The vanishing world of India's street magicians

**The fading world of India’s street magicians**

Ishamuddin Khan is among India’s best-known street magicians.

In his small Delhi home, Ishamuddin Khan can still make a rope seem to lift into the air.

The 55-year-old has spent decades performing a trick once treated as a myth, and he still keeps photographs and newspaper cuttings from the years when he was famous internationally.

Now, he spends more time remembering those days than performing.

“The times have changed,” he says. “Street magic is dying a slow death. It is on a ventilator.”

Khan’s experience mirrors a broader shift in India, where traditional street performers are finding it harder and harder to earn a living from their art.

Magicians, jugglers, puppeteers and acrobats once depended on crowds in public places. But changing entertainment tastes and stricter rules have made audiences harder to reach, forcing many out of the profession.

Khan, one of India’s most recognisable magicians, belongs to the Madari community, which has a long history of performing in public spaces.

There are no official statistics, but Khan says community records show around 400 Madari families in Delhi, with hundreds more in Uttar Pradesh, Rajasthan and Telangana.

Even though they are few in number today, the Madaris say their roots go back centuries.

Historian Ashok Mathur says Madari traditions are rooted in Indian folklore, mythology and the long history of travelling performers.

“For generations, these skills were passed through families,” he explains.

Restricted access to community spaces has made it difficult for street magicians to find an audience.

Khan followed the same family path, learning magic from his father and uncles and performing from the age of 12. By his early 20s, he had mastered the rope trick that would later make him famous.

The trick, in which a rope appears to rise into the air before a boy climbs it, was long linked to the mythology of Indian street magic and widely believed to be impossible until Khan performed it.

He says it took him six years to perfect the trick, which he first performed publicly in 1995 outside Delhi’s famous Qutub Minar. Two years later, he performed it before 30,000 people on a beach in Karnataka.

The trick drew international attention, leading to tours in the UK, France, Germany and Japan.

Khan hoped the fame would bring attention to India’s traditional performers. For a time, it did. But the spotlight faded.

As audiences moved toward new forms of entertainment and public performance opportunities declined, many magicians found it increasingly difficult to make a living from skills handed down through generations.

One of them is 40-year-old Imam Khan.

A former magician, Imam now earns his living collecting bottles and recyclables from Delhi’s streets. He spends much of his time rag-picking near a dump in western Delhi, making about 200 rupees ($2; £1.57) a day.

Experts say the decline in street performance has several causes, with the changing nature of public spaces among the biggest.

Anurupa Roy, founder of Katkatha Puppet Arts Trust, says performers are finding it harder to attract audiences as public spaces shrink.

“Closed parks and residential societies that bar outsiders are limiting spaces for performance.”

Researcher and performer Komita Dhanda says changing attitudes toward public spaces are also contributing to the decline.

“With tighter security, especially in busy town and city centres, there is little space left for street performers,” she says.

It is not only individual artists who struggle to get permission. Dhanda says her well-known street theatre group, Jana Natya Manch, often runs into obstacles when performing in public spaces.

For many artists, the problem is not just finding a place to perform but also dealing with unclear rules about what is permitted.

Most street performers depend on voluntary payments, but experts say the boundary between performing for money and begging can become blurred.

Unlike the UK, India has no federal busking framework. Instead, performers must deal with state-level rules on public order, obstruction, noise and public land.

“This is why street performers often have to face municipal and police regulations governing public spaces, as well as state-specific anti-begging laws,” says lawyer Kaushik Mitra.

For many artists, Covid made an already difficult situation worse.

When India imposed its 2020 lockdown, public performances came to a halt. Many magicians returned to their villages; some never came back.

“We saw a decline in public performances after this period,” Dhanda says. “The brunt was especially harsh for street magicians and performers, many of whom did not return to cities.”

For those who did return and continue working, the difficulties have only grown.

Shahim Khan, 42, still performs magic on Delhi’s streets, sometimes alongside his 12-year-old daughter, Alia.

Much of his work is now limited to industrial areas, far from the busy public spaces where he once performed, and that has badly affected his income.

Before the pandemic, he could do four or five shows a day and earn 1,000-1,200 rupees.

“Now I barely manage two shows and earn 200-400 rupees,” he says.

Experts say the rise of short-form digital entertainment has added to the pressure on traditional performers. Changing attitudes toward street arts have also played a role.

“There was a lot of Western interest in things like the rope trick decades ago. But forms and tastes have changed, and so has what India chooses to showcase,” Dhanda says.

For Khan, the loss is about more than money. He worries that an art passed down through generations could vanish if no one learns it.

“A trick can survive only if someone learns it,” he says.

His son, Altamash, began performing with him as a teenager but now works decorating parties with balloons. In his 30s, he has largely stepped away from performing.

Years without regular practice have weakened his skills. When he showed his juggling for the BBC, he struggled to keep the rhythm.

“I am slowly forgetting all the tricks,” he said.

Khan had hoped his son would continue the family tradition. Altamash had hoped to build a name for himself too, but it did not happen.

“I knew I may not achieve the fame my father has, but I did not think there would come a time when performing would not remain an option,” he says.