In the purple dusk, the face of Apparao the Clown appears ashen. Wrinkles, innocuous against the white paint encircling his eyes and mouth, cut across his skin. His apple-red clown’s nose glows. Sipping hot tea from a small glass, he strides in his green coat and flapping orange pants, towards his tent, which is illuminated by the light of a single naked bulb. For 51 years, since the age of 10, Apparao has worked in circuses from Gemini to Great Royal, traversing the country first as an acrobat then as a clown. His talents include making children squeal with his most popular accessory—a plastic baby doll, which pumps water when squeezed.
Apparao is one of 200 hundred artistes, crew and management comprising the Great Royal Circus—known by its employees as the Company—which is currently touring Mumbai. In a suburban college ground, 80 tents, 20 portable toilets, 5 animal pens stacked with fodder, a kitchen, and 4 eating areas, surround the Big Top. The air is thick with the smell of manure and dust. The commentator’s voice echoes across the ground, interspersed with "Raindrops are Falling on my Head" from giant speakers, and Hindi film songs rendered by a live orchestra. Created in 1906 by the Maharashtrian Walavalkar family at a time when a circus was the biggest draw in town for the duration of its stay, the Great Royal, like many of its counterparts, is reluctantly entering the autumn of its life.
In 2001, the Supreme Court upheld a 1998 central government notification barring bears, monkeys, tigers, panthers and lions from being used in performances. So the Great Royal sold its tigers, lions, leopards, and chimpanzees, and purchased 9 cockatoos and macaws, 14 dogs, and 8 horses, to add to its stable of 3 elephants. The elephants are over 40 years old and eat 300 kilos of fodder and 5 kilos of wheat mixed with ghee and jaggery, daily. The circus also owns two emus bred in a farm in Hyderabad, and although they don’t perform, General Manager, Dilip Raghavan says watching them roam their pen, is thrilling for the crowd. “You have to have some excitement,” he sighs. Outside of small towns like Mysore, the circus’ previous stop, cable television and the Internet have ensured that few children and, therefore, their families are interested in visiting. This evening it is largely single men, flush with cash on the eve of Eid, who arrive in buzzing clusters and whistle piercingly at the female acrobats in their sequined outfits.
After years of NGO lobbying, artistes under the age of 14 are no longer used in the circus. This, says Raghavan has forced the circus to depend on older, less flexible performers. “Training must start at five years of age,” he insists. Unable to fill the gap left by the Big Cats and without even one circus school to hone a dying craft, the Indian circus immortalised in films like Raj Kapoor’s Mera Naam Joker has been reduced to a slapstick montage of clowns and ageing acrobats.
Thin cheers from the audience momentarily fill the air. Raghavan stops to listen. He isn’t reassured.
The Great Royal Circus is part of a consortium of four circuses including Gemini, Jumbo and Great Bombay under a single management. Their tour schedule, prepared three years in advance, includes stops of up to five months at 7 cities. In between, small towns in states like Uttar Pradesh and Bihar keep the cash flowing. “Oh, you should see those crowds,” exclaims P.S Basheer, Manager. “I have never had to fight with so many people, or call the police as many times as I do in Bihar. We are expected to give out 200 free tickets everyday! Entire schools land up and expect to get in without paying a paisa!”
It is from small towns, however, that young artistes are recruited. Before the lure of the Gulf, it was the circus that impoverished families in Kerala apprenticed their children to. Now, however, it is youngsters from West Bengal and Nepal, who form the bulk of the performers. Sheeta Dhuri, a Nepali acrobat whose family moved to Maharashtra five years ago, joined to escape working in the fields. Now married with a one-year-old daughter, she says, eyes twinkling, “I get money, free food and travel, and friends. I told my parents, ‘don’t worry, I will return soon.’ But I haven’t returned for three years!” Then she adds: “But I’ll make sure my daughter doesn’t join the circus. I’ll educate her. The parents suffer so that their children don’t have to.”
