” “Oh, you want to give her beef? Cool. Pork. Pork for Kashmir. Pork on Kashmir’s plate.” And Kashmir is just like, “I want fish. Nobody is asking me.” But that’s what’s cool about being here. You know? Like over here, it doesn’t matter. Like in the West, Indians, Pakistanis, Bangladeshis, Nepalis, Sri Lankans, we’re all the same, right? Yep. In the West, we are all Arabs. And there’s unity in that. Unlike the Arabs. Have you seen a war in the Middle East? I don’t get it. The guys on this end are like, “Allah… ” And the guys on the other end are like, “Allah… ” And I guarantee you, Allah’s just up in heaven like, “Fuck! Which ones were you?” I don’t even… This is why we invented chess, remember? “I need a consult. Akbar, get in here, man.” “Yeah, sure. What is it?” “Do you remember which ones are the good guys?” “Go to hell. I’m still not talking to you.” “Man, are you still sulking?” “Look, when we started the band, it was Allah and Akbar. Okay? Allah and Akbar. Butch Cassidy and Sundance Kid. Allah and Akbar. Macklemore & Ryan Lewis. Allah and Akbar. But now it’s Allah. Who Akbar, huh? It’s like everybody saying, ‘Oh, I know Allah. Who the fuck is Akbar?’ Mr. Breakout Solo Artist. Mr. Muslim Timberlake.” You guys in love? Are you seeing each other? What, am I asking for social security numbers or something like that?
You. What’s your name?
Varun. Varun, is this your lovely wife?
No.
No? She’s your girlfriend? How long have you been together?
One and a half.
Why can’t you do this shit, man? I didn’t fly 2,000 miles to New York to talk to fucking Varun. Good. I’ve now offended both sections of the crowd. We’re in a good place. I believe I had the worst first kiss in the history of first kisses. Let me tell you why. Because my first kiss happened in the ’90s. And the ’90s was a reckless time. We were just kissing without information. Nowadays, there is information, right? You can Google map her lips. YouTube technique. Call an Uber. That shit works out. But in the ’90s in India, we had two references for kissing training. Number one, Hollywood movies. Number two, Bollywood movies. Hollywood movies, every time there was white people kissing on the TV, Indian parents fast-forwarded the shit out of that footage. “This is sin. This is sin. My child shall not watch.”
So all white people look like two zombies eating the shit out of each other. I’m 36 years old. Today, if I see white people kissing, I can’t sleep. And a Bollywood kiss in the ’90s, really? I’m going to tell you what a Bollywood kiss was in the ’90s. So let’s paint the scene, all right? The guy goes like this. Twenty feet away. The girl goes… Two flowers fuck each other, and everybody’s happy. We don’t show you a kiss. We just show you two flowers. Cut back to the boy. Ahh! ’Cause a whole nation is going, “Ooh, horticulture, yeah.” Chlorophyll. Potato. So I did not know so many things about kissing. For instance, I did not know that kissing involved tongues. I mean, I know that now. Hello. No, madam, I know there are different approaches to the tongue. That’s why you’re laughing. You know, some people don’t like a lot of tongue. Some people come at you like Lord Voldemort. This is the visual that will haunt you tonight. I did not know about the tongue, so imagine my surprise when two minutes into my first ever kiss, suddenly a tongue showed up at the door, like, “Bonjour. May I come in?” I know now as an adult, the correct response is to be like, “Bonsoir. We have been expecting you. Can I show you the living room?” ’Cause this is a French thing, right? Which two French children came up with the French kiss? Stopped in the middle of a normal kiss and went, “Stop, stop, stop.” This kiss is shit. Where is the passion? Where’s the discovery? Where’s the “eat”?
“You mean the heat?”
“No, the eat. I want to eat your face. I want to taste the surface of your soul. I want to know what you had for lunch. I want to find little cavities between your teeth and hide my feelings in there.”
So the minute her tongue showed up in my mouth, I thought this was an error. I shut my teeth. So now her tongue is licking the surface of my teeth. Just like a window washer at a skyscraper. Like trying to find an office in Connaught Place. At the left, she got the right. Connaught Place is like Amish panties. Very hard to find entry. All right, now… I still think this is an error. So now I send my tongue out to push her tongue back into its territory. Our tongues are like India and Pakistan. Fucking surgical strikes happening. And our noses slam into each other. There is water running down my face, mixing with snot, going into our mouths. Our kiss tastes like a salty Goa beach. And in the middle of all of that, my nostril starts to whistle. So my first ever kiss sounds like this. And the girl’s so sweet, she comes back. There are dogs and taxis stopping all around us. Seven dwarves came in from the forest. It was fucking beautiful. I could feel the puke rise up in her mouth and go back down. It’s too easy for this generation. You know what I mean? I have a nephew, right? And this is how he meets girls. He sends them a message and he’s like, “Hey, girl, you up?” And then the girl is like, “I’m up.” And then it’s up. I don’t know how… We had to take a compass and write the girl’s name on our fucking arm, right? Puja!
