If Saloni Gaur was not beaming on to our phones as Nazma Aapi, she might have been performing audits in a government bank. The 20-year-old comedian’s one-minute videos online are now considered an essential antidote to the breathlessly virulent world outside. With her hilarious mimicry of actors, politicians, newscasters, middle-class moms, DU wali didis, Kusum Bhenjis and Influencer Ishitas, Gaur has commanded an enviably large audience for a humourist in lockdown. She has been around for the world in these troubled times with her own spin on news which has never been more unnerving, yet it almost missed basking in her comic genius.
“I thought I would take up a job in a bank, because my mother wanted me to,” says the final-year student of political science. “You know how it is. My mother would stand in line for hours for her turn in government banks. Until last year, I was preparing for banking exams.” She thought she would do comedy on the side. “Comedians don’t get so suddenly famous at 20,” says Gaur on the phone from her home in Uttar Pradesh’s Bulandshahr, breathing a sigh of relief but also slightly amazed at her own popularity.
Now when she lampoons Shashi Tharoor as “thesaurus publisher masquerading as a politician”, the Congress MP tweets back with words like ‘hippopotomonstrosesquipedaliophobia’ and ‘garrulous’ in an affectionate riposte. Whether it is her relentless take-downs of news anchor Arnab Goswami or her flamboyant send-ups in the voice of a pixie-cut Kangana Ranaut, Gaur knows the ludicrousness of a situation when she sees one.
Training her wit on current affairs and social issues comes naturally to her. “Growing up, I was never into reading novels or story books. There was nothing much to do in my quiet hometown when father returned from work at 10. So we would all sit and watch the news,” says Gaur, who credits her father for instilling the habit of devouring newspapers for breakfast.
Gaur wanted to study humanities in high school, but none of the schools in her city offered subjects like political science and economics. It was only after she came to Delhi for college at 17 that the world really opened up. It was also in Old Delhi that she heard snatches of the dialect spoken back home. “It was lovely. And I was always good in mimicry,” says Gaur, who until a few years ago did not have access to internet to upload her videos. She would get a friend to upload it from her social media handles.
She counts master satirists Premchand and Harishankar Parsai as her most beloved authors. “I wish I could write like them,” says Gaur, who spouts her lines in the street-sharp dialect of western UP—a smattering of khadi boli and braj bhasha—through earthy, wisecracking characters drawn from her social milieus. But she can trace her funny bone to her grandmother, who cannot stand prime-time news. “My dadi has the best sense of humour in the family,” says Gaur. “Her one-liners are to die for. Like the person in front would be confused if they have been made fun of or not.”
In this Covid-melted time, when Indian and Chinese troops are locked in a border standoff, a video on China was only a natural progression for Gaur. When she joked about China’s association with India from ajinomoto and cheap phones to TikTok and Chinese whispers in Ladakh, her fans whooped and cheered. But the Chinese tech company TikTok removed her video on May 31 from its platform. Her calling out of TikTok for lack of freedom of speech made national news. She vowed to never post on TikTok again. “This was not the first time they tried to slap community guidelines violations on me,” says Gaur. Though TikTok reinstated her video, she would not fully say if there has been a formal ceasefire. Perhaps the negotiations are still on. “I am not planning to put any China-related content now. I covered everything in that video,” she says. “Besides, I always wait and watch to see how news develops. One of the reasons why I didn’t make a video on the elephant-pineapple-firecracker episode.”
With lakhs of social media followers, Gaur is quite aware of her responsibilities. And knows how to be indifferent to trolls. “They are just keyboard warriors with cheap internet,” she says, dismissing them with typical quicksilver jibes that come shaded with native wisdom. Just like how she signs off most of her videos: “Popcorn khao, Bella ciao!”