It isn’t just money that entices. Apparao the clown signed up because all the men in his family had been artistes; and according to Ramaer Pillai, the nattily dressed, pink shirted ringmaster, a circus member since the age of 14, fame is assured to those who work hard. “When I was young I would spend three years perfecting an act. When Sanjay Dutt was small, his father Sunil Duttji would bring him to the show to watch me. I have a big name in Bombay,” he beams. “I have an act where I pretend to be drunk while balancing on a rope—I was the first one in India to do that. Now I have many chela log, with whom I share some of my items.”
The circus life also throws up opportunities in film and television. Apparao recently finished a week’s work in Krish, starring Hrithik Roshan, and he reminisces fondly about being an extra in Mera Naam Joker (1971). “In those days Rishi and Randhir Kapoor were unemployed, so they were always roaming around the sets!” he chortles. “I met Raj Kapoor and K Abbas. I liked the film, but it was too long for audiences. Kapoor Sahib was right. However sad a joker may feel, once in the Ring he forgets his sorrows.”
To travel between towns, the management hires forty trucks at Rs 40,000 each for animals and goods, and two buses for the artistes. Personal cars and mini vans join the convoy. For journeys over six hours, the Company travels by train. For this camp, as the settling down of a circus in an area is known, the Great Royal is sponsored by Candyman confectionary. But this is a rare event. Usually, a circus must survive off ticket sales. This extra money is spent on advertisements in newspapers (Rs 3.5 Lakh), cable TV (Rs 40,000), fliers (Rs 45,000) and posters (Rs 1.5 Lakh). A circus this size needs to make at least Rs 1 Lakh daily to remain in a metro. In smaller towns, Rs 80,000 is the upper limit. The reduced income over the years means that circuses have been relegated to the suburbs. From Churchgate ten years ago, it is Jogeshwari and Borivali now.
Irrespective of the city or space, the circus survives on a diligent routine of work. The artistes work all year, and are given a paid holiday of up to 15 days to visit their families. Many stay up to a month. There are three shows daily, every day. Each artiste performs in up to two shows daily, with as many as five acts in each. For this, they are paid an average of Rs 3,000 a month. Apparao, who earns Rs 4,000, says he will not retire until he educates his third son. His eldest son is in the Air Force; his second son is completing his BSc. His family, he says, eagerly awaits the Rs 2,000 he sends by Demand Draft to Hyderabad every month.
The artistes’ workday commences at 6.30 a.m. Until 9.30 a.m., they exercise and practice, and then have breakfast. They are free until 12.30 p.m. when they regroup to prepare for the first show of the day, from 1.30 p.m. to 3.30 p.m. Meals are consumed between the two remaining shows—at 4.30 p.m. and 7.30 p.m.—either in the mess or individual tents. Then, for the men, it’s time for a drink or a game of cards, while the women watch TV, visit the market and the cinema. “It is a lonely life,” admits one male artiste. “So you gamble and drink away all your savings.”
The dichotomy between their performance in the Ring, and the personalities of the artistes in their plain clothes, faces shorn of make up, is disconcerting.
In the Ring, only the clowns crack a smile. Through 27 acts, the acrobats, cyclists, motorcycle riders and rifle shooters sport a melancholic air. The heat cannot help; immediately after the show commences, the giant fans grind to a halt with a rusty cry. Although the female artistes are clad in bustier and shorts, they wear knee length socks or tights, and thick shoes. From the front row Rs 100 chairs to the cramped seating of the backbenchers who pay Rs 25, all are morose with the heat and the joyless performances before them. It is only the four Russians artistes, loaned from the Uzbek circus, and the star attraction of this show, who take to the Ring with gusto. The audience matches their enthusiasm, and for a few minutes, the passion and tension associated with a circus performance is conveyed to the gathering.
“Our girls are very shy,” explains Raghavan. “They are very frank behind the curtain, but in front of the audience their smiles fade. It is because they haven’t received basic training in audience interaction, like the Russians, all of whom have attended circus schools.” Nina, 18, one of the three Russian acrobats, elaborates: “The Uzbek circus has much people coming to visit,” she says, slowly. “Each group (of artistes) has one master. And every day you exercise, train, learn new numbers. There we perform only three days a week—Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. Here, every day three times a day, same thing.”
