Cyrus Broacha and Ayesha Broacha: The ‘Art’ of ‘Laughter’

Satirist and television personality, Cyrus Broacha is known for his sharp wit, irreverent humour, and unfiltered take on politics, society and urban life. His television show, ‘The news that wasn’t with Cyrus Broacha’ in CNN18 and ‘MTV Bakra’ a super popular prank show in the early 2000s on MTV India, were very popular.

Cyrus studied at St. Xavier’s College before training in acting at the Lee Strasberg Theatre and Film Institute in New York. Over the years, he has hosted numerous television shows, including news satires and talk shows, bringing his signature blend of humour and sarcasm to the screen. Cyrus also dabbles in radio and podcasting. His popular podcast, ‘Cyrus Says’ showcases his freewheeling conversations with celebrities, politicians and thinkers, often laced with sharp observations and humour. He is also a columnist and author, having written books such as ‘Karl, Aaj aur Kal’ and ‘The Average Indian Male’, both of which reflect his comedic take on modern India.

Cyrus Broacha speaks candidly with Corporate Citizen about his light-heartedness and subtle humour, while wife Ayesha describes her passion for painting, based on everyday theme. Read on…

Corporate Citizen: Tell us about your childhood. How did you get started, and what shaped you?

Cyrus Broacha: Well, if you ask me, it feels like something out of the Mangal Pandey era—ages ago! Honestly, my career happened almost by accident. I was all set to become a lawyer. I even started studying law, completing a year of LLB at GLC (Government Law College). So technically, I’m one-third of a lawyer.

But alongside that, I was deeply involved in theatre from the age of 14 - Plays, performances, all of that. Then I got a job at Dacunha Communications, as a copywriter. It was convenient because GLC classes started at 6 am and wrapped up by 8:30am, leaving me the rest of the day free to work. I had no real plan—I was just doing things to pass time and earn some pocket money, while law remained my backup.

Around that time, radio had started gaining traction, and I found myself dabbling in it too. Again, not something I took seriously— just another way to keep busy. Then, MTV happened—they called us for auditions, and that’s where things really changed.

"My grandmother and father always told me there’s a difference between being childish and being childlike. Childishness is immature, but being childlike is a gift. I’ve always hoped to stay that way"

-Cyrus Broacha

CC: So what changed?

Now, here’s the funny part—I wasn’t particularly into contemporary music. When they asked about 90s bands, I was clueless. My taste was stuck in the 50s and 60s, and I was completely out of place. I wasn’t trendy, didn’t care about fashion, and had no polished ‘on-air’ personality. So I thought, “What’s the worst that could happen?” They won’t pick me. And, with that mindset I just went in as myself.

A lot of aspirants who were auditioning were trying too hard — putting on American accents, playing a part. But, television and even radio, eventually strip away any act. If you’re on air every day, you have to be yourself. And, somehow they decided to go with me, who wasn’t pretending to be someone he wasn’t.

In a way, it was the perfect irony. I had the least hype, little interest in music, and no real ambition for the job—yet that’s exactly what worked.

At the end of the day, being known is often about being in the right place at the right time. And, I just happened to be there.

CC: Why did the show ‘The News that Wasn’t with Cyrus Broacha’ go off the air?

You’d have to ask the management of CNBC, that decision wasn’t in our hands. But, we had a fantastic run—16 years and eight months, which is a long time for any show. I suppose they simply lost interest in continuing it. There was nothing personal, at least as far as I know.

Even before our show, they had discontinued Rajeev Masand’s programme. Their focus was shifting toward making CNBC a hardcore news channel, with slogans like "We are the highest viewed English news channel."

For a couple of years, we could sense the declining interest. Simple requests like costumes and wigs, were ignored. Nobody was rude, but there was also no feedback.

When Rajdeep Sardesai was around, he was hands-on. He constantly critiqued us, but at least he was engaged—sometimes praising, sometimes suggesting stories. Once he left, there was no one to talk to. It felt like a government job—just put the show on air and move on. No response, no acknowledgment.

Honestly, I wish they had actively disliked us, which would have been easier to accept. Instead, there was just complete indifference. And, that’s the worst thing.

"Radio has changed a lot. Earlier, dial in shows were common, with real conversations. Now, RJs have become big personalities, often more focused on their own voice. Instead of engaging discussions, it’s mostly music, opinions, or generic messages—Go vote, be responsible, wish everyone on Diwali. It feels forced-like tokenism"

CC: Radio has made a comeback. Can you tell us about your time in this field?

I’m almost embarrassed to talk about it because by the end of this conversation, you might start calling me ‘uncle!’ But, here’s the story.

