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By:

Quaid Najmi

4 January 2025 at 3:26:24 pm

Thrills, roars and cheers under a giant marquee

Rambo Circus pitches a tent in MMR Mumbai : Mumbaikars are thronging to rediscover the joys of stunning, live entertainment as the familiar Rambo Circus has pitched a tent in Borivali West, before it shifts to Navi Mumbai from December 2.   This is billed as the first major full-scale season post-Covid-19 pandemic, which had led to a near washout of shows owing to social-distancing norms and public fears. The tent is now attracting a strong public response, said Rambo Circus Director and...

Thrills, roars and cheers under a giant marquee

Rambo Circus pitches a tent in MMR Mumbai : Mumbaikars are thronging to rediscover the joys of stunning, live entertainment as the familiar Rambo Circus has pitched a tent in Borivali West, before it shifts to Navi Mumbai from December 2.   This is billed as the first major full-scale season post-Covid-19 pandemic, which had led to a near washout of shows owing to social-distancing norms and public fears. The tent is now attracting a strong public response, said Rambo Circus Director and owner Sujit Dilip.   “We get good crowds on weekends and holidays, but weekdays are still a struggle. Our fixed expenses are around Rs. One Crore per month. Costs have gone up nearly ten times on all fronts in the last five years, and the 18% GST is killing. We manage around 1,500 shows annually, but barely break even, with wafer-thin margins,” said Dilip, 50.   The logistics alone are staggering. Rambo Circus travels across India with an 80-member troupe of acrobats, aerialists, sword balancers, jugglers, jokers, rigging crews, support staff, massive equipment, and a few mechanical animals.   “Many of my people have spent their entire lives under the tent. We live like a huge family. I try to support their children’s education, medical needs and help them build some financial stability. But without resources, it is becoming increasingly difficult,” said Dilip, his voice weary after decades of struggle for survival.   He reminisced of the golden era of Indian circus, around the second half of the last century, when there were many grand, full-scale circuses, but today barely half a dozen professional setups remain - Gemini, Golden, Ajanta, Asian, Great Bombay, and Rambo - along with a few smaller, local outfits.   “Unlike most countries where circuses come under the Cultural Ministry, India offers no institutional identity or support. I am invited as a jury member to several top annual international circus festivals. I feel sad as not a single Indian artist features on global stages. We just have no backing here,” Dilip told The Perfect Voice in a free-wheeling chat.   He said the decline accelerated after the ban on live animal performances nearly 20 years ago in India. In contrast, many foreign circuses still feature elephants, horses, bears, zebras, llamas, tigers, leopards, lions, and exotic birds - though most face heavy resistance from animal-rights groups.   “Moreover, ticket rates in India are among the lowest in the world, without tax concessions. In foreign circuses, even in smaller countries, tickets start at Rs 10,000 per head. We can’t dare match that…” he rued.   Yet, the thirst to lure audiences remains undiminished. Rambo Circus now leans on technology and innovation, featuring a mechanical elephant, a giraffe on stilts, stuffed zebras, deer, bears and horses, and has commissioned a Japanese company to design a robotic lion to perform tricks.   To make the shows more interactive, MoC – a tall senior joker – invites the young audience members into the ring to try small acts like skipping, jumping, or dancing with help from the midget clowns, and the kids’ shrieks of joy echo through the tent, as their parents furiously click videos and selfies.   Dilip recalled that during the pandemic lockdown, when survival seemed impossible, Rambo Circus pioneered online ticketed shows, selling nearly 50,000 virtual tickets - the highest among circuses worldwide at that time, and earned praise by international peers.   “We are swimming alone… For us, it’s not just entertainment. It is art, heritage, livelihood, identity, and passion - and we will fight for a dignified existence,” Dilip said quietly.   Rambo Circus’ emotional tug at PM’s heart Rambo Circus Director and owner Sujit Dilip appealed to Prime Minister Narendra Modi to help save this art form with a huge potential to generate jobs, discover talents, earn massive revenues and foreign exchange.   “We urge the PM and ICCR to give Indian circuses a formal status, affordable venues for our shows, extend bank loans, opportunities for skill-upgradation, foreign collaborations and inclusion under the Ministry of Corporate Affairs’ CSR list. Many corporates wish to help, but current rules prevent it,” Dilip told The Perfect Voice .   He recalled how, during Covid-19, Rambo Circus launched online shows and sold nearly 50,000 tickets, proving the potential of Indian circus talent and earning acclaim worldwide for his innovation. “Our dream is to make India’s circuses world-class, and we need government support to achieve this,” he said.   History of circuses – Roman Arenas to open maidans The name ‘circus’ had its origins in ancient Rome, where chariot races, gladiator clashes, displays/deadly fights between wild animals and condemned humans enraptured audiences in huge open arenas. Later, circuses began modestly in 1768 with horse tricks performed by Philip Astley, a London cavalryman. Then, came the modern version of live performances by horses/ponies in the US in 1793, and in the 1830s, wild animals were introduced.   Many Hollywood films featured circuses as the backdrop. The most memorable ones are: Charlie Chaplin’s “The Circus” (1928); Walt Disney’s “Dumbo’ (1941); Cecile B. DeMille’s 2 Oscar Award-winning “The Greatest Show on Earth” (1952); biopic on P.T. Barnum “The Greatest Showman” (2017), et al.   Bollywood’s own legendary ringside acts were in films like Raj Kapoor’s “Mera Naam Joker” (1970); “Chandralekha” (1948); “Appu Raja” (1989); “Circus Queen” (1959); “Shikari” (1991); “Dhoom 3” (2013); and the howlarious circus climax in Firoz A. Nadiadwala’s “Phir Hera Pheri” (2006), etc.