After their performance, Nina and her fellow Russians, Diora 17, and Shakhnoza, 20, who have been in India for six months, retire in their costumes, to their sparsely furnished tent, for cigarettes and tea. Their limited English prevents interaction with the rest of the troupe; they also have a separate mess and toilet. The other female artistes change quickly out of their skimpy costumes and into long sleeved kaftans. Their hunched shoulders straighten; they walk with light steps, and laugh loudly and often. They run in and out of each other’s tents, sharing confidences and food.
Twenty-year-old Bengali Shantu Pandey wears a silver and blue corset and tiny shorts for her act with the cockatoos. Although her bright red lipstick and the black liner highlighting her almond eyes remains, she now wears a black kaftan, and her long brown hair is clipped demurely into a ponytail. She says, “Hume bada kapda pehena pasand hai, magar number ke time chota kapda pehne padta hain. Bada kapda ke saat hum khel nahin dikha sakte, takleef hota hain.” (I like wearing baggy clothes, but if I wore them in the Ring, I wouldn’t be able to perform comfortably.”) Shantu and her sister Lucy joined the circus when they were 11 and 10 respectively. “Trouble at home,” explains Shantu. The sisters travel with their mother Dolly Nandy, who says, “I’m so proud of my girls. They each earn Rs 7,000 a month; they live independently. Soon they would have saved enough to buy a flat in Thane. It costs Rs 12 Lakh. Then they will settle down and get married.”
The Pandeys tent embodies the travelling artistes desire for familiarity. There is a double bed and a single bed cooled with two table fans, lit by two tube lights A large table beneath a face mirror, is covered with cosmetics from L’Oreal and Lakme; on a small table are spread religious sculptures adorned with plastic flowers. There are two suitcases standing expectantly in a corner, a sewing machine, a television, a tape recorder playing Hindi music, and a stabiliser. A curtain has portioned the tent into two spaces, and the rear is fashioned into a kitchen. Milk bubbles on a gas stove beside two-dozen plastic containers of spices, two varieties of pasta, a bottle of pickle, a box of sweetmeats, a 20-litre container of water, baskets of potatoes, tomatoes, onions, and garlic. “Food cooked for 300 people isn’t always tasty,” smiles Pandey. “So we make special food for ourselves, like mutton, chicken and fish.” In a corner is a cage, and in it growl Whisky and Sweetie—Pandey’s pet dogs, who travel with her everywhere.
Trick cyclist Mala Das and her husband, who is part of the crew; also have their own tent. Das, whose Maang ka Tikka and oiled plait distinguishes her from her younger colleagues, is the mother of an eight-year-old boy, who lives with his grandparents in Kolkata. Although she sees her son only for a month annually, she isn’t ready to stop earning well. “I do think about Kolkata,” she smiles, shyly. “But I will work for as many years as I can.” Both Pandey and Das also have their personal toilets, and like the other familes in the circus, more freedom than their single counterparts, including Nepali Susheela Arya, 20.
Arya lives with the camp’s 33 other single women in a large tent. The beds are spaced dormitory style, and flanked with tables. There are several television sets. The girls are sent food from the mess, and cannot leave camp unsupervised. How ever dangerous their stunts, once out of the Ring they are protected as children would. “They are my daughters,” says Raghavan. “Everything is given to them. Good make up, good costumes, medicines. Whatever they want I have to provide at any cost.” Later, Arya agrees, saying, “Director Uncle asks us to come straight to him with our problems. Even for something like too much salt in the daal.”
Arya, a golden-skinned beauty with perfect white teeth, is a star for her turn on the Balancing Trapeze—a dangerous act usually performed only by men. Raghavan says, “If she falls, she will fall outside the ring.” Arya explains, “I saw the circus when I was small, and loved it so much; I decided to join.” She spent a year practising before she performed. “Ab to bahut din ho gaya, koi dar nahin hain,” she shrugs, nonchalantly. (“I’ve been doing it for so long, I’m no longer afraid.”)
