Geetanjali Krishna: An ode to the sapera's been

On a breezy monsoon afternoon, as I walk through Delhi's Crafts Museum, the plaintive notes of a snake charmer's been waft to my ears. It immediately takes me back to the unhurried summer afternoons of my childhood in small town India, when the snake charmer's been heralded, if nothing else, something to do. I never enjoyed seeing the snakes perform, but loved the rich sound of the been. I find myself drawn to its sound today, much in the way it has been mythically believed to entice serpents from their lairs. Knowing that snake charming has been outlawed in India by the Wildlife Protection Act of 1972, I wonder if the been has an audience anymore.

Dressed in matched ochre costumes, the saperas beckon me to sit next to them as they embark on a medley of tunes only for me. The older sapera, Rohtash Nath, plays the been while Umed Nath, his nephew, plays a haunting percussion instrument they call premtal. Both are consummate performers and have a large repertory of tunes, both traditional and from Hindi movies. When they eventually pause, I say, "I didn't know so many notes could emerge from these instruments!"

The senior Nath permits me to examine the been, which he has made himself from a dried, hollowed out gourd, with a flute attached to one end. Festooned with plastic flowers and coins from across the world, it is indeed a fine instrument to hold. "My father taught me to make this when I was a child," he says. "Every monsoon, we'd catch snakes and perform in neighbourhoods all over Delhi." Like others of their community, Nath's family, though originally from Haryana, also used to be nomadic. "Even today, not only can I catch snakes, I can also cure many types of snakebites. But sadly, I'm not allowed to do all that any more..." he says.

Nath tells me that his community, once an icon of Indian culture, today struggles for survival - a victim, he says, of wildlife protection laws that hold animals dearer than humans. "When the government outlawed my traditional means of livelihood, they offered little by the way of compensation or alternatives," he says. "They say we ill-treated and even killed snakes, but they're wrong. Saperas have always worshipped them. In fact, I'd say we know more about snakes than any other scientist..."

He has a point there. Much as I'm against animals being used in performances, I feel sure that the government and scientific community could find some legal uses for the snake charmer community's knowledge and skills. Nath says that the Delhi government has issued a handful of licences to some saperas to catch snakes and safely release them in the wild. But this hasn't benefitted their community as a whole. "What about the thousands of saperas who are still languishing without work?" he asks. "Just like the government spends so much money to renovate old monuments, they should allocate funds to rehabilitate my community as well..."

Nath's children are all studying, but he says that he's keen that they remember their family traditions. "I don't want my craft to die," he says. "But it will, if my children forget their legacy. To be fair to them, how long can they also continue playing an old-fashioned homemade instrument to a snake replica?" He points to the life-size wooden snake that they've displayed, a reminder of a long-gone livelihood.

Meanwhile, two French tourists stop by. The snake charmers immediately scramble into action and the plaintive notes of the been and premtal pierce the monsoon air. I hope for their sake that if not snakes, at least someone in the government dances to their fading tunes before the saperas disappear into oblivion.