Members of the Society of Indian Magicians struggle to find a place where they can all appear at the same time to talk shop.
The Society of Indian Magicians Mumbai (SIM) will hold a grand International Magic Convention titled “Khul Ja Sim Sim” in June. The first such convention in 22 years is slated to be as much a summer carnival of the masters of sleight-of-hand as it will be the platform for an appeal from the members of the oldest organisation of magic in India, to whoever cares to listen, that SIM needs a home base.
Ever since its inception in 1932, the society has struggled to find a permanent structure — a home to call its own — and thus not been able to bring its ideas of “spreading magic” to fruition.
“If we get a place we can do a lot of things, like training kids to do well in subjects like mathematics. We can teach adults how to avoid pickpockets, which is a matter of concern for local train travellers, and how to carry large amounts of cash without raising suspicions,” says Atul Patil, an illusionist and the president of SIM.
“Forget about a permanent place, we have a hard time even getting space to hold our meetings once a month. When we approach BMC [Brihanmumbai Municipal Corporation] or a school, they look at us suspiciously. They can’t seem to understand why magicians need to hold meetings.”
SIM meetings are nothing but a forum to exchange trade secrets between conjurors. In fact, this was the singular purpose for which the society was founded.
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At the outset, Pestonji Edulji Dalal, the owner of Polson’s, the bestselling brand of butter from the 1930s, before Amul came along; Rusi Deboo, ex-owner of the Jewish laundry chain Leach and Weborny; Adi Marzaban, editor of the Gujarati newspaper Jame Jamshed; Hamid Sayani, brother of Ameen Sayani of Binaca Geetmala fame; and a Briton named Mario Garey, among others, came together to start SIM.
“In those days, to learn a trick was extremely difficult,” says Ravindranath Kaikini, now 76, who joined SIM in 1952 as a 17-year-old. “It took nearly a year or so. So, it helped a great deal when we interacted among ourselves every second Thursday of a month and shared secrets to perform magic. We usually met at Polson’s place. He had a 4,000 sq ft house which still stands near Eros theatre. His wife lives there now.”
Kaikini recollects that back then, ironically, SIM’s members did not want non-members to know about it. “Only if you were a professional magician were you invited to the society,” he says. “SIM didn’t want non-magicians to crowd the place. The society was especially wary of those who were interested in secrets and not in magic.”
Kaikini’s father considered magic witchcraft, and discouraged his son from practising it even as an avocation. “So the members usually put a greenhorn through his paces, asking him to perform for 15 minutes in front of the committee. If he qualified, two members would sign a piece of paper claiming responsibility for the new entrant. And if the new entrant got up to some mischief, used the art of magic in a way that was inappropriate, then those two members would be pulled up. The members had to pay one or two rupees every six months for SIM to run. We had 30-odd members in the 1950s. And every month we were sent letters informing us about the venue of the next meeting.”
Information about the meeting is sent via SMS now. And there are about 300 members, who have to pay Rs 1,200 each as admission fee. Also, it appears that with people now perceiving magic as magic and not witchcraft, life has become a bit easier for magicians. Patil, though, feels that that’s a thought which will take time to strike home among SIM members.
“Khul Ja Sim Sim”, June 5, 8.30 am onward, at Karnataka Sangha Hall, Matunga (West)