Most of the camp’s women are like Arya; educated, small town girls drawn to the circus as their only escape from their parents’ life, for making enough money to support loved ones. Arya says, “Yahan mazaa aata hai.” They don’t see the squalor of their surroundings; they ignore the taunts from rough audiences. “Kabhi kabhi houseful mein public chillati hain, phir humhe darr lagta hain,” says Rupa Lama, 20, who performs with the elephants. (When it’s houseful people tend to scream a lot, and that is scary.”) And yet, despite the extent of their travels, they have little interaction with the world outside the circus.
And they appear the happier for it.
Also part of the circus is Tailor Moinuddin, who creates the artistes Hindi film-inspired wardrobes of silver bustiers and black mini skirts. “People don’t want to watch dangerous stunts,” he says. “They want glamour and beautiful costumes. Cosmetics, hats, hair.” The five mahouts, the five-member orchestra, 60 labourers, 16 Ring boys, 14 cooks, 3 tent masters plus their assistants, security, watchmen, ticket punchers, storekeepers and ushers are the other tentacles of the circus world. A separate crew is hired at a cost of Rs 2 Lakh at every camp to erect the fire resistant Big Top, which is changed half yearly at a cost of between Rs 12 to Rs 14 Lakh.
Apparao is sitting in his tent, his home since he was 10. Now 61, he explains, “I wasn’t always a clown. I was first an acrobat, then a cyclist. But I realised that it’s only the joker who works till his end. Everyone else must stop once they get old.” He sighs. “I don’t want my children to join the circus. Payment hai, khana hai, magar future nahin hai.” He pauses, looks up. He notices that the atmosphere is subdued. He doesn’t want to disappoint his audience. He grins: “Magar ek baar yeh line mein aaoge, to Kabhi nahin chod sakte. Yeh nasha hai. Band baj raha hai, ladkiyan aa rahi hain, aaj yej camp mein, kal doosre sheher mein. Paise se aap kitne jagah ghoomege? Magar hum to Malaysia tak gaya. Sach mein, this is the jolly life.” (Once you join the circus you can never leave. It’s a drug. The band playing, the artistes, today this camp, tomorrow another city. How many places will you travel with your own money? I have been to Malaysia. So much fun. Truly, this is a jolly life.”)
Photos: Sanjiv Valsan. An edited version of this appears in
Tehelka, November 19.
In the purple dusk, the face of Apparao the Clown appears ashen. Wrinkles, innocuous against the white paint encircling his eyes and mouth, cut across his skin. His apple-red clown’s nose glows. Sipping hot tea from a small glass, he strides in his green coat and flapping orange pants, towards his tent, which is illuminated by the light of a single naked bulb. For 51 years, since the age of 10, Apparao has worked in circuses from Gemini to Great Royal, traversing the country first as an acrobat then as a clown. His talents include making children squeal with his most popular accessory—a plastic baby doll, which pumps water when squeezed.
Apparao is one of 200 hundred artistes, crew and management comprising the Great Royal Circus—known by its employees as the Company—which is currently touring Mumbai. In a suburban college ground, 80 tents, 20 portable toilets, 5 animal pens stacked with fodder, a kitchen, and 4 eating areas, surround the Big Top. The air is thick with the smell of manure and dust. The commentator’s voice echoes across the ground, interspersed with "Raindrops are Falling on my Head" from giant speakers, and Hindi film songs rendered by a live orchestra. Created in 1906 by the Maharashtrian Walavalkar family at a time when a circus was the biggest draw in town for the duration of its stay, the Great Royal, like many of its counterparts, is reluctantly entering the autumn of its life.
