Kareema Barry tells us what goes on inside her funny head

Let me start by setting the theme of this article to be utterly morose. I would suggest you mind your step. The writing brief I was given was to “make it me, make it funny.” I found that endearing. Being myself is ‘being funny’? What a time to be alive, this is all I have ever wanted! But let’s pop that bubble like the situationship I’ve been pining over for five months. Here’s the gloomy truth: The subtext to all my emotions is a sense of melancholy.

(’bout that space, ’bout that space, no trouble. Sorry Meghan!) Now let’s make a sunny, bright, happy-clappy switch to my favourite topic...existential dread! I don’t even know who I am! Is this what they call a quarter-life crisis? I believe then the crisis continues, because the adults around me have always looked like they were constantly on the cusp of insanity. I was never one of the kids who wanted to grow up fast. Mostly because my mother and sister were equally blunt about the follies of life. So my family decided one day, we will make jokes about being sad. And there will be no limitations. No crisis serious enough, no bounds by emotion and no judgement. Never judgement. Humour is never perfect, it is sometimes so entirely lame —or
as the kids call it, cringe. But we don’t yuck someone’s yum here. I laugh at everything. Is it good for the egos of my friends and lovers? Sure. But one of us has to feel good about themself. (Spoiler: It is not me.)

I will be real with you, I’ve never been a girl who was told she’s pretty as one of my top three defining traits. I don’t mean to be a pick-me, and yes I believe I am the most beautiful girl in the world just like all girls. It is just the observations have always been “funny” plus two other things depending on my dynamic with that human. Naturally being funny became defining. And surely, over time, I started to judge the basis of my value and self-worth in how funny I am to others. Actually next time you are wondering how the class clown is doing...just...just send them a little kiss, will you?

A crisis truly. I am only 25. I truly do think I’ve somersaulted, looped and spiralled out of all my frontal cortex developments. I knew I always wanted to perform, but to be a ‘Professional Funny Girl’ wasn’t the plan. I am beyond pleased but my Calcutta [Kolkata] mother is still quaking at my career choices. We dreamed together of a PhD in Literature. How Amitav Ghosh-coded of me! My poor birth-giver just wanted to see me in some oxidised silver jewellery and a tote bag. But what is this twist in fate? She’s flailing about on the Internet now? Maybe she’ll get her masters and become a professor. Maybe she’ll always just be a funny girl. Or the third option is I’ll just rot—my favourite activity.

Let me show you a sample of how much my brain jumps on a casual brain-rot Tuesday afternoon: That dress is pretty? Are you investing? Should I text first? Do avocados really taste of anything? What is my relationship with money even like? Do I want kids? Should I get a nose job and call it a day? Am I a loser? Must I confront these thoughts on the internet?

If you are reading this and relating after seeing me move in totally obscure ways on the Internet, I just want to let you know—yes, your assumption is indeed correct. I am intoxicated all the time. Spiritually, though. In an organic, paraben-free, authentic, farm-to-table, vegan kind of way. I used to despise my brain. I looked at some people who think straight and wondered, “What if?” Until that became “Boring!” Who even wants a linear though process? Pfft. (Me, please. Please.)

But then I happened to figure out the me I take pride in. She is a me who shoved her...unique...brain right up at an unforgiving society. And I didn’t even conceptually believe in society! That’s a win-win. No matter the apocalypses in my brain at least I can always be me—unhinged and odd, a funny girl. 


Lead image credit: Pankaj Dahlia

This article originally appeared in Cosmo India's September-October 2024 issue.


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