I believe, ladies and gentlemen, while we’re talking about love, that India has no right to call itself a progressive country until anybody in India can love who they want, irrespective of race, caste, creed or sexual orientation. Like, I understand homosexuality, ladies and gentlemen. I mean, I’m not attracted to other men, but I can see how one would be… attracted to other men. Because I have been with numerous women who have been. But this is a crime in India, ladies and gentlemen. It is a crime. How? If it’s a crime, there must be a way of investigation and a way of judgment. How do you judge a gay crime? Is there a trial? “Order! Order! The defendant shall now be sworn in. Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help you God?” “I don’t know, man, but I got to tell you. This is the first Gita I’ve ever laid hands on.” “Stop making jokes in my trial. The defendant has been charged with sodomy, excessive fellatio and inherent flamboyance.
Defendant, how do you plead?”
“Not guilty.” “Are you saying you did not have sex with another man?” “No, I’m just saying I don’t feel guilty. Can I plead ‘incredibly satisfied’?” But it’s not just sodomy. Do you know that according to 377, oral and anal are also against the law? Did you know this? Oral sex and anal sex against the law in India. We have 1.2 billion people. Forget legalizing oral and anal. We should be advertising that shit. There should be billboards with blow jobs on them. We should have Anal Day. We should have Ass History Month. Hashtag: Back Lives Matter. There should be an “all-odomy” party. The prime minister should do a radio program called “Bum ki Baat.” Every Sunday “Bum ki Baat!” And let’s talk about the whole community, not just gay men. Let’s talk about LGBT. Lesbians, gays… ’Cause as Indian men, we have no response to lesbianism, right? We just don’t acknowledge its existence. After 2,000 years of educated evolution, our whole response to lesbians is just, “Huh? What?” Like, to us, lesbians are a Bluetooth headset. “How do you pair the…? Is there a cord?” Like, to us, lesbians are the iPhone 7. No jack. No jack. I understand heartbreak. You know, sometimes it’s a relationship. Sometimes it’s an election.
Has anybody had their heart broken? If you’ve had your heart broken, raise your hands. Have you? You do things that you are proud of when you’re putting your life back together that you will enjoy, correct? Number two, you will do things that you are not proud of that you will really, really enjoy, right? I’m going to tell you a story. Two years ago, in October, I got married to the woman of my dreams. Now, this is the first time in my life that I’ve gotten married. Second time in my life that I’ve tried to get married. I’m in my 30s now. When I was 28, I had the misfortune of having to cancel a wedding. But, uh… uh, my own. It’s not like I canceled somebody else’s wedding. Only Indian dads can do that shit. “You can’t go.” “But I love him.” “Shut up, Fatima.” Here’s the information you need to know. I proposed to a girl. I got the proposal right, ladies. Vice presidential suite at a hotel, 2,000 roses, 900 candles. I got on one knee and proposed, as a string quartet of violins played our favorite song.
Whoo!
Yeah? And, ladies, the most important part of that process is the… Ring. Not the ring, you selfish bitches, no. Where are my romantic people? The most important part of the process is the…
The knee.
The knee. There you fucking go. Give her a round of applause. The knee. It’s very important, right, ladies, to get down on one knee? It is, yes? That’s when they understand they’re being proposed to. When your knee goes “eh,” their brain goes ping. They understand. It’s always the first thing they talk about in the story. “Oh, my God, it was so romantic. He got down on one knee. He defied gravity! And the skeletal structure of the human body and the tides and…” What the hell else was he going to do, a Surya Namaskara? He can’t get down on both knees. That’s your job. Ohh! I’m sorry. Engineers, that’s a blow job joke. My point is this, ladies and gentlemen. My proposal was grand. Would you agree, darling, yes?
So my breakup should also have been…
Grand! Except I got broken up with on Skype. Which is still okay. If it was Snapchat, I would have shot myself. The information you need to know is this. My fiancée has gone abroad to New York to complete her MBA before our wedding. In her college, she has a very cute study partner, a man I never liked, because the minute I saw his face, I knew there was going to be a twist. We have sent out 1,000 invites to people in Delhi, which means 9,000 people are coming to the wedding. As Delhiites call it, “Small, intimate family wedding.” It is now Friday night, three o’clock in the morning, three months before my wedding. My fiancée has informed me that she’s in love and will be leaving me for him. Except she didn’t say that.
She typed it.
Ohh! On Skype. You Indian engineers can appreciate how messed up that is. “She did not use the video chatting interface? We have designed a video chatting interface. Millions of Indians have died as virgins in San Jose, California, to design…” You know that little chat box at the bottom of Skype for when the shit is not working? Except the shit is working. So you are watching somebody that you can hear typing a message to you. Meanwhile, you’re just looking at a box that says “typing, typing, typing.” As you wait for your heart to fall apart. “Typing, typing, typing, typing.” For karma that’s going to change the direction of your entire life. “Typing, typing, typing, typing.” And which one of you bastard engineers came up with “typing, typing, typing, typing”? Even on WhatsApp, it’s fucking annoying. Yes or no?
Yeah!