In 2001, the Supreme Court upheld a 1998 central government notification barring bears, monkeys, tigers, panthers and lions from being used in performances. So the Great Royal sold its tigers, lions, leopards, and chimpanzees, and purchased 9 cockatoos and macaws, 14 dogs, and 8 horses, to add to its stable of 3 elephants. The elephants are over 40 years old and eat 300 kilos of fodder and 5 kilos of wheat mixed with ghee and jaggery, daily. The circus also owns two emus bred in a farm in Hyderabad, and although they don’t perform, General Manager, Dilip Raghavan says watching them roam their pen, is thrilling for the crowd. “You have to have some excitement,” he sighs. Outside of small towns like Mysore, the circus’ previous stop, cable television and the Internet have ensured that few children and, therefore, their families are interested in visiting. This evening it is largely single men, flush with cash on the eve of Eid, who arrive in buzzing clusters and whistle piercingly at the female acrobats in their sequined outfits.
After years of NGO lobbying, artistes under the age of 14 are no longer used in the circus. This, says Raghavan has forced the circus to depend on older, less flexible performers. “Training must start at five years of age,” he insists. Unable to fill the gap left by the Big Cats and without even one circus school to hone a dying craft, the Indian circus immortalised in films like Raj Kapoor’s Mera Naam Joker has been reduced to a slapstick montage of clowns and ageing acrobats.
Thin cheers from the audience momentarily fill the air. Raghavan stops to listen. He isn’t reassured.
The Great Royal Circus is part of a consortium of four circuses including Gemini, Jumbo and Great Bombay under a single management. Their tour schedule, prepared three years in advance, includes stops of up to five months at 7 cities. In between, small towns in states like Uttar Pradesh and Bihar keep the cash flowing. “Oh, you should see those crowds,” exclaims P.S Basheer, Manager. “I have never had to fight with so many people, or call the police as many times as I do in Bihar. We are expected to give out 200 free tickets everyday! Entire schools land up and expect to get in without paying a paisa!”
It is from small towns, however, that young artistes are recruited. Before the lure of the Gulf, it was the circus that impoverished families in Kerala apprenticed their children to. Now, however, it is youngsters from West Bengal and Nepal, who form the bulk of the performers. Sheeta Dhuri, a Nepali acrobat whose family moved to Maharashtra five years ago, joined to escape working in the fields. Now married with a one-year-old daughter, she says, eyes twinkling, “I get money, free food and travel, and friends. I told my parents, ‘don’t worry, I will return soon.’ But I haven’t returned for three years!” Then she adds: “But I’ll make sure my daughter doesn’t join the circus. I’ll educate her. The parents suffer so that their children don’t have to.”
It isn’t just money that entices. Apparao the clown signed up because all the men in his family had been artistes; and according to Ramaer Pillai, the nattily dressed, pink shirted ringmaster, a circus member since the age of 14, fame is assured to those who work hard. “When I was young I would spend three years perfecting an act. When Sanjay Dutt was small, his father Sunil Duttji would bring him to the show to watch me. I have a big name in Bombay,” he beams. “I have an act where I pretend to be drunk while balancing on a rope—I was the first one in India to do that. Now I have many chela log, with whom I share some of my items.”
The circus life also throws up opportunities in film and television. Apparao recently finished a week’s work in Krish, starring Hrithik Roshan, and he reminisces fondly about being an extra in Mera Naam Joker (1971). “In those days Rishi and Randhir Kapoor were unemployed, so they were always roaming around the sets!” he chortles. “I met Raj Kapoor and K Abbas. I liked the film, but it was too long for audiences. Kapoor Sahib was right. However sad a joker may feel, once in the Ring he forgets his sorrows.”
To travel between towns, the management hires forty trucks at Rs 40,000 each for animals and goods, and two buses for the artistes. Personal cars and mini vans join the convoy. For journeys over six hours, the Company travels by train. For this camp, as the settling down of a circus in an area is known, the Great Royal is sponsored by Candyman confectionary. But this is a rare event. Usually, a circus must survive off ticket sales. This extra money is spent on advertisements in newspapers (Rs 3.5 Lakh), cable TV (Rs 40,000), fliers (Rs 45,000) and posters (Rs 1.5 Lakh). A circus this size needs to make at least Rs 1 Lakh daily to remain in a metro. In smaller towns, Rs 80,000 is the upper limit. The reduced income over the years means that circuses have been relegated to the suburbs. From Churchgate ten years ago, it is Jogeshwari and Borivali now.
