A Conjurer, a Bicycle, and a Half-Empty Theatre

Last evening, I watched him in his natural habitat—being effortlessly brilliant. Danish Husain.

I had first listened to him at the Bangalore Poetry Festival, where his chiseled eloquence, non-conforming attitude, “I said what I said” energy, and laser-sharp observational eyes hooked me instantly. So when Sonali told me his plays were coming to Ranga Shankara, I was already halfway in the queue (in my mind at least).

But of course, weekends being weekends—full of cooking, celebrations, relatives, hosting, existential crises—I didn’t book tickets for the show I really wanted: the dramatization of Sudhir Ludhianvi’s life, “Main Pal Do Pal Ka Shayar Hoon.” I spent the whole day baking and stirring pots, while my mind kept wandering back to Danish Husain.

Must be a conjurer, no?

Sunday morning arrived. Coffee in hand, I was about to order groceries when Instagram decided to intervene. A post from Danish himself, heartbroken about the low turnout for his show and hoping people would come for the Sunday performance of Qissebaazi—a Dastangoi retelling of the epic Tilism-e-Hoshruba, a 7,000-page, 46-volume monster of a saga.

That was it. Spiritual calling. I booked the 7:30 pm show immediately—and then felt heartbreak again when the tickets were available too easily. If you can get Ranga Shankara tickets on the same day, something is off.

Battling the usual-unexpected Bangalore traffic (is there any other kind?), we reached in time and found front-row seats. The theatre looked painfully empty, but at least we got excellent seats next to a lovely gentleman named Tarun.

Me being me, I started chatting. Tarun had come all the way from Hoskote. He had tried watching “Main Pal Do Pal Ka Shayar Hoon” the previous day but got turned away because he had a 4-year-old with him. So he let his wife watch the show, drove home, dropped them off, and came back again for the evening performance.

According to him? Not even a theatre buff. But Danish’s magic had turned him into one—and here he was again for "Qissebaazi".

That’s the effect the man has.

The evening opened with percussionist Tushar Kadam’s drumbeats announcing the arrival of two young performers, Devendra Singh Khushwah and Prasshant, with “Qissa Bicycle Khatar Patar Ka.” A hilarious Dastangoi tale of an elder Mirza, a younger Mirza, and one very troublesome bicycle. It was my first time experiencing this style of storytelling, and even though much of it was in Urdu, not a single person in the audience missed the jokes — especially those involving a bicycle and an overconfident young man riding with his head in the clouds, holding onto his dear life on this wreck of a bicycle. Some emotions are universal, and these two artists brought them beautifully, joyfully, unmistakably alive.

After a short break arrived the man himself. Danish Husain. He grinned and declared he would now tell us the world’s first, longest, and last story—if anyone else said otherwise, we were to beat them with our sandals. (Instructions duly noted.)

From that moment, the hall belonged to him.

He kept us buzzing with banter, laughter, and clever metaphors. He made us think, chuckle, nod, and gasp as he spun the adventures and jugadgari of Amar Aiyyar in Emperor Afrasiyab’s magical court. His eyes sparkled every time he compared the epic to Harry Potter and Spiderman, gleefully pointing out how these modern tales were “inspired” by ancient ones.

His command over Urdu, Hindi, and English was absolute. His body language—flawless. His cruelty—legendary. At one point he even asked the poor percussionist to translate simple Hindi words into English with a smug little smile.

But like a true master, he tied everything together beautifully—and ended with:

“For ₹500, only this much can be told.For the rest, you must come again.”

And honestly? Every single person in that sparse hall would happily return again and again for this magician of a storyteller.

And dear Sonali—thank you for pointing me towards this beautiful evening. I owe you one.