When madaaris cast a spell

UNTIL the 1990s, madaaris — street magicians, jugglers, conjurers, snake charmers, monkey and bear handlers, acrobats, rope dancers/walkers and stilt performers — were the principal source of raw and unfiltered entertainment for both children and adults.

The mere sound of a dugdugi or damru, or the lilting melody of a flute, would send little children scampering, older ones rushing, and even the elders hurrying briskly to the spot to watch the show. Even passersby could seldom resist lingering a while to watch the madaari at work. Young girls and women, however, often viewed the spectacle from behind half-open doors or through curtained windows, stealing furtive glances at the unfolding tricks.

These street performers, usually accompanied by their families, roamed the dusty village paths carrying their modest paraphernalia: a dugdugi, a flute, a ‘magic wand’ — called churlu in their parlance — a stick, some rags and bags, and a miscellany of sundries for their tricks. They required neither a decorated stage nor an elaborate costume. A bare patch of ground on a humble street, large enough for five score people to gather, was all they needed to bring their performance to life. Occasionally, the madaari would summon a boy from the crowd to assist him. This boy, known as the jamoora (stooge), became an essential part of the show.

He had a large repertoire of tricks up his sleeve and a rare ability to elicit gasps from the crowd. To begin, he would pose some silly and simple questions to the jamoora, such as: “Jamoore, meri chadar mein ek janwar chhupa hai — bataa, tu is se ladega ya bhag jaega?” or “Bataa, tu shaadi kis se karega?” Such playful exchanges invariably evoked peals of laughter.

Once he had the audience under his control, the madaari would perform tricks one by one: sleight-of-hand illusions, producing pigeons out of an empty bag, bringing sweets seemingly from thin air, pulling iron balls from his mouth, and many more. Between tricks, he cracked jokes to keep the crowd engaged.

Once, a classmate of mine was chosen as the jamoora. Holding a tin can in one hand, the madaari told the boy to touch his nose, head, cheeks and ears one by one, then put his hand into the can — each time, a coin would drop with a clink. My classmate, lured by the sound of money, tried to dip his hand into his own pocket. The spectators laughed at this innocent attempt.

Almost every show ended with an act that was painful to watch, though it was nothing more than a contrived manoeuvre designed to evoke sympathy and make spectators loosen their purse strings. The madaari would cover a family member under a thick cloth and stab him with a knife, even producing fake blood. He would then urge the crowd to drop coins into a bowl that was passed around. Some kids, and even a few adults, would quietly slip away — some out of fear, others unwilling to part with their money.

Once ubiquitous across Indian villages and towns, madaaris exist only in memory today.