Irrespective of the city or space, the circus survives on a diligent routine of work. The artistes work all year, and are given a paid holiday of up to 15 days to visit their families. Many stay up to a month. There are three shows daily, every day. Each artiste performs in up to two shows daily, with as many as five acts in each. For this, they are paid an average of Rs 3,000 a month. Apparao, who earns Rs 4,000, says he will not retire until he educates his third son. His eldest son is in the Air Force; his second son is completing his BSc. His family, he says, eagerly awaits the Rs 2,000 he sends by Demand Draft to Hyderabad every month.
The artistes’ workday commences at 6.30 a.m. Until 9.30 a.m., they exercise and practice, and then have breakfast. They are free until 12.30 p.m. when they regroup to prepare for the first show of the day, from 1.30 p.m. to 3.30 p.m. Meals are consumed between the two remaining shows—at 4.30 p.m. and 7.30 p.m.—either in the mess or individual tents. Then, for the men, it’s time for a drink or a game of cards, while the women watch TV, visit the market and the cinema. “It is a lonely life,” admits one male artiste. “So you gamble and drink away all your savings.”
The dichotomy between their performance in the Ring, and the personalities of the artistes in their plain clothes, faces shorn of make up, is disconcerting.
In the Ring, only the clowns crack a smile. Through 27 acts, the acrobats, cyclists, motorcycle riders and rifle shooters sport a melancholic air. The heat cannot help; immediately after the show commences, the giant fans grind to a halt with a rusty cry. Although the female artistes are clad in bustier and shorts, they wear knee length socks or tights, and thick shoes. From the front row Rs 100 chairs to the cramped seating of the backbenchers who pay Rs 25, all are morose with the heat and the joyless performances before them. It is only the four Russians artistes, loaned from the Uzbek circus, and the star attraction of this show, who take to the Ring with gusto. The audience matches their enthusiasm, and for a few minutes, the passion and tension associated with a circus performance is conveyed to the gathering.
“Our girls are very shy,” explains Raghavan. “They are very frank behind the curtain, but in front of the audience their smiles fade. It is because they haven’t received basic training in audience interaction, like the Russians, all of whom have attended circus schools.” Nina, 18, one of the three Russian acrobats, elaborates: “The Uzbek circus has much people coming to visit,” she says, slowly. “Each group (of artistes) has one master. And every day you exercise, train, learn new numbers. There we perform only three days a week—Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. Here, every day three times a day, same thing.”
After their performance, Nina and her fellow Russians, Diora 17, and Shakhnoza, 20, who have been in India for six months, retire in their costumes, to their sparsely furnished tent, for cigarettes and tea. Their limited English prevents interaction with the rest of the troupe; they also have a separate mess and toilet. The other female artistes change quickly out of their skimpy costumes and into long sleeved kaftans. Their hunched shoulders straighten; they walk with light steps, and laugh loudly and often. They run in and out of each other’s tents, sharing confidences and food.
Twenty-year-old Bengali Shantu Pandey wears a silver and blue corset and tiny shorts for her act with the cockatoos. Although her bright red lipstick and the black liner highlighting her almond eyes remains, she now wears a black kaftan, and her long brown hair is clipped demurely into a ponytail. She says, “Hume bada kapda pehena pasand hai, magar number ke time chota kapda pehne padta hain. Bada kapda ke saat hum khel nahin dikha sakte, takleef hota hain.” (I like wearing baggy clothes, but if I wore them in the Ring, I wouldn’t be able to perform comfortably.”) Shantu and her sister Lucy joined the circus when they were 11 and 10 respectively. “Trouble at home,” explains Shantu. The sisters travel with their mother Dolly Nandy, who says, “I’m so proud of my girls. They each earn Rs 7,000 a month; they live independently. Soon they would have saved enough to buy a flat in Thane. It costs Rs 12 Lakh. Then they will settle down and get married.”
