India's Street Magicians Face a Slow Fade as Crowds and Public Spaces Dwindle

In his cramped home in Delhi, Ishamuddin Khan can still make a rope rise into the air.

At 55, the magician has spent decades performing a trick long dismissed as legend. Photographs and newspaper clippings from his years of international fame are kept close, but these days he spends more time looking back at them than performing the feat itself.

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

Khan’s story is part of a wider shift in India, where traditional street performers are finding it harder to make a living from skills once passed down through generations.

Magicians, jugglers, puppeteers and acrobats once drew crowds in public spaces. Changing entertainment habits and tighter restrictions have made audiences harder to find, pushing many out of the profession.

A tradition rooted in public spaces

Khan belongs to the Madari community, which has a long tradition of performing in public. There are no official figures, but Khan says community records identify about 400 Madari families in Delhi, with hundreds more in Uttar Pradesh, Rajasthan and Telangana.

Despite their small numbers today, the Madaris trace their roots back centuries. Historian Ashok Mathur says Madari traditions are rooted in Indian folklore, mythology and the long history of traveling performers.

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

Khan followed the same 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 tied to the mythology of Indian street magic and widely considered impossible, until Khan performed it.

He says it took six years to master. He first performed it publicly in 1995 outside Delhi’s iconic Qutub Minar. Two years later, he performed before 30,000 people on a beach in Karnataka.

An old picture of Khan performing the great rope trick. Credit: Ishamuddin Khan/YouTube

The feat brought international attention and tours to the UK, France, Germany and Japan. Khan hoped the fame would shine a light on India’s traditional performers. For a while, it did. Then the attention faded.

As audiences turned to new forms of entertainment and public performance opportunities dwindled, many magicians found it harder to earn a living from inherited skills.

From street magic to rag picking

One of them is 40-year-old Imam Khan. Once a magician, he now collects bottles and recyclables from Delhi’s streets. He spends much of his time rag picking near a dump in western Delhi, earning about 200 rupees ($2; £1.57) a day.

Imam Khan has left street performance behind and now makes a living as a ragpicker. Credit: Antariksh Jain

Experts say the decline has multiple causes, chief among them the changing nature of public spaces.

Anurupa Roy, founder of the Katkatha Puppet Arts Trust, says performers increasingly struggle to find audiences as public spaces shrink.

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

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

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

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

It is not just individual artists who struggle to get permission. Dhanda says her well-known street theater group, Jana Natya Manch, often faces hurdles performing in public spaces.

For many artists, the challenge is not only finding a venue but navigating unclear rules over what is allowed.

Most street performers rely on voluntary payments, but experts say the line between performing for money and begging can blur. Unlike the UK, India has no federal busking framework. Performers instead navigate 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.

Pandemic setback and shrinking income

For many artists, COVID-19 made a bad situation worse. When India imposed its 2020 lockdown, public performances stopped. 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 the artists who did return and continue the trade, the challenges only increased.

Shahim Khan, 42, still performs magic on Delhi’s streets, sometimes with his 12-year-old daughter, Alia. Much of his work is now confined to industrial areas, far from the busy public spaces where he once performed, hitting his earnings hard.

Before the pandemic, he could stage four or five shows a day, earning 1,000 to 1,200 rupees.

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

The rise of short-form digital entertainment has added to the pressures on traditional performers, experts say. So have changing attitudes toward street arts.

“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.

A trick survives only if someone learns it

For Khan, the loss is about more than money. He fears an art passed down through generations could disappear 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 left performing behind.

Years without regular practice have dulled his skills. When he demonstrated his juggling for the BBC, he struggled to find the rhythm.

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

Khan had hoped his son would carry on the family tradition. Altamash had hoped to make a name for himself too, but it did not work out.

“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.

The decline reflects broader tensions over who can use India’s urban spaces and how informal cultural work is valued. Without clearer rules, accessible venues and younger performers to learn the craft, researchers warn, a centuries-old circuit of public entertainment could fade further.

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