Imran Iqbal, hailing from a village in Bahawalpur district, began his journey as a motorcyclist 30 years ago. Intrigued by the temporary set-up of the Maut ka Kuan [Well of Death] that had arrived in his ancestral village, he ran away from home as a young boy to join a friend who performed daring motorcycle stunts in the thrilling spectacle. He recalls changing his name to avoid being recognised after his escapade.

Four years later, he returned to meet his parents. But by then he was a changed man — no longer the homebound boy they once knew. Instead, he had fully committed himself to becoming a motorcyclist in the Maut ka Kuan, embracing a life of adventure over a settled existence.

Ten years ago, Imran joined the Lucky Irani Circus, which he fondly calls a “KOMpany” for artists, actors and acrobats travelling from cities to villages. Here, Imran earns a daily wage and occasionally receives “inaams” [small gifts] from appreciative spectators.

He notes that the people often view their performances as mere entertainment, while local villagers sometimes call him a jadugar [magician]. When asked if he’s ever scared, Imran confidently replies, “No.” He finds riding in the Well of Death neither difficult nor frightening.

My encounter with Imran is how I find myself stepping into the captivating world of the Lucky Irani Circus, which has briefly sojourned in Islamabad’s F-9 Park.

For many generations in Pakistan, the travelling Lucky Irani Circus — which recently made a brief appearance in Islamabad — epitomised spectacle and daring bravado. But beyond the bright lights, and as masses shift towards more electronic forms of entertainment, what place does the circus hold in today’s society? And how do its practitioners feel about changing attitudes regarding their work?

Standing tall and imposing is a massive tent, towering over the surroundings, flanked by smaller tents and a camp-like setup. Two trucks parked nearby have unloaded their entire paraphernalia, adding to the bustling, vibrant atmosphere of the circus grounds. From a panoramic perspective, it would appear as if an entire village has sprung up in the heart of the park.

For me, the Lucky Irani Circus is a nostalgic relic. As I approach, memories from my childhood come flooding back — stories of daring feats, acrobats defying gravity and the legendary Maut ka Kuan. I am unable to resist the opportunity to relive those moments. I climb a rickety staircase and peer into the wooden well. The air is thick with anticipation, the sound of Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan’s soulful melodies echoes from two black speakers placed at the centre of the well.

Then comes the climactic moment.

Two motorcyclists, one of them Imran, rev up their engines. The powerful growl echoes through the air. For a brief moment, they glance up and lock eyes with the audience. With unwavering focus and fearless determination, the riders begin their dizzying climb, spiralling up the vertical walls of the well. The engines thunder, reverberating through the space, as the audience peering downward collectively holds its breath.

As they complete 20 loops around the wooden-planked wall, the makeshift structure creaks, groans and trembles under the strain of the motorbike riders. It is a breathtaking spectacle — a delicate interplay of physics and human bravery, where centrifugal force meets unyielding willpower in perfect harmony.

Urged by Imran not to miss the circus show, I buy a ticket from a man perched atop a towering steel structure.

Under the circus tent, a three-hour spectacle unfolds in a symphony of wonder and daring. It begins with the solemnity of tilawat [recital from the Quran], followed by the tune of the national anthem. The announcer’s voice urges the audience to stand in reverence for the anthem. Then, the stage erupts in a blaze of red and green lights as the announcer’s words are swallowed by the crescendo of music.

The show begins.

Acrobats soar, gymnasts twist and trapeze artists defy gravity, as their bodies trace arcs of elegance in the air. Jugglers weave patterns with flying objects, magicians conjure tricks and ponies romp playfully on the stage. Rings, balls and ropes become instruments of artistry, while the “Prince of Balance” teeters on the edge of impossibility. An Ethiopian contortionist, bending his body through two rings, draws gasps of disbelief even from the most stoic spectators.

The trapeze artist, suspended by crimson cloth, becomes a vision of grace, her movements a dance of fire and silk. The performers span generations — a septuagenarian gymnast, and children no older than six — each adding their spark to the enchantment. Time slips away unnoticed, the show weaves its spell and leads us to the finale — the lions’ majestic performances.

Without a doubt, this is the most breathtaking part of the circus — the grand crescendo featuring the lions and the ringmaster. It’s the moment the audience waits for with bated breath, and you can almost feel the electric buzz of anticipation in the air.

As eight lions stride on to the stage through a cage door, circling their domain with an air of regal authority, the ringmaster welcomes them with a radiant, self-assured smile. These are not the sedated lions commonly seen in a zoo. This troupe roam around the stage, their movements restrained only by a protective rope sling, creating a scene that is both awe-inspiring and deeply symbolic.

This is followed by acts executed precisely at the trainer’s command — such as lions leaping through fiery hoops and balancing on tightropes. With lions on stage with the trainer, the scene evokes a primal encounter between man and beast: a face-off between two antagonistic forces, each embodying raw power and instinct.

As mesmerising as it is thought-provoking, this spectacle reflects humanity’s audacious ambition to tame the wild. The circus announcer’s voice reverberates in the background, “See why and how we are the ashraful makhlooqaat [the noblest of all creations].” He declares, “Behold, the lions behave like tame cats in the presence of their master!”

Undoubtedly, this segment is also the most contentious. It’s a part of the show that has been phased out in circuses across much of the world, spurred by critical debates about the evolving relationship between humans and animals. While the bizarre and unsettling nature of circus acts evokes a mix of fear and fascination, this particular confrontation, which evokes a paradoxical mix of dread and jouissance, demands deeper examination.