The Pandeys tent embodies the travelling artistes desire for familiarity. There is a double bed and a single bed cooled with two table fans, lit by two tube lights A large table beneath a face mirror, is covered with cosmetics from L’Oreal and Lakme; on a small table are spread religious sculptures adorned with plastic flowers. There are two suitcases standing expectantly in a corner, a sewing machine, a television, a tape recorder playing Hindi music, and a stabiliser. A curtain has portioned the tent into two spaces, and the rear is fashioned into a kitchen. Milk bubbles on a gas stove beside two-dozen plastic containers of spices, two varieties of pasta, a bottle of pickle, a box of sweetmeats, a 20-litre container of water, baskets of potatoes, tomatoes, onions, and garlic. “Food cooked for 300 people isn’t always tasty,” smiles Pandey. “So we make special food for ourselves, like mutton, chicken and fish.” In a corner is a cage, and in it growl Whisky and Sweetie—Pandey’s pet dogs, who travel with her everywhere.
Trick cyclist Mala Das and her husband, who is part of the crew; also have their own tent. Das, whose Maang ka Tikka and oiled plait distinguishes her from her younger colleagues, is the mother of an eight-year-old boy, who lives with his grandparents in Kolkata. Although she sees her son only for a month annually, she isn’t ready to stop earning well. “I do think about Kolkata,” she smiles, shyly. “But I will work for as many years as I can.” Both Pandey and Das also have their personal toilets, and like the other familes in the circus, more freedom than their single counterparts, including Nepali Susheela Arya, 20.
Arya lives with the camp’s 33 other single women in a large tent. The beds are spaced dormitory style, and flanked with tables. There are several television sets. The girls are sent food from the mess, and cannot leave camp unsupervised. How ever dangerous their stunts, once out of the Ring they are protected as children would. “They are my daughters,” says Raghavan. “Everything is given to them. Good make up, good costumes, medicines. Whatever they want I have to provide at any cost.” Later, Arya agrees, saying, “Director Uncle asks us to come straight to him with our problems. Even for something like too much salt in the daal.”
Arya, a golden-skinned beauty with perfect white teeth, is a star for her turn on the Balancing Trapeze—a dangerous act usually performed only by men. Raghavan says, “If she falls, she will fall outside the ring.” Arya explains, “I saw the circus when I was small, and loved it so much; I decided to join.” She spent a year practising before she performed. “Ab to bahut din ho gaya, koi dar nahin hain,” she shrugs, nonchalantly. (“I’ve been doing it for so long, I’m no longer afraid.”)
Most of the camp’s women are like Arya; educated, small town girls drawn to the circus as their only escape from their parents’ life, for making enough money to support loved ones. Arya says, “Yahan mazaa aata hai.” They don’t see the squalor of their surroundings; they ignore the taunts from rough audiences. “Kabhi kabhi houseful mein public chillati hain, phir humhe darr lagta hain,” says Rupa Lama, 20, who performs with the elephants. (When it’s houseful people tend to scream a lot, and that is scary.”) And yet, despite the extent of their travels, they have little interaction with the world outside the circus.
And they appear the happier for it.
Also part of the circus is Tailor Moinuddin, who creates the artistes Hindi film-inspired wardrobes of silver bustiers and black mini skirts. “People don’t want to watch dangerous stunts,” he says. “They want glamour and beautiful costumes. Cosmetics, hats, hair.” The five mahouts, the five-member orchestra, 60 labourers, 16 Ring boys, 14 cooks, 3 tent masters plus their assistants, security, watchmen, ticket punchers, storekeepers and ushers are the other tentacles of the circus world. A separate crew is hired at a cost of Rs 2 Lakh at every camp to erect the fire resistant Big Top, which is changed half yearly at a cost of between Rs 12 to Rs 14 Lakh.