Back in 1993, when FM radio first launched in India, things were very different. Until then, we only had All India Radio (AIR). My mother used to play the ‘Binaca Hit Parade’, and we’d listen to stations like SW3, SW2, and BBC Radio. Then, on 15 August, 1993, India finally privatised radio, and three private companies took over. One of them was ‘Radiostar’, owned by Anil and Vivek Singh of Procam Sports, along with Jitin Shinde. Then there was ‘Radio Midday’ founded by newspaper Mid-Day, and of course ‘Radio Mirchi’ owned by Times Group — two media giants who, frankly, had no idea what to do with their newly acquired radio licenses. Suddenly, they owned radio slots but had no real plan.

Since our show aired at 7am, I had to reach All India Radio station by 6:45 am—which was a nightmare because it meant waking up at 4 am. And, of course, nothing ever ran smoothly. I remember days when we were set to go live at 7am, but the office peon, who had the keys to the studio, would casually stroll in at 7:02 am, completely unfazed. So, we’d often start at 7:09am with a sheepish ‘Sorry, ladies and gentlemen!’. Not really our fault, but we had to take the blame.

This was the early days of privatisation of Radio, and government bureaucracy was still entangled in the process. It was like watching an arranged marriage between two completely mismatched partners—awkward, unpredictable, but oddly entertaining.

Looking back, it was a romantic era for radio—raw and full of challenges. Unlike today, where everything is digital and automated, we had to do things manually. My engineer would hold stacks of CDs while I spoke, making sure the right track played at the right time. There were days when we’d get to the studio only to realise someone had unplugged the power socket, so we’d frantically plug things back in, while the show was supposed to be live. You have no idea how ‘primitive’ we were—it felt like running a radio station with stone tools.

CC: Your favourite episode?

One of my favorite memories was hosting a dial-in show called ‘Bored on an Island’. It was hilarious and, in a way, very revealing. People would call in because they were lonely, just looking for someone to talk to. It’s kind of like Tinder or Bumble today— where people create a version of themselves that feels safe to share. On radio, with just their voice, they could be anyone. If your name was Sunita, you could call in and talk about your life, your problems—completely anonymous and free. I didn’t realise the power of that at the time, but it was incredibly therapeutic for people. Back then, we even had sponsors. Now, that’s the real challenge—getting someone to pay for it.

CC: So, you played the role of Agony Uncle?

Yes, people mostly called in with love-related problems, especially teenagers and young adults, since MTV had that audience. When FM radio first started, it was a new and unfamiliar space, so even callers were taking a chance. Many felt lonely and unable to talk to friends or family about their struggles.

On-air, they became more honest, shedding inhibitions since there was no face-to-face interaction—just a voice. Calls often started awkwardly, with a lot of "Hello...can you hear me?" But once they opened up, conversations lasted 5-10 minutes. Girls were more expressive, sharing frustrations about strict parents, curfews, and feeling left out. A typical middle-class Mumbai girl would say, "My mom won’t let me go out after 7 pm, while all my friends can." I’d suggest small workarounds, even if not ideal, just to help them cope.

Back then, parental discipline was stricter, and the gap between parents and children was wider. What seemed like minor restrictions could deeply affect their confidence and social life. Hosting that show made me realise how loneliness and small frustrations can take a mental toll. More than talking, I learned to listen—it gave me perspective on struggles I’d never considered.

"Urban men lack masculinity; they come with no josh or passion and ask the dumbest questions instead of training seriously. People should love to train—go for the kill! I should do a stand-up on this"

CC: How has the medium of Radio changed now?

Radio has changed a lot. Earlier, dial-in shows were common, with real conversations. Now, RJs have become big personalities, often more focused on their own voice. Instead of engaging discussions, it's mostly music, opinions, or generic messages — Go vote, be responsible, wish everyone on Diwali. It feels forced, like tokenism. If you truly care about something, you’ll act on it without needing constant reminders. There’s also a growing star culture, where RJs act more like influencers than storytellers.

CC: Tell us about the youngster in you when you were young and the youngster in you now.

My grandmother and father always told me there’s a difference between being childish and being childlike. Childishness is immature, but being childlike is a gift. I’ve always hoped to stay that way. Many adults put on an act of "Now I’m an adult, so I must behave a certain way". They suppress emotions, avoid strong opinions, and try to be neutral all the time. It’s exhausting. I prefer adults who are real, who still have that spark of a child. Honestly, adults could learn a lot from kids—it’s ridiculous how serious we make everything.

CC: How do you see the difference between youngsters from your time and today’s generation?

They’re far more confident and cocky. They have a wealth of information at their fingertips. I often argue with my friends about this. Our generation grew up reading—I loved books, my sister too loved them. We’d go to the library, read, and return them on time. Even in a dentist’s office, we’d pick up magazines just to kill time. That was our way of absorbing knowledge. But, this generation doesn’t learn that way.