Fall From Grace

Sonam Wangchuk, Ladakh’s most famous ‘innovator,’ risks becoming another case study in how local unrest is amplified for global agendas.

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It is tempting to believe in fairy tales. A poor boy from Ladakh, mocked for his broken Hindi and English, rises to global fame, inspires a Bollywood blockbuster and wins an international award. He builds solar-heated schools and lectures the world about the dangers of climate change. That is the narrative surrounding Sonam Wangchuk, the 59-year-old engineer-turned-activist who has long basked in the glow of celebrity. But the Wangchuk saga, now tainted by accusations of inciting deadly violence in Leh, appears less about innocent innovation and more about the troubling nexus between romanticised activism and foreign patronage.


For years, Wangchuk has been presented to Indian audiences as a visionary. The character of PhunshukhWangdu in 3 Idiots (2009), played by Aamir Khan, turned him into a household name. In 2018, he collected the Ramon Magsaysay Award, the Asian equivalent of the Nobel Prize, for reforming education in Ladakh. Western foundations fawned over him. His Himalayan Institute of Alternative Learning (HIAL) attracted glowing coverage in climate circles. Yet, much like Muhammad Yunus in Bangladesh or Malala Yousafzai in Pakistan, Wangchuk represents a breed of civil society darlings who are celebrated in New York, Geneva and Oslo precisely because they fit the mould of dissenters against their own governments.


Now, the sheen is wearing off as Leh recently witnessed its bloodiest day in years which left four dead, nearly a hundred injured and several government buildings torched during statehood protests. The Ministry of Home Affairs laid the blame squarely on Wangchuk, accusing him of inciting the mob “through his provocative statements.” Even as Leh burned, the activist ended his much-publicised hunger strike and left in an ambulance, proclaiming that violence was not his way.


The government’s scepticism is not unfounded. For months, the Central Bureau of Investigation has been probing possible violations of the Foreign Contribution (Regulation) Act (FCRA) by his institute. Earlier this year, Wangchuk made a curious trip across the border to Pakistan, raising eyebrows in New Delhi. Meanwhile, the Ladakh administration has already cancelled HIAL’s land allotment, citing misuse.


Wangchuk’s life story is often narrated in plaintive tones. Born in Uleytokpo village near Leh, the son of a politician, he floundered in Srinagar schools where he neither spoke Hindi nor English. In later interviews, he has recounted humiliation so acute that he contemplated suicide. By 12, he had run away to Delhi, begged his way into a Kendriya Vidyalaya, and later studied engineering in Srinagar. In 1988, he co-founded SECMOL, a group that trained Ladakhi teachers and reworked school curricula.


The West adored this narrative. Earthen construction at SECMOL won an international architecture award. His ‘ice stupas,’ essentially frozen fountains designed to store water for farmers, made it to TED Talks. His fasts against climate change, filmed against the Himalayan backdrop, provided perfect visuals for global consumption. Wangchuk embodied the prototype of the indigenous genius who could shame India’s state into reform - precisely the kind of figure prized by Western NGOs.


But myth-making has its limits. Since 2019, when Ladakh became a Union Territory, Wangchuk’s demands have grown louder and more political. He has demanded Sixth Schedule status for Ladakh, constitutional safeguards and even hinted at quasi-separatist rhetoric about cultural survival. His long-drawn fasts, whether at Khardungla Pass or in Delhi, were less Gandhian satyagraha than calculated performance designed for international headlines. When his latest agitation turned violent, his calls for peace sounded hollow, even opportunistic.


The tragedy is not that Ladakh’s youth are frustrated. They clearly are by all accounts. It is that their anger is being funnelled through a personality whose incentives are not aligned with stability. “Gen-Z revolution,” as Wangchuk termed the unrest, is less revolution than reckless provocation.


That is precisely why Western recognition often attaches itself to them. Awards like the Magsaysay prize, granted with lofty rhetoric about ‘community-driven reform,’ are not innocent. They validate activists whose politics undermine state authority, especially in regions sensitive to national security. In Ladakh, perched against the borders of China and Pakistan, agitations carry obvious risks. New Delhi knows it. So, do Washington and Brussels.


For India, the lesson is not to romanticise every local hero turned global activist. Ladakh deserves stability and development. What it does not need is a cult of personality packaged for foreign audiences and bankrolled by opaque networks.

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