I have made films on humor of poverty because I have lived in a

Host: The rain had just stopped, leaving the small neighborhood in a shimmering half-light — the kind that made even cracked walls look poetic. The smell of wet earth, kerosene, and frying onions drifted through narrow lanes where children still played barefoot in puddles, their laughter rising above the hum of evening traffic.

A flickering neon board — “Star Deluxe Cinema Hall” — buzzed uncertainly outside a decades-old movie theatre, its letters missing and its promise fading. Inside, the theatre was almost empty, except for the rhythmic hum of an old projector fighting to stay alive.

Jack sat near the back, a notebook in his hand, scribbling as if his words were currency. Jeeny sat two rows ahead, her face half-lit by the silver glow of the screen, watching an old black-and-white comedy play out — a man tripping over a bucket, falling, then laughing at his own fall.

As the reel stuttered, Jeeny turned slightly toward Jack.

Jeeny: (softly) “Priyadarshan once said, ‘I have made films on humor of poverty because I have lived in a lower middle class family.’”

Jack: (without looking up) “Yeah, I know. I’ve always thought that was a paradox — humor born from hunger. It’s like finding laughter in an empty stomach.”

Jeeny: (turning fully now) “But isn’t that the point? When you’ve got nothing, humor becomes survival. Poor people don’t laugh because life is easy; they laugh because it’s bearable.”

Host: The film on screen crackled, the image briefly flickering into darkness before returning — a man in torn clothes chasing a chicken, tripping, landing in a puddle. A few kids sitting in the front row burst into laughter so pure it echoed through the empty theatre.

Jack: (watching them) “I get it. But sometimes that kind of laughter feels like surrender. A way of saying, ‘We can’t fix it, so we’ll joke about it.’”

Jeeny: “And maybe that’s the most human response there is. Humor doesn’t erase pain, Jack — it equalizes it. It gives dignity back to those who’ve been stripped of everything else.”

Host: The light from the projector cut through the room like a fragile bridge between two worlds — the reel and the real, illusion and memory. Dust motes danced in its beam like ghosts of stories once told and told again.

Jack: “You know, when I was a kid, we couldn’t afford movie tickets. I used to sneak in through the side door when the guard wasn’t looking. I remember watching a scene just like this — a poor man losing everything and still laughing. I thought, ‘Why is he laughing? What’s funny about hunger?’”

Jeeny: (softly) “And now?”

Jack: (pausing) “Now I think I get it. When life gives you nothing, laughter is the one thing it can’t steal.”

Host: Jeeny smiled, her eyes glistening under the flicker of the projector light. The screen showed a woman in a small hut, feeding her husband half a chapati and pretending she wasn’t hungry. The audience laughed when he made a joke about it. The laughter was tender, not mocking — it carried empathy, not escape.

Jeeny: “That’s what Priyadarshan captured — humor as rebellion. The lower middle class laughs not because it’s blind, but because it refuses to bow.”

Jack: “But isn’t that the saddest thing? That we’ve built a world where laughter has to double as resistance?”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It’s the most beautiful thing — because it means humanity still has imagination even in despair. Laughter becomes an act of art. A kind of poetry.”

Host: Outside, thunder rumbled faintly, like the world remembering its noise. Inside, the film reached a scene where the protagonist, drenched from rain, looked up at the sky and shouted, “At least you gave me rain to wash my debts!” The audience — few though they were — erupted in genuine laughter.

Jack: (chuckling) “You know what? That’s the genius of the poor — turning mockery into music.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s what Priyadarshan lived. When you grow up in scarcity, you learn to find humor in the absurdity of wanting too much. It’s a philosophy — that if life won’t give you comfort, you can at least steal joy.”

Jack: “Steal joy — I like that.” (pauses) “But what happens when the world stops finding poverty funny? When the struggle becomes invisible because it’s been romanticized?”

Jeeny: “That’s where empathy comes in. The humor of poverty isn’t about making poverty entertaining — it’s about making pain approachable. It’s not ‘look how funny poor people are.’ It’s ‘look how human they still are.’”

Host: The projector whirred louder, the film nearing its end. On screen, the hero — now smiling, now bruised — carried his family’s broken chair over his shoulder like a trophy. The theatre’s single fan creaked, moving the humid air in tired circles.

Jack: “You ever notice how those characters always end up smiling, no matter how bad it gets?”

Jeeny: “Because they have to. A poor man’s smile isn’t naivety — it’s courage. It’s saying, ‘You can’t humiliate me if I’ve already learned to laugh at my fate.’”

Jack: “So humor becomes armor.”

Jeeny: “And art becomes testimony.”

Host: The credits rolled. The kids in the front row clapped, their small hands echoing against the empty seats. Jack closed his notebook, his eyes distant but softened.

Jack: “You know, maybe Priyadarshan didn’t just make films about poverty — he made films about memory. About the absurdity of being human and still hopeful.”

Jeeny: “Yes. He took the pain of the lower middle class — the unpaid bills, the ration queues, the leaking roofs — and turned them into laughter that heals instead of mocks. That’s not comedy. That’s grace.”

Jack: (after a moment) “Grace… in the gutters.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Exactly. And maybe that’s where art is born — not in comfort, but in chaos. You can’t create truth without knowing hunger.”

Host: The theatre lights came on, harsh and fluorescent. Dusty red seats gleamed like tired hearts catching a second wind. The kids ran out, their laughter trailing behind them like ribbons of light.

Jack and Jeeny remained seated — two silhouettes against the glowing screen that had just gone blank.

Jack: “You think people still laugh at the same jokes now?”

Jeeny: “Maybe not. But they still need the same hope.”

Host: Jack stood, stretching, pocketing his notebook. Jeeny walked beside him toward the exit. The old usher, half-asleep at the door, nodded as they passed — the living ghost of cinema’s golden days.

Outside, the streetlights had flickered on, reflecting off the wet road like liquid stars. A rickshaw went by, its radio playing an old Hindi comedy song — the melody cracked but eternal.

Jeeny: (looking up) “You know, Jack, poverty teaches rhythm. Maybe that’s why laughter sounds so musical when it comes from the hungry.”

Jack: (smiling) “And maybe that’s why Priyadarshan made comedies — not to escape it, but to conduct it.”

Host: The camera pulled back, revealing the entire street — the puddles, the laughter, the flickering cinema sign that still read Star Deluxe, even though half the bulbs were gone.

The world looked bruised but breathing — imperfect, human, alive.

And in that imperfect glow, Priyadarshan’s words seemed to float like a prayer in the rain-soaked air:

“I have made films on humor of poverty because I have lived in a lower middle class family.”

Host: The rain started again — gentle this time — washing the dust off old posters, reflecting the colors of stories that would always find their way back, laughing, to the screen.