CC: Do you think that means they aren’t learning as much?

Not at all. The way they acquire knowledge is just different. We believe books provide a deeper understanding, that you absorb knowledge in a way Google searches can’t replicate. But, the world has changed. My father, for example, spent hours finding legal precedents. Now, you type a few keywords and get instant results. So, while they may not read like we did, they are still learning in a different way.

CC: What else do you observe about today’s youth?

They are more opinionated, which is great but sometimes ridiculous. Call me old-fashioned, but I miss the way things were. I was at Bengaluru airport recently, traveling alone. Back in the 90s, people would recognise me, stop for a chat, and I’d hold them in conversation for five minutes, sometimes until they regretted it. If one person started talking, soon a group would form. Now, everyone’s glued to their screens, headphones, completely disengaged.

CC: So, you think technology has made people less social?

Absolutely. I remember when flights got delayed, we’d become like a tribe—strangers bonding over the shared experience. Now, no one looks up. I saw this young guy at the airport, talking loudly into his earphones, barely glancing at his ticket as he boarded. I’d still double-check my seat, worried I might have the wrong one. These guys? No hesitation, no conversation, no social etiquette. It’s a bit sad because I used to enjoy airports. I’d sit with Khushwant Singh’s ‘Joke Book’ and end up chatting with strangers. Now, that kind of interaction is rare.

"The issue within the Parsi community is less about preserving religion and more about preserving racial identity. The rule against marrying outside the community is meant to protect numbers, but mathematically, revival seems impossible"

CC: You’ve read so many books. Which are the best humour books you've come across?

I’m a huge fan of Oscar Wilde. He was unbelievable. If you study his life, which I have, you’ll find that his conversational skills were apparently even better than his writing. He lived in a time when nothing was recorded, so imagine the witticisms, criticisms, and comebacks he delivered in social settings— it would have been gold. What we do have are transcripts from his court cases. The first one, where he gets exonerated, is fantastic. The second one, where he foolishly filed a defamation suit despite being openly gay, led to his downfall—that’s not so great. But, as a writer he was fabulous.

CC: What about modern humour writers?

I love Woody Allen—he’s a much better writer than his movies. Some of his work is absolutely hilarious. Then there’s Dave Barry, an old-school humourist, but fantastic. I don’t really follow contemporary humour writers, so I’m not sure who’s carrying the torch now.

CC: Any Indian humourists that stood out for you?

Yes! V. Gangadhar used to write satire for our paper, and I loved his style. He stood out for me. Then we had Busybee (Behram Contractor), who was very similar to Art Buchwald in America. Satirical and humorous writing seems to have declined a bit over the years. The Spectator (a London periodical) used to publish some great satirical pieces, but there are fewer humourists now, compared to before.

CC: Do Indians lack a sense of humour?

No, Indians do have a sense of humour. However, they sometimes take themselves too seriously, especially when humour touches on personal or cultural sensitivities. This is not unique to India but can be observed globally. For instance, the British are noted for self-deprecating humour, but this doesn't necessarily reflect a broader awareness or appreciation of their own cultural nuances.

For example, Diwali illustrates how cultural practices, like bursting firecrackers, are often defended beyond their environmental and social implications. Suggesting alternatives or questioning these practices can lead to accusations of being anti-cultural or antireligious, which stifles constructive discussion on how festivals could evolve to be more considerate or sustainable. Dialogue and Humor: The lack of dialogue on these issues also stems from a fear of offending, leading to a society where humor, especially when it's self-reflective or critical, is not as freely expressed or received as it could be.

CC: Is creativity dead today or not recognised in India?

Art is often compromised because everyone has to make adjustments, especially when money is involved. When brands hire creators for collaborations, they start dictating what to do, which defeats the purpose of hiring someone for their unique style. This kind of interference takes away originality and makes the content sound scripted, like a beauty pageant answer. A little compromise is inevitable, but too much kills creativity. Politics and religion are especially sensitive topics, at events you’re strictly warned not to mention them. There’s plenty of humour in religion, but even light hearted jokes are risky because people take offense, even when the intent isn’t hateful

CC: What is your advice for youngsters who want to go into show business?

It’s a horrible thing to ask because more people say, what is your advice? It means you are some God and you are going to tell people what to do, which I never want to do.

CC: Your Bombay of old times and Mumbai of now, what is your perspective?

Mumbai has changed a lot, but some things remain the same—like the endless digging. It feels like they’re searching for treasure, but the workers always say, “Nahi sir, cable ka issue hai,” in their usual diplomatic way. I won’t be the old-timer who says “Apna zamana better tha,” but growing up in Bombay had its own charm. Street food, Irani cafés, Pani Puri, and casual friendships formed on trains and buses, were all part of the experience. Today, people sit in silence, glued to their mobilephone screens, and my kids won’t eat the 35-rupee road sandwiches I love. It’s not about good or bad change—I just wish they could experience that world before deciding they don’t want it.

