LIFE
When A Comedian Stops Laughing
What happens when the show ends, the persona exits and the real person awaits at home
Two years ago I had the misfortune of receiving unsettling news. Speaking to a dear friend of mine, someone I’ve known since the beginning of both our careers more than two decades ago, she informed me that Murad, a multi-talented thespian, writer and stand-up comedian, had passed away. His sixty-some-year-old body was found lifeless in his home. No foul play was indicated. He was alone.
I was quiet for a few minutes. Imagining one of Malaysia’s beloved stand-up comedians, prolific writer and once-upon-a-time popular thespian and critic of the arts, alone in his final hours veiled a sad mist in the creative gallery in my head. Unless requested, it’s never the way for anyone to die.
“Murad was no longer himself in the last decade,” explained my friend.
“He struggled so much with his condition. He didn’t want to live with anyone but required looking into, in case he harmed himself,” my friend continued to offer an explanation.
I remained quiet. After a few minutes, I finally found the corresponding words to reply, “I hope Murad finally finds his house in the sky. That’s all he ever wanted.”
‘A house in the sky’ is the title of a book written by a kidnapped survivor named Amanda Lindhout whom I’d met a few years prior during her book tour in Kuala Lumpur. After surviving close to two years held as a hostage by Somalian pirates, repeatedly raped and tortured, Lindhout was released in exchange for a hefty ransom. She lived to write a book about her experience. A house in the sky was her imagery for strength, hope and forgiveness as she laid on the floor staring at the ceiling, enduring countless months of suffering, ready for Death to come.
That was all Murad ever wanted. To those who knew him, it was not easy.
Seventeen years earlier to the conversation — in 2004 — I sat opposite Murad in a quiet café in the chic side of the city. I was there to interview him in conjunction with his latest comedy show. I was part of the audience on opening night and without a doubt, Murad was the darling of local theaters.
Murad was talented and flamboyant with a boyish charm. He looked a decade younger than his real age, was well-read, educated abroad in the Queen’s language (a local tease for British English), and he was a charismatic thespian. He spoke with an authentic British accent and possessed such a commercial presence, he did television commercials and movies for a few years before he decided he much preferred the stage.
Needless to say, I was a huge fan. I couldn’t believe my luck that I sat opposite him, a man I could almost forgive for preferring men over women.
Murad was confident, effeminate and ever-so-charming. I was crushing on him, in awe like a little girl seeing a unicorn for the time. Well, what do you expect from a twenty-eight-year-old rookie journalist?
It felt as if we had known each other for decades. The way we effortlessly conversed, laughed and teased each other was like siblings from a different mother. In fact when I told Murad my mother was an equally big fan of his, and that I had brought her to his show, he asked for a page to be ripped from my notepad, and proceeded to write a note addressed to my mother, thanking her for believing in him. He folded the paper in half and joked, “Here, for your mum’s eyes only.”
Once again, I couldn’t believe my luck.
After a second coffee and an hour plus in, a different shade of Murad slowly emerged.
Murad was known to be a private person. But after discussing his work, for a lifestyle feature, I needed to ask him to shed light on himself, to guide me as a backgrounder to the man underneath the skin, away from the stage persona. I was nervous to ask, but as if he was prepared or could read my mind (or both), he led the way. In fact, it was as if he wanted to have the discussion.
“You know, Natasha, I’m manic depressive. Today’s a good day. But there are days I’m sick of myself. I don’t want to engage with anyone, let alone make anyone laugh. I’m not a very nice person to be with.”
I sat there quietly, listening. I stopped writing. I just looked at Murad, an idol, dismantling a shell and revealing a different person.
A part of me was ill-prepared, another wanted to reach out. But, who was I but a mere mortal with just a pair of ears, eyes and a brain in front of a legend, trying to process the moment drenched in unworthiness and immaturity?
“Deep down I’m not a happy person. There are days I cry and I’m just so sick of everything, including the comedy. Would you believe me if I said, I am only happy when I am on stage? When people laugh, I feel a short sense of relief. But a certain fear overwhelms me as the show comes to an end. It’s when I ask myself, what happens when the laughing stops and everyone goes home? What happens to me then?”
Murad fidgeted with a napkin as we sat quietly facing each other.
“Tell me about you, about your life, Natasha.”
I was taken aback at the request. The teenager in me would have responded, Why? But I was no longer a teenager. Here I was, an adult in an adult conversation.
Like an obedient child, I shared with him my life. To this day I can’t explain why, but like a reflex, I disclosed my struggles growing up: My inner conflicts, my sense of alienation, my inability to fit in with social norms, my never-ending curiosity about everything. I talked about my bad habit of deep diving into complexities when I could easily take the easy way out and walk a much easier path.”
Murad nodded and smiled. He was quiet for a few minutes. We both sipped our exposed, already cold coffee and enjoyed each other’s silence.
“It’s funny how I can feel you through all the constructs and pillars of complexities. It is as if we are built on the same foundation Natasha, except, I much prefer your life to mine. Could I borrow your life’s story for my next stage production?”
I laughed. “Sure, but you’ll need to find a good actress for my part.”
“Oh, that would be me, darling!”
We both laughed. The servers turned to look at our direction, bemused.
“But would you think my life’s story interesting enough to be a stage production, Murad?” I asked, genuinely curious.
“My dear, your life is more authentic than mine can ever be. I’d be honored to be in your shoes. Fresh, young, full of hope and dreams. All this time being an actor, that’s all I’ve ever done really, slipping in and slipping out of other people’s lives, hoping to find a home in one of those journeys. Finding a home I can finally stop and be at ease and rest, to be happy. My whole life has been in transit. A long, never-ending transit, waiting for that connecting flight that never comes.”
“What’s your biggest fear, Murad?” At that point I felt I had earned sibling authority to ask such a direct and personal question.
“The audience stops laughing.”
“Why is that?” I asked gently, almost a whisper from a sister.
“Because when the laughter ends, I don’t know what to do with the broken, empty shell of a person that I am.” He sounded deadpan but not heartless.
Murad looked out to the streets with a distant thought. I felt I had no permission to cross that boundary. I sat there quietly, allowing him space and time to ponder. I gave him as much time as he needed. I offered him my time, my empathy, my company. There we were, in a cocoon, he was in it, I was outside guarding his peace.
When my article came out, the entire piece was about Murad’s theatrical production. I wrote not a single line to who he was in private other than he was a deep thinker, a man of gentle affection like a brother, and a thespian of immense talent a literature major such as me, could only dream about.
I carried the burden of the real Murad with me throughout my career, not once sharing it with anyone. He divulged his vulnerabilities with me that afternoon, and I felt a need to protect him from all that he had shared.
He remains one of my favorite humans on this earth. Enigmatic, charming, brilliant. His puns, punchlines and comedic timing, faultless.
Rest in peace JM, from me and my mum. Make sure to keep your house tidy up there in the sky.
