When someone first mentioned a stand-up comedy show, I had already said “No!” somewhere deep inside. But they managed to convince my wife, and she gave me one of those looks. It’s only a laugh, her eyes seemed to say, something you need now and then — you know? I didn’t know, and I didn’t want to.
And yet, on the 12th of October, there I was – a monstrous SUV was parked outside my house. Two other couples, fellow senior citizens, already seemed tickled at the prospect of two hours of laughter. In the interests of marital bliss, after forty-plus years of two-getherness, I held my peace as we zipped down the NH-66 towards what I was convinced would be a wasted evening.
We arrived early, a plan I had acquiesced to, more driven by the terror of parking woes and the desire for “good seats” than any real enthusiasm. As we entered Menezes Braganza Hall, a surprising serenity greeted me. I could almost hear the echoes of old Goan dances and annual balls – flowing gowns and tailcoats – now replaced by rows of cold, tubular steel chairs to cradle a generation waiting to be provoked into laughter.
Then, Daniel Fernandes took the stage.
Before he began, a voice off-stage requested the audience not to record the show – except for his entry and exit – adding, with a sly jab, that the instructions were simple enough to follow “even if you studied at Dempo’s.” The hall laughed. The mood was set.
Over the next two hours, Daniel led us on a rollercoaster of emotions, anchored mostly in laughter. Yet, through the comedy and exuberance – never facetious even for a moment – came moments of genuine introspection. His material often circled back to relationships: some that made you laugh, and some that didn’t.
I found myself marvelling at this young, self-made humourist-turned-philosopher. His unique blend of clever composition and lively delivery reminded me of Chaplin – whose comedy could suddenly twist into pathos, leaving your eyes moist without warning. Daniel did the same. He spoke of his father’s passing – deploring the mechanical condolences that followed – with such raw honesty laced with wit that you found yourself laughing, then pausing… feeling the weight beneath the words.
That’s the mark of a true humourist: the ability to turn sorrow into something you can laugh over – without trivialising it. Daniel doesn’t laugh at pain; he laughs with it. And through that, he urges us to reflect on what truly brings joy – our relationships, our conversations, our connections.
In these times when the very foundations of society are shifting, where relationships tend to be based more and more on selfish interest, his performance felt like a gentle nudge – a reminder to nurture the people around us. To not postpone the important conversations. To not carry the lifelong guilt of a question left unasked… like the one you would have posed to your father, if only you had known time was running out. “Missed conversations,” he calls them, almost in passing.
And so, while the hall erupted with laughter, a quieter truth settled in: beneath the jokes lies a serious foundation – we need someone to make us laugh.
