<b>Geetanjali Krishna:</b> No social security for snake charmers

When the Gurjars and the Jats intensified their demand for more reservations in government jobs, I predicted that given that India had so many communities so much more marginalised than them, this was going to open a can of worms. On a recent visit to Sapera Basti, the testimonies of the erstwhile snake charmers I met there brought this thought home to me yet again.

"I grew up with snakes," said Pritam Nath. "As a child I learnt to trap them, care for them and most of all, treat them with respect." In turn, he and others like him were accorded a fearful respect wherever they went. Their prowess with poisonous snakes and mysterious forest herbs led to the belief that snake charmers knew magic. Showing me his dusty been and tumba (the instrument that creates the distinctive percussive beats that sapera music is known for), Nath recollected the good old days, till about 20 years ago, when busloads of tourists would stop en route to Agra to watch them perform with their snakes. "A hundred saperas went to Italy to show their skill and we were all much in demand," he said. "We'd perform outside five-star hotels to transfixed audiences." When snake charming was at its peak, Nath estimated that he and his fellow performers used to earn no less than Rs 150 per day.
 

All this changed when snake charming was outlawed. Without their snakes, the charmers were ill-prepared and temperamentally unsuited to conventional life. All of them were illiterate, and since they were a primarily nomadic community, few of them owned any land to fall back on. "Most of us, even the ones who had enjoyed great success as snake charmers, had to take recourse to seasonal agricultural labour," he said. "And do you know what the government offered in compensation? One cow per household!" The other saperas surrounding us laughed derisively. "From a time when we were treated with respect when we entered a village, called upon for help when someone got bitten by a snake and much in demand to entertain foreign tourists, this was a huge comedown," he said.

What did most saperas do now, I asked. "Hardly any manage to complete school even today, and we only have one boy amongst us who's a graduate," said Nath. Most still didn't see the point of regimented schooling, especially when they could make easy money by performing. "Music and dance are in our blood, so most youngsters today make money playing in marriage parties. All of them want to play the been at parties instead of going to school or taking up a conventional job," he said. As we walked through Sapera Basti, I realised what Nath was talking about. Everywhere I looked, there were posters and tiny cubbyholes advertising "Been Parties". "Consequently, all our youth are making a living through small-time performances," said Nath. But their gigs were mostly at night, and they had nothing to do all day. It wasn't, he said, a respectable existence. Moreover, it had no scope for growth.

That is why, the recent Jat and Gurjar stirs for greater quota in government jobs have made Nath more discontented than ever before. "These are communities with land and wealth that are demanding reservations. What about people like us, illiterate, incapable of earning a living except through a practice that the government has outlawed," asked Nath bitterly.

As I left the sleepy Sapera Basti that day, I wondered how an entire community had managed to fall through the holes of the national social security net. Maybe other communities, being richer and better educated, are more proficient in demanding their rights. Or maybe the net just needs smaller holes.