From Tejaswi to Nia: The Disturbing Misogyny Hidden in Laughter Chefs’ “Fun”

In the glittering kitchen set of Laughter Chefs – Unlimited Entertainment (Colors TV), where celebrity pairs whip up dishes amid scripted chaos, one might expect light-hearted banter and culinary camaraderie. Instead, what unfolds week after week is a relentless roast fest that disproportionately targets women. Hosted by Bharti Singh and featuring Krushna Abhishek as a key comic force, along with contestants like Tejaswi Prakash, Nia Sharma, Ankita Lokhande, and others paired with male counterparts, the show peddles humor that feels increasingly one-sided, outdated, and deeply misogynistic. The jokes hurled by Bharti and Krushna land hardest on the women, rarely sparing them while giving male contestants—barring relative newcomers like Samarth Jurel and Abhishek Kumar—a far gentler pass. This isn’t harmless ribbing; it’s a pattern that shames, diminishes, and erases women’s identities, turning entertainment into something unsettling and regressive.

Let’s start with the glaring imbalance in targeting. Comedy in Indian television has long relied on roasts, but Laughter Chefs takes it to a gendered extreme. Bharti and Krushna’s punchlines overwhelmingly zero in on the female contestants’ appearances, relationships, cooking skills, or personal lives. Men like Karan Kundrra or Elvish Yadav get playful jabs at most—often framed as friendly banter or even admiration. Newer male faces like Samarth and Abhishek receive kid-glove treatment, perhaps because they’re “fresh” to the industry and less familiar targets. But established women? They become fair game for endless mockery. This selective targeting isn’t accidental; it’s the show’s default mode, reinforcing the tired trope that women’s value lies in how entertainingly they can be torn down for laughs.

Recent episodes have amplified this discomfort to despicable levels. Take Nia Sharma‘s treatment: the actress, known for her sharp wit and confidence, has been subjected to shaming that crosses into outright cruelty. Bharti’s barbs in the last couple of episodes have left viewers cringing—publicly calling out or mocking Nia in ways that feel personal and humiliating rather than comedic. Whether it’s sly digs at her persona, height, or on-set presence, the tone shifts from fun to predatory. Nia, who has previously pushed back against body-shaming in other contexts on the show, finds herself on the receiving end of similar energy from the host herself. It’s not just awkward; it’s hypocritical and damaging, especially in a format where the women are expected to laugh along or risk being labeled “sensitive” or “not fun.”

Then there’s Tejaswi Prakash, who endures perhaps the most dehumanizing treatment of all. Time and again, Bharti, Krushna, and even Arjun Bijlani reduce her to “Karan’s girlfriend.” Her achievements, personality, and independent identity as a successful actress are erased in favor of relational jabs. She’s not Tejaswi Prakash, the star with her own fanbase and journey—she’s perpetually “Karan ki GF,” as if her presence on the show is only validated through her partner. This constant attribution strips her of agency, turning every cooking mishap or witty retort into fodder for couple-centric mockery. In an industry where women already fight for standalone recognition, Laughter Chefs doubles down on the patriarchy by making partnership her defining (and only) trait. Karan, by contrast, gets celebrated as the charming anchor or supportive boyfriend, with his own identity intact.

Ankita Lokhande fares little better, though her resilience makes the dynamic even more troubling. She’s been “tortured” on the show across seasons—last season saw Aly Goni’s particularly vicious jabs that crossed into disgusting territory, leaving many viewers uncomfortable. This season, the pattern continues with Krushna and others piling on. She’s become so accustomed to it that her reactions often read as resigned tolerance rather than genuine enjoyment. The audience watches a strong, accomplished woman absorb blow after blow, her composure weaponized against her as proof that “she can take it.” Meanwhile, the men around her escape comparable scrutiny. It’s a classic case of normalized emotional labor: women must endure the roast to keep the “entertainment” flowing, while men dish it out with impunity.

The hypocrisy peaks with Bharti Singh herself. As the host and a woman in comedy, one might hope for solidarity or balanced humor. Instead, she emerges as the show’s clearest villain. Bharti lavishes appreciation on male contestants like Karan Kundrra or Elvish Yadav—praising their charm, quick wit, or “star power” in glowing terms that feel almost fawning. Elvish, despite real-world controversies (including legal cases from which he has reportedly been cleared by the court), gets a free pass or even defensive framing from Krushna, who repeatedly drags up the issue in episodes as if it’s punchline gold. Yet Bharti rarely extends the same warmth or respect to her female co-stars. Tejaswi, Nia, and Ankita get the sharp end of her tongue far more often than praise. Where is the empowering “girl squad” energy promised in promos? It’s drowned out by Bharti’s selective favoritism, making her complicit in—and arguably the architect of—the show’s gendered skew.

Krushna Abhishek’s role only compounds the issue. His chemistry with Bharti fuels much of the show’s energy, but their routines default to piling on the women. Bringing up Elvish’s cleared case repeatedly isn’t edgy comedy; it’s insensitive and selective targeting that the men rarely face in return. The show excuses this as “roast culture,” but when the roasts are 80% directed at women—focusing on bodies, relationships, or “nagging” tropes—it stops being funny and starts feeling like systemic bias.

This isn’t isolated to Laughter Chefs. It echoes broader problems in Indian TV comedy, where women are punchlines while men are protagonists. But the show’s massive popularity makes it especially insidious. Young viewers, families, and fans absorb the message that it’s okay to shame women publicly if it’s “just jokes.” Ankita’s endurance, Nia’s visible discomfort, Tejaswi’s reduction to arm candy—these aren’t side effects; they’re the content. The laughter feels hollow when it’s built on diminishing half the cast.

Laughter Chefs had potential as a fun, inclusive cooking-comedy hybrid. Instead, it has become a mirror to outdated gender norms, where women cook, compete, and absorb the hits while men (and the host) coast on privilege. Bharti and Krushna owe their audience and especially the women they mock, better. Until the jokes become equitable, the show isn’t “unlimited entertainment.” It’s unlimited entitlement. Viewers deserve comedy that lifts everyone up, not one that keeps women in their place for cheap laughs. It’s time the kitchen got a serious clean-up.