The Clown Who Never Got Paid

In the corner of Mumbai’s forgotten lanes, beneath half-torn festival posters and abandoned circus trucks, there lived a man named Raquib.

He wore a red nose, a yellow coat, and broken shoes that squeaked every time he walked. His job?

To make people laugh.

Every evening, Raquib performed for kids near the train station — juggling old tennis balls, pretending to fall, pulling imaginary rabbits from a tattered hat.

The crowd clapped.

But they rarely paid.

A few coins, a leftover samosa, maybe a “good job, bhaiya.” Then they vanished into the noise of the city.

At night, he’d curl under a broken billboard that once read:

“Happiness is just a choice away!”

Funny, he thought.

He'd been choosing it for years.

Nobody knew where Raquib came from.

Some said he was once part of a real circus.

Others whispered he was a psychology student who “lost his mind.”

The truth?

Raquib used to work in customer care.

Yes. A headset. A cubicle. Scripted empathy.

Until one day, his mother died while on hold in a hospital, and his manager asked him why his “call volume” had dropped.

Raquib didn’t scream.

He just smiled.

And never went back.

Raquib painted his face every evening with two broken lipstick tubes and white powder he stole from old makeup kits. One day, a little girl asked:

“Why do you wear that face?”

He replied,

“Because my real one makes people uncomfortable.”

One night, after a week of no food, Raquib sat silently as people passed him without a glance. A rich teenager threw a crumpled Rs.10 note and said,

“Here, sad clown. Entertain me.”

Raquib looked up, smiled politely… and handed the note back.

The boy spat on his shoe.

The shoe squeaked.

Raquib laughed.

But something inside him didn’t.

Over the next few weeks, something changed.

Raquib’s makeup became sharper. His performances darker. His jokes — biting.

He told stories instead of juggling. Stories about people like him.

People who wore masks — not for fun, but for survival.

People clapped harder. Cried sometimes.

But they still didn’t pay.

It was the city’s biggest festive night. Lights everywhere. Laughter echoed.

Raquib walked to the center of the main square. No juggling. No gags.

Just a mic, and a voice that no one had ever heard so clearly.

“What’s a clown's biggest joke?” he asked.

People chuckled.

He paused. Then answered himself:

“Thinking you matter when you're not on screen.”

Then he pulled off his red nose, held up a mirror, and showed the crowd.

“Look. You’re wearing it too.”

A silence spread.

Then screams.

Because behind him, his shack was on fire.

Not burning.

Exploding.

With the words spray-painted:

“Now you’ll remember me.”

Some say Raquib died that night.

Others believe he disappeared into the crowd, faceless like the rest.

But months later, people started seeing masks across the city. Not Guy Fawkes. Not Joker. But a simple red-nose and white face.

On walls. On posters. On protest signs.

“The unpaid clown still watches.”

Note

This story isn't just about a clown.

It's about all those invisible people society laughs at, steps over, then blames when they finally stop pretending.