As the lions, commanded by their trainer with a whip in his hand, retreat from the stage and make their way to a cage positioned at the far end, the show draws to a close. The heartbeat of the circus fades, leaving behind a lingering ache for the extraordinary. But beyond the awe-inspiring performances, I find myself questioning: what really is the Lucky Irani Circus?

The manager Tahir, seated at the entrance of the grand tent, explains that the Lucky Irani Circus dates back to the 1970s. Founded by Mian Farzand Ali, it is now managed by his son, Mian Amjad Farzand. “We have third-generation artists working with us today,” Tahir shares with pride. “Entire families live and travel with us, training their children in the art of performance.”

The circus also employs foreign artists from Ethiopia and Ukraine, who are hired on two-year contracts. In total, there are 50 performers and 200 labourers who handle logistics and care.

Tahir speaks with fervour about the uniqueness of the circus, stating, “There is nothing else like the Lucky Irani Circus.” He also emphasises that the Lucky Irani Circus is a family-friendly show. “There is nothing fuhash about our show,” he says, using a term often favoured by the masses to describe ‘indecent’. “We also ensure the children receive deeni taleem [religious education] and have a mosque that travels with us,” he adds, gesturing to a tent labelled Musafir Jama Masjid. This information comes spontaneously, offered without any prompting from me.

“Why is the circus named Lucky Irani Circus?” I ask Tahir. The circus derives its name from its early days, when a group of Iranian artists joined forces with Mian Farzand Ali to establish the circus in Lahore, he explains. This collaboration marked the foundation of an institution that would go on to become a celebrated name in the world of entertainment.

He leads me to the tent of Javed Khan, whom he reverently calls the Khalifa.

Javed is a 75-year-old veteran artist and revered instructor of the circus. He has been an integral part of the circus since its inception. His eyes light up with pride as he speaks with a deep sense of fulfilment about his journey. Over the years, he has witnessed both triumphs and challenges, yet he remains grateful to the circus owners for transforming his life. Thanks to their support, his children are now pursuing their education.

I ask him, “What keeps the circus alive in an era dominated by digital entertainment?” Javed enthusiastically responds that he believes the circus occupies an irreplaceable space in the world of entertainment. He takes pride in the goodness of his profession, seeing it as a means to bring joy and relief to people. “It helps them momentarily forget the stresses of their lives,” he asserts. This, he feels, is the circus’ true service to humanity.

By sheer luck, I also encounter a female trapeze artist. Aleeza welcomes me into her tent — a makeshift abode with an old box TV on one side, a steel trunk tucked in the corner, and two small children playing nearby. We sit on a charpoy draped with a purple colour bedcover, and there she begins sharing some nuggets about her life.

Born here, she discovered her passion for performing under the same big tent where her parents once dazzled audiences. Their legacy sparked her love for the stage. She mentions that, at the tender age of four, she was the first child in her troupe to perform an aerial act. Trained by a Russian gymnast who was once part of the circus, she mastered the techniques. Now, 25 years later, she continues to travel and perform with the same troupe, her life intertwined with the rhythms of the circus.

A mother of two young children, Aleeza speaks with quiet strength about balancing motherhood and her career. “It’s natural for us,” she says. “We perform even during pregnancy — our bodies are accustomed to it.” Her words reflect a resilience and determination that defy societal expectations.

Aleeza dreams of gymnastic training centres in Pakistan and hopes to teach others. When asked if her children will follow in her footsteps, she replies, “No, I want them to focus on gaining an education. But, in the circus, I see no way for them to get one.” Her words reflect a mother’s hope for a different future, even as she remains rooted in the circus life.

Aleeza is happy her fame now extends beyond the circus, thanks to TikTok videos of her performances. However, her rising popularity online unsettles the circus managers.

As our conversation deepens, the manager outside grows uneasy. Sensing this, Aleeza gracefully wraps up. I wish to ask more, but our time is up. Reluctantly, I thank her, leaving with deep respect for her resilience and talent.

I notice barefoot children lingering by malnourished animals, both appearing neglected. Tahir claimed circus children have access to education, a rare hope in this harsh world, but evidence is lacking and my questions are quickly dismissed. I sense trouble — the system isn’t as seamless as it seems. Security ensures limited access to artists and workers, leaving me with more questions than answers.

Mindful of the fact that circuses in the West have had a fraught history, marked by animal and colonial exploitation (damning practices which they did away with), I struggle between condemning circuses for their unfair mores while also acknowledging their role as a vital entertainment source in places where options are scarce.

In communities across Pakistan, circuses offer a rare and affordable form of entertainment, particularly for rural and low-income groups. However, their true value depends on eradicating exploitation and upholding ethical treatment for all involved.

As I step out, a circus worker tells me in hushed whispers that the Islamabad crowd was measured in its reception of the show. The travelling troupe is now headed to Okara, where they will perform as part of the urs celebrations of a local saint. I leave the place, knowing that the next time I return to the F-9 Park, the circus-walas — the adventurers who live for the romance of play, jugglery and daring risk — will have vanished.
As if by magic.

Ayesha Latif teaches at COMSATS University in Islamabad.
She can be contacted at ayesharamzan83@gmail.com

All photos courtesy Arif Mahmood

Published in Dawn, EOS, March 23rd, 2025