The Theatre of the Footpath: Tales of Srinagar’s Street-Smart Showmen

Credit By: SYED NISSAR H.GILANI

• SYED NOUMAN
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• 25 Apr 2026

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The show would stretch on for hours, building anticipation until the "final phase": the sale

The "Saad Makkars"—the "Gentleman Rogues"—were the undisputed masters of the street-side spectacle. Long before the era of modern advertising, these witty performers used a blend of theatre and deception to dupe the common folk. Their stage was any open corner, and their opening act usually involved a menagerie of animals. Whether it was a dancing bear, a mischievous monkey, or a swaying cobra, these creatures were the bait used to ensnare the attention of unsuspecting passersby.

The show would stretch on for hours, building anticipation until the "final phase": the sale. Once the money changed hands, the performers would swiftly pack their kits and vanish to a distant location to avoid disgruntled customers. On special occasions, when crowds thronged toward the sanctity of Hazratbal or Jama Masjid, these showmen would make a beeline for the gates, using their programmed routines to lend an air of legitimacy to their products.

In the sun-drenched summers of Srinagar, these locals were joined by seasonal visitors: the Afghan Pathans. With mammoth placards depicting heroes slaying leopards, they sold Saljeet—a "magical" herb from the deep forest. Their pitch, delivered in a fractured, Pashto-inflected Urdu, was a masterclass in charm. "Shair Khan Sher ko mara! Haath se nahi, bandook se mara!" they would cry, promising vigour to anyone who took two spoons of the herb with milk before bed.
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By the mid-1960s, a local legend emerged to rival these foreign travellers: Raja Mohammad Yaqoob Khan. Operating near Hari Singh High Street, he was the "politician" of the street-side medicos. Dressed in a pristine white linen suit, he used a silver tongue to attract rural visitors. A native of Poonch, he claimed to be "Asli Kashmiri," though his fractured dialect often moved the crowd to laughter. Under the watchful eyes of the law, he sold his homemade concoctions along with dentures with the dignity of a statesman.

However, Raja Yaqoob Khan, Dard Poonchi, a resident of Shaeed Gunj, Srinagar, faced a formidable challenger in Ghulam Hussan of Narwara Srinagar. Equally handsome and impeccably dressed in a white suit and tie, Ghulam Hussan surrounded himself with billboards depicting miracle herbs. He was a master of the narrative arc; he would enchant the crowd with beautiful stories, building the tension to a fever pitch. Just as the crowd reached the peak of the story, he would deftly pivot to a "commercial break" and sell his products like hot cakes to an audience already under his spell.

While these men relied on the promise of health, others like Qadir Chaan of Maharaj Gunj relied on the lure of luck and the threat of force. Qadir Chaan lived a paradoxical life; a neighbour to the famous physician Dr. Noor-ud-Din Khan, of Maharaj Gunj, Srinagar, his primary business was operating a pristine, high-breed horse-drawn Tonga. His transport was famous for being exceptionally clean, and he charged a premium for its use on the narrow streets of Srinagar.
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Yet, behind this respectable facade lay a notorious "side business." Assisted by accomplices like Muma Daana and Ismail Punzuoo, Qadir Chaan would lure straightforward people into games of "three-playing card cheating" and the "round-belt gamble." In these criminal activities, he acted like the Gabbar Singh of his day—a ruthless figure who used muscle power to dominate his territory. If anyone dared to intervene in his rigged games, the "Saad" persona vanished, replaced by a ruthless enforcer who brooked no dissent.

​Finally, there was the man from Rai Taing (Riazat Taing). Unlike his flamboyant counterparts, he appeared remarkably simple. He sat quietly with a pair of pigeons or a small hand-drum, the steady thump-thump acting as a hypnotic siren song. His modus operandi was a psychological sleight of hand; he would produce coins and seemingly double or triple the money of those who bet.

He played the part of a generous benefactor so well that the crowd would grow frantic, only to realise later that their entire purse had vanished—lost to a master of distraction.
​These men were the unsung actors of Srinagar’s streets, turning every corner into a stage. While their methods were often questionable, their brilliance was undeniable—leaving us with empty pockets but minds full of stories that refuse to fade with time.

​(The writer is a former civil servant from the administrative service. Email: nisargilani57748@gmail.com )