Apparao is sitting in his tent, his home since he was 10. Now 61, he explains, “I wasn’t always a clown. I was first an acrobat, then a cyclist. But I realised that it’s only the joker who works till his end. Everyone else must stop once they get old.” He sighs. “I don’t want my children to join the circus. Payment hai, khana hai, magar future nahin hai.” He pauses, looks up. He notices that the atmosphere is subdued. He doesn’t want to disappoint his audience. He grins: “Magar ek baar yeh line mein aaoge, to Kabhi nahin chod sakte. Yeh nasha hai. Band baj raha hai, ladkiyan aa rahi hain, aaj yej camp mein, kal doosre sheher mein. Paise se aap kitne jagah ghoomege? Magar hum to Malaysia tak gaya. Sach mein, this is the jolly life.” (Once you join the circus you can never leave. It’s a drug. The band playing, the artistes, today this camp, tomorrow another city. How many places will you travel with your own money? I have been to Malaysia. So much fun. Truly, this is a jolly life.”)
Photos: Sanjiv Valsan. An edited version of this appears in Tehelka, November 19.
15 comments:
Wonderful story, nice pics. Many thanks.
Your article made very moving reading.
An article with a soul. Splendid!
Real good article. Informative insight into their lives.
Superb article - the sensitivity in your writing brings tears to my eyes.
Beautiful photos too.
Best wishes,
Suresh
great writing as always
My house was adjacent to a maidan where a circus visited atleast once every 3-4 years. It was always fun to see the maidan fill up with people during the circus.
Could always peek into the tents when the circus was on and watch artistes get ready although it wasn't always easy.
But what I loved most was the sounds of the animals during the night.
Thanks Sonia - this brings back thoughts that had gotten lost in the technological gibberish my mind is always caught up with.
keep it up sonia. ur article took me back to my school days. those days we used to wait for the circus to be in town. now i do see circus tents at cross maidan, but never had the enthusiasm to go and watch it. but now, after reading this i am really eager to go to see it. that is the power of ur articles. thanx for those great pics too.
Sonia
Thanks for these stories. I have seen just one or two circus shows. This was when they had the wild animals, the horses and the whole nine yards. It used to be so exciting when the circus was in town. They would perform at one of the maidans Azad or somewhere there, in Bombay. A Sunday spend in wonderous amusement. Thanks for the memories.
Sourin
What intrigued me about this circus, and I think this will apply to other Indian circuses as well, is how different the artistes are in the Ring and out of it.
The performances lasted two hours, and throughout, no one cracked a smile. They were reticent to say the least. The ringmaster was charming, and the clowns tried their best; the Russians had style, but everyone else looked morbid. Even the animals. When I met them however, they were energetic and enthusiastic, and happy to share their stories with me. It was an eye opener.
And I particularly loved how the women artistes were draped in long, loose clothing when out of the Ring. Not that one expects them not to change out of their outfits, but the dichotimy between the bustiers and shorts, and kaftans, was very interesting.
This circus is on till March in Jogeshwari East.
for the love of all the gods in heaven, will you let go of that 'blogger and blogger in real life' thing man? sheesh.
its no fun being a hard boiled critic is it ? feeling a little masochistic are we ?
good point about Uzbekistan .. the circus is a life for a lot of people in Central Asia. When working there I had a the opportunity to visit the circus there.. literally, people were rolling in the aisles, much like people dancing around in a theater playing a bolly film "item" number.
this is is what
what circu is this
it looks great
I saw the Great Royal Circus perform nine times in January (2005) when they visited Bangalore, and made friends with some of the performers. I too wondered at the lack of smiles, and never really got a straight answer other than "Try doing this three times a day, every day, and still smile."
The Lions, Tigers and Bears (and chimps) are gone, but still... it was the circus. The thrill of watching someone let go of a trapeze bar fifty feet above the ground and depend on another being at the right place at the right time give or take half a second was just as thrilling. Watching an elephant bat soccer balls out into the audience with practiced ease and the cheers of the children.
Still, it’s the clowns that made it for me and what I remember most.
Great article, brought back memories. I hope they make it back here again soon.
I knew Apparao since my childhood. He was my dad's collegue. I wish him and his family best wishes and pray for his good health. Give my regards to him.
Post a Comment