Four Is a Lot

James Clear reintroduced the concept of an inversion exercise: instead of asking what works, ask what doesn’t.

• What would a terrible manager do?

• What would alienate our core customers?

• How could I ruin my marriage?

• How could I lead myself into a mountain of debt?

Sometimes the fastest way to find the right answer is to study the wrong one.

The Gruntled Newsletter is about happiness—how to find satisfaction and fulfillment in your personal and professional life. Most of the time, that means focusing on the positive. But every now and then, it’s worth looking at the dark side.

This is one of those moments where inversion feels more useful than inspiration. I don’t think too many people are in a position to make the observation I’m about to make. But I want to be careful here. Most of you have become accustomed to how I write and speak: incredibly bluntly. There is often no coyness in my approach. If I want something, I just tell you what it is.

This is one of the rare times I’m choosing not to be so direct. I’m going to leave the details intentionally vague. I’m not conducting an investigation. I’m sharing a reaction. Forgive me if that gives this edition a bit more of a detached, impersonal feel. However, I want to be respectful of a sensitive situation.

Here’s the reality I can’t shake: in a small corner of the comedy world I’m part of, there have been several passings in recent years—four that I’m aware of. That’s a lot. First off, despite what our Instagram and TikTok feeds might tell us, there aren’t that many standup comics. Yes, we’re in the middle of yet another comedy renaissance; even with the recent explosion, though, there are only a few Desi (South Asian) American standup comics who’ve attained a meaningful degree of success: TV credits, social media followings, tickets sold, dollars earned, and/or unique achievements.

Moreover, what feels eerie to me is the shared Punjabi American background—a striking overlap in such an exclusive community. Not because of what it means statistically, but because of how close it hits to home.

I don’t know the circumstances behind all of these deaths, and I won’t speculate. Each absence is its own tragic story. The point is the feeling. You don’t need a spreadsheet to tell you something is off—you feel it in your chest.

In a field this interconnected, you don’t experience loss abstractly. You’ve shared stages. You’ve occupied the same green rooms. You’ve run into each other at airports. There’s a familiarity, even without closeness.

And it forces a question that’s uncomfortable, but hard to ignore: If this can happen here, what does that say about the life we’re living? Not about any one person. Not about any one outcome. But about the environment.

The trope of the “tears of a clown” has been around forever. Comedy, at its core, is about tearing things apart—cutting people down to size, exposing failure, deflating ego. What’s bad for the heart is good for the art.

If I tell an audience about how I went out, met this woman, and took her to bed, everyone will roll their eyes and think, “Okay, douche.” If I relate a story about how this was a sure thing, but I said something really stupid at the last moment and she walked out the door, that’s what gets the laughs.

That’s the content. Now the context. The lifestyle itself isn’t neutral. It’s late nights that conflict with our circadian rhythm. It’s inconsistent routines. It’s adrenaline spikes followed by silence: a huge stage and then an isolated hotel room. It’s constant movement, punctuated by long stretches alone: being “on” for strangers and then off by yourself. It’s a beautiful job. It’s also one that comes with real costs.

Years ago, a woman who works in PR out here in LA took me to Largo. We went backstage and talked to Patton Oswalt, David Cross, and Kumail Nanjiani. It was quite the lineup. Afterwards, she and I grabbed a drink and I asked her one of my favorite questions: “Why don’t comics get better with age?” She paused and gave me such a good answer that I stopped asking anyone else.

“Perhaps it’s because young comics are angry and anger is funny. Later, they get bitter, and bitterness isn’t as funny.”

There’s a version of this life that’s sustainable. And there’s a version that isn’t. The line between the two isn’t always obvious when you’re in it. And that’s where inversion comes in. Instead of asking what leads to happiness, it might be worth asking: What does a life that leads away from it look like?

So I find myself less interested in connecting dots between these events, and more interested in what they interrupt in me.

• Am I actually taking care of myself… or only assuming I will?

• Am I building something durable… or just something impressive?

• Am I paying attention to the cost of this life… or only the upside?

Because if there’s any takeaway from seeing multiple losses in such a specific community, it’s not to explain what happened to others. It’s to ask, quietly yet directly:

What am I doing with the life I still have?

Rajiv Satyal is a Punjabi American comedian. He resides in Los Angeles.