Can’t we make it more honest? “Typing. Still typing. I’m very bad at English. I’m on Vodafone. This could take nine months.” But no. “Typing, typing, typing, typing.” And then her confession arrives. And the thing about heartbreak… is it immediately downgrades your intelligence to the intelligence level of the person breaking your heart. Whoo! ’Cause all of a sudden, I don’t know what to say. And I’m a public speaker. So for some reason, I still don’t understand why I start to type back. Because my logic is if I can’t vocalize “fuck you,” then, by God, I’m going to capitalize it. And then just “typing, typing, typing, typing.” And psoosh! You know that noise on Skype? Psoosh! That’s the sound of a man’s heart breaking. Psoosh! And then Friday night, three o’clock in the morning, is where I make my cardinal error. I get onto Facebook. We’ve all done it, haven’t we? Made the mistake of thinking your Facebook friends are your real friends. But you’re not gonna get that on Facebook. The only interaction you will ever get from another human soul on Facebook is “like, like, thumb, thumb, share, share, LOL, LOL, smiley, smiley, winky smiley, crooked smiley, na-na-na-na-na.” And worst of all, LULZ. “L-U… L-Z.” LULZ. Because, apparently, LOL wasn’t enough for Indians. So in the middle of the night, I changed my Facebook status… from “engaged” to “single.” And I go to bed thinking, “Tomorrow will be a brighter day.” LULZ. My PR person calls me at 9:00 a.m. and says, “Vir, did you change your Facebook status last night?” “Ye-Yeah.” “You know reporters are your friends on Facebook, right, Vir?” “You mean they’re not my real friends?” “The newspaper’s going to do an article about your wedding getting canceled.” I can’t tell you which newspaper. I’m informed I’ll get sued. Because it’s Netflix. But, uh, it rhymes with “Windustan Times.” Legal loophole. So now we’ve lined up an article with another newspaper. I can’t tell you which newspaper, but it rhymes with “Wombay Times.” “So you’re going to write a column about being single in Mumbai, the life. We put a positive spin on it, and that’s how we break the news. Yay.”
I have been single in Mumbai for six hours. But here I am, just writing this column about how I believe Mumbai is the greatest city in the world to find a girl and fall in love and settle down and rent an apartment. If you are not North Indian actor, non-vegetarian, not a Muslim, you’ll be all right. And the newspaper likes it so much, they don’t put it in their local paper. They put it in their national Sunday paper, “The Wimes of India.” With a big headline that says, “Vir Das: Single in Mumbai, the Life.” And that’s how I canceled my wedding. On the day, nobody showed up. But what did I tell you? When you get your heart broken, you will do things that you are proud of that you will enjoy. You will do things that you are not proud of that you will really, really, really enjoy. So here’s what I’m proud of. Seven months after this happened, I met a beautiful girl at a party. Beautiful. Intelligence. Ambitious. Driven. Just amazing. And I said, “Hi. My name is Vir Das.” And she said, “Oh, I know who you are.” I thought maybe she had seen a movie, and if it wasn’t Mastizaade, it’d be okay. And she’s like, “No. I read an article in the newspaper that you wrote about love. And I think you get love in this really cool, groovy way.” Ladies and gentlemen, that girl is now my wife. And that was nice. I enjoyed that shit. I’m proud of that. Here’s what I’m not so proud of… that I really, really enjoyed. Two months after that happened, the girl from New York City called and said, “I’m so sorry. I was in a lonely place. I was vulnerable. I needed somebody to hold me. Can you talk to me about this? Can we forgive each other? Can you take me back and start to talk about this and build our relationship?” And I said…
“Yeah.”
Ohh! “Get on Skype.” And I pasted the text of that article really slowly into that chat box, line by line. ’Cause I knew somewhere across the world, she was just looking at a box that said, “Typing, typing, typing, typing… typing, typing, typing, typing. LULZ.” This is my favorite moment of the show, ladies and gentlemen. The show’s going to end in 120 seconds. I never know how to end shows. What do I tell you? I could tell you that I started my career in this city… in a gig for 60 people. And I swore to myself that one day I would come back here and I would sell out a stadium. But that’s not true. I haven’t sold out this stadium. Ten percent of you work for the government or the police or are some sort of fucking VIP. I could tell you it was my dream to perform in an iconic American comedy club. But that’s not true. This isn’t an iconic American comedy club. The Comedy Store in LA, that shit would have been nice, but this is a good start. I could tell you that this is good-bye for a while because I want to go across the world, and I want to show them that Indian comedy is more than just head-bobble jokes and funny accents. But that’s not true. When I get there, I’m going to do head-bobble jokes and funny accents. I could tell you that I believe I’m so excited about this market because I believe it’s a mecca for great performance style from across the world. But that’s not true. It was true two weeks ago. I don’t think we’re getting visas anymore. That’s my point. Or I could tell you everything I wanted to tell you. And I could sandwich it between sarcasm and stupidity. Because I know you. And you know me. And I know that you’d understand.
My name is Vir Das. Thank you. Namaste. Jai hind. Good night.