CC: What keeps a marriage alive?

You stay away. Less is more. My first director Pearl Padamsee told me, “You want to keep your marriage alive, less is more. Don’t forget these words.

"There’s plenty of humour in religion, but even light hearted jokes are risky because people take offense, even when the intent isn’t hateful"

CC: I love the Parsi community. Many people love them. Don’t you feel bad that the community numbers are dwindling?

The issue within the Parsi community is less about preserving religion and more about preserving racial identity. The rule against marrying outside the community is meant to protect numbers, but mathematically, revival seems impossible. If saving the religion were the goal, conversion would be an option—but it isn’t. There’s also a clear gender bias: a Parsi father’s children can be Parsi, but a Parsi mother’s children cannot if she marries outside the community. That rule needs to change first. Eventually, the community will have to consider allowing new people in, or else numbers will continue to decline. Like endangered species, once a population drops too low, it’s nearly impossible to bring it back.

CC: What do you do to keep yourself fit?

I stopped drinking in 2015 after a disastrous Christmas Eve with one of my friend. That night was enough for me to say, “Bus! Enough!” After quitting, I started working seriously, and my diet improved immediately. Then came the pandemic, which I found ridiculous because of the fear it created— neighbours were paranoid, and I refused to wear a mask unless someone yelled at me. Even walking my dog became an issue, with cops telling me to take him inside, ignoring how unnatural it was for animals. So, I started waking up at 4 am to walk him in peace, avoiding people, police, and drama. Once the pandemic ended, I kept the habit—I wake up at 4:15 am daily, walk my dog, work out, and start my day. The only downside is that by 8:30 pm, I’m exhausted and cranky, and if there’s a late-night event, I need coffee to survive.

CC: So, your diet also changed?

My diet improved, and since I love training, I stick to weightlifting—no cardio. One day, I’ll do an interview on my toxic views on gyms. Urban men lack masculinity; they come with no josh or passion and ask the dumbest questions instead of training seriously. People should love to train—go for the kill! I should do a stand-up on this. I have a friend, a 58-year old government servant, who struggles with the most basic exercises. He treats a simple Lat pulldown like a deadlift, but refuses to touch the barbell and lift heavy. It’s ridiculous! Indian men should be banned from gyms and sent to the army for six months to toughen up. The worst part of the pandemic was people pretending to be self-sacrificing, worrying about me like I needed saving—honestly, I just felt like slapping them.

CC: What is the philosophy of life you live by?

I have always believed that “Whatever we can do, let’s do it faster”. I think I am famous wherever I work, for telling them let’s finish.

Themes From My Life

Married for 24 years, Ayesha Broacha is deeply seeped in her all-time passion – painting. Giving an extraordinary effect to life’s ordinary themes in the urban landscape, she though looks at it as her bread and butter.

While Cyrus expresses life through lines of laughter, Ayesha strikes it with utmost seriousness, expressing the harsh reality of everyday life.

It’s the social media platform and networking with a friend through which she puts up her paintings for sales. States Ayesha candidly, “Instagram is a great platform. It is a somewhat recent phenomenon for people my age, but I have got attuned to it. Besides that, I have known a lady for my entire life who is from Kolkata but resides in Mumbai. She is an incredibly enterprising business woman who has brought a lot of craft and small artists together and conducts these pop-up sales all over the country. I give her some of my art for sale.’’

Stating in a humble tone that she is not a big artist, Ayesha explains “I am not in a gallery or represented by anybody. I just started by word of mouth and is now on these few platforms.”

On the topic of art appreciation in India, Ayesha disagrees with the notion that there's a new revival in interest; she believes, “Art has always been desired by those who appreciate it. My art is affordable, not because it lacks value, but because I am not widely recognised.’’ Just then her hubby Cyrus humorously notes that if she gains popularity, they would be sold for a better price and then they won’t be affordable.

Ayesha spends a considerable amount of time on her art, but her passion is evolving with age. She states, “I find gardening increasingly appealing as I am getting older. I really need the outdoors. I need a patch of green. The more that I see what’s happening to Mumbai, the urban space, I feel the need to get out. I have a home and a little bit of land and if I could do it again, I would forest a piece of land.

What’s the philosophy that she lives her life by? She promptly replies, “Live every day to the fullest!’’

While he amusingly states that the best way to keep a marriage is to stay away from each other as much as you can. Cyrus speaks highly of Ayesha’s passion for painting. Says he, “She is the talented one. I am just a talker. I don’t know how to make her successful. They will appreciate you after you are dead. What else one can do?’’