The magic trick!
Jaadugar Anand literally translates to a happy magician. If you remove the space in the title above and add a suffix .com to it, you will get the following description-
Mr. Anand Awasthi famously known as Jadugar Anand was born in Jabalpur, Madhya Pradesh in Central India. He started learning magic tricks at a very tender age of seven. Jadugar Anand prefers to call himself a self taught magician but he acknowledges that he is product of a long cherished Indian tradition. He has not only beaten Houdini’s record of “escape from the box in the sea”, but also has three world records under his belt.
Mr. Anand is the Fastest Magician on the Planet. Anyone can make an elephant disappear quickly, but how many can make it appear in a matter of seconds. He makes the Statue of Liberty disappear in slow motion, a trick performed for the first time in India. His world of illusion has been hailed by audiences and critics alike as one of the greatest magic shows of Asia, which is not merely performing tricks but creating miracles beyond your wildest imaginations.
Well, glad the website mentioned the tender age of 7 there because I was in my second grade when Mr. Anand visited Pune. The tour over a quarter century ago was equivalent to the hype maybe Coachella would command today for anyone in Gen Z.
It was a dark in the audience and I was somewhere in the peanut gallery equivalent seating with my parents and little sister. Mr. Anand by this point had killed many birds, shuffled many cards, made many damsels disappear and reappear and there was that swallow fire and glass stuff. Around the swallowing-random-things section, he asked for a young boy for a volunteer.
Now typically, I subscribe to the most passive forms of volunteering. I put up solar, I separate trash for other irresponsible adults and if I take the public transport, I might give the disabled seat away to the elderly. Maybe drop a few clothes off goodwill and spare some cash to some cause on occasions. Nothing fancy. But this particular night, maybe I fell the the first gush of the “coming-of-age” fluids in my veins and when this (scary-looking) magician asked for a volunteer, the room went silent and for some weird reason I raised my hand to take the road less travelled.
I walked from my seat to the jaadugar. There was a thunderous applause 👏 that I already felt like a contributing member of the society at “the tender age of 7". Maybe this was my equivalent of Harry getting the letter from Hogwarts moment. In my case, it was because of my own agency.
The noise settled and our eyes met. It was the first time I had seen anyone with makeup on. He looked like the villains of Shaktimaan as his sweat was disintegrating the makeup, mascara and lipstick💄 after about 90 mins of running around. (This was more than a quarter century ago and the advancements in cosmetic industry had not yet penetrated to tier-2 towns in India, Indore or Pune, cities the luminaries on stage hailed from.)
We got past the usual ice-breaker questions for the Saturday evening. Name, age, occupation, et. al. and as I was yet to collect any interesting life experiences he quickly got the question that matters most to lonely middle-aged men.
“Can I get you a drink?”
“Uhhh…”
“Do you drink milk?”
“No” I squeaked. I just hated milk .(Later in life, I found out that my preference was perfectly qualified due to my lacotse intolerance. But much like effective cosmetics, lactose intolerance was not yet a thing in the part of the world when I was growing up.)
“No?” he asked, condescendingly. The audience snickered, KheeKheeKhee!
As many middle-aged men would, he gave me a lecture on the benefits of consuming milk, cow being a godess and this being a form of worship, calcium and bone health, casually combining science with religion in a few short sentences.
“NO!” I let out the word again, this time more assertively.
He gave a frown. There were no vegans around. Much like good cosmetics, science of lactose, both woke people and people of science had not yet developed solid arguments to break through this part of the world. They still seem to struggle around many arguments pertaining to cows. Matter of individual choice for a pre-pubescent-seven-year-old was also a western fad.
“What if I give it with Bournvita?” He asked and then slowly turned his turbaned head to the audience and gave a wide grin. The audience cackled again and frankly I was getting annoyed for different reasons. I could see lipstick on his yellow teeth and the ruffled feather on his turban was not blue as I had seen in one of the first color advertisements the city had seen in print. Maybe a shot of bournvita would make this man and the evening a less of a disappointment, I thought.
“Sure!” I said.
The magician raised both his hands to his left ear and clapped briskly above my head. The lights went dim. A few young ladies got a small table and placed it right in front of me. It had a jar full of milk, an empty glass and NO Bournvita! I was visibly pissed when the spotlight flashed brighter on me.
Anand lifted the jar and poured milk into a glass which had another glass object within it. His index finger was in the glass. He took a sip, gave a loud smack, wiped his painted moustache and a little bit of lipstick of his face with his right hand and gave out a loud grunt of satisfaction “AAAAAHHH”. Then grinned at the audience.
With his right-index finger he pushed the other transparent object and the glass seemed to refill automatically to the audience as the remainder of the milk was pushed upwards giving the illusion that the magician’s waving was filling up the glass. They clapped in joy as he turned to me.
“Now, you drink!”
“But, Bournvita?” I asked assertively and he gave me a stern look of disappointment, slowly turned to the audience, grinned again and said.
“He wants Bournvita!” For reasons I still can’t comprehend the audience growled in laughter as the magician openly backed out of the deal he had made just a few moments ago.
Lights flashed again a lady pulled both my hands back and held them hostage. Another one closed my eyes. I could smell the magician’s breath on my hair and they were clearly sliding stuff down my pants as milk was being poured down my throat. It was the same glass the magician had used. The ladies, the magician and maybe me too, by now, had the same lipstick on my lips. You think Pavlov’s experiments on dog’s are a torture? You should have been in that hall that Saturday night.
The lady let go of me and I realized that the milk that had gone in through my mouth had was coming out of my nose. This guy was truly a magician, I told myself, impressed, tortured and scared. Then, to my embarassment, I heard a sound of a stream of liquid pour into a bucket. The audience were laughing and falling off the chairs. I looked down to see that a lady was pumping milk into a bucket. To the audience, it seemed that I was peeing milk!
“Tube!” I yelled “Tube in my pants” One of the ladies pulled me close to her covered my mouth and lifted me up as she pumped the last bit of the milk as the audience roared in laughter. I was still scared about the milk from my nose and my worries compounded. The lady’s cheek touched mine. And now, my biggest fear had realized. The magician, the ladies, and I had the same lipstick 💄 and makeup on us.
I had walked up the stage thinking that I was the courageous gentleman for volunteering that evening, I walked down, at the tender age of seven, resolving that I would never have a stranger’s makeup on my face ever again. Saturday nights since have been better!
I called my friend in Indore who incidentally had taken his kid to the show as Anand came out of retirement (maybe because of his poor life choices). He still uses bad makeup and is yet to learn how to respect vegans, even the non-annoying ones. Anyways, when you see me next, be sure to get all the other magic tricks debunked and watch me make my ears dance. See you next Sunday?! Until then, try guessing which song from the Baazigar movie do I hate the most. (Hint — this one.)
