A politician is not a showman, but gathering a crowd, telling false stories, and captivating people with one’s own narrative—there is a commonality between the two. In my childhood, in my native city Jauharabad, a snake charmer named “Sardar, the Snake Charmer,” who had come from Sargodha, was very famous. Among those who listened to him at several of his shows and became captivated by his conversation, this insignificant person was also one. Once or twice, this insignificant person was sent to the market to buy vegetables and meat, but he became so absorbed in the snake charmer’s show that he completely lost track of time. It is a separate story that when he reached home late, he was given quite a beating.

In a snake charmer’s show, the spectators become so engrossed that sweet and flattering words make them forget even the passage of time. In politics too, when the show of a snake charmer begins, the public becomes so absorbed in an imaginary world that it loses all sense of time, whereas every moment of a nation is precious. The snake charmers waste the nation’s time and disappear, and when the captivated crowd comes out from under the spell of magical speech, bitter realities once again come before them. Remember: magical tales keep nations asleep in a sleep of opium.

It has been years since I saw a snake charmer, but the scene of the past is still before my eyes. Sardar was a dignified, red-and-white-faced man. His white hair and white moustache, and on top of that his white safari suit, made him distinctive and respectable. Sardar was an extraordinary crowd-gatherer. His discipline was such that the spectators could neither speak nor move; it seemed as if his eyes were on every spectator.

When Sardar began his speech, it seemed as though the crowd had been completely captivated. Among the small children sitting in a circle, if one whispered into another’s ear, Sardar’s booming voice would immediately come: “Child, be quiet!” And the entire crowd, along with the child, would fall silent.

Whether it is a gathering, a public meeting, a cabinet session, or an official meeting, it begins with opening files or stating the agenda. Sardar’s snake-charmer show began with opening the baskets of snakes. Sardar had several kinds of snakes. The biggest snake was named “Shehzada” (Prince). Shehzada was lazy; he would slowly emerge from the basket. He was fat and several feet long. His terror lay in his size.

While telling the story of how he had caught this snake, Sardar would put Shehzada around his neck. Seeing fear in the children’s eyes, Sardar would say, “My Shehzada was a resident of the hills of Kirana. He does not hunt humans; he hunts rats.” The terror of Shehzada would disappear from the children’s eyes, and when ridicule appeared on their faces at the thought of him eating rats, Sardar would change his tone and take out a small snake, telling them that this was the most poisonous of all snakes. It was called “Sang Chor.”

Sardar would tell them that the name of this Sang Chor was “Ladla” (the beloved one), and that whoever was bitten by it would not even ask for water. Then Sardar would hold this small snake in his hand and wave it toward the crowd, and the whole crowd would become terrified.

Sardar would walk around in circles with his “Ladla” and frighten them so much with stories of its venom and poisonous nature that it seemed as if anyone who escaped being bitten by the snake that day would be the luckiest person alive.

After Ladla, the third basket would be opened, and a cobra would emerge with its hood spread wide. Sardar would sometimes put his hand in front of it and sometimes a stick. The cobra, with a hissing sound, would lunge like a flash of lightning to bite Sardar’s hand or the stick.

Perhaps the most dangerous was the Sang Chor; it was also more poisonous, but the cobra inspired greater terror because when it moved forward with its hood spread and made a hissing sound, one’s life seemed to leave one’s body. Sardar used to call the cobra “Beta” (son).

The snake-charmer’s show reached its climax when all three snakes—Shehzada, Ladla, and Beta—were wrapped around Sardar’s neck and hands, and he would say: “Never trust the Sang Chor. He is my beloved, but if he gets the opportunity, he will bite even me. He strikes secretly. He is like that politician who appears weak, helpless, and powerless to everyone. Apparently, it seems, where could the Sang Chor possibly bite?”

“Look at his past. Until now, whom has he given sweet bites to and driven out of life, politics, or business?”

The cobra, everyone becomes frightened by its hood. The cobra is like a loud-mouthed politician who roars and thunders in the political arena, but when there is a real threat, he saves his life and runs away with his tail between his legs.

The Sang Chor is very deep and remains in search of an opportunity, and as soon as an opportunity arises, he secretly strikes. The Sang Chor is like that sweet and friendly relative who, when he attacks, gives a bite, but you do not feel its pain; however, the consequences are dangerous.

Sardar would say, “Look around you. Who is the Sang Chor? Is it not the one who appears weak, but when he bites, turns out to be the most poisonous of all? Look at his past. Until now, whom has he given sweet bites to and expelled from life, politics, or business?”

Sardar was famous and well-known in our area by the name “Sardar, the Snake Charmer.” The closing couplet of Sardar’s ghazal was particularly interesting.

The crowd, having forgotten the passage of time in the stories of the magic of snakes and the venom of human beings, remained completely and solely focused on Sardar. At such a moment, Sardar would take two bottles wrapped in red waxed envelopes out of his pocket and say:

“When a snake bites, an antidote is needed. The pain that human beings cause, the illnesses that cause suffering—the antidote for all of these is contained in these bottles.”

Then Sardar, waving the bottles, would tell the crowd that whether it was diabetes or blood pressure, pain in the joints or cramps in the stomach, there was a cure for everything in that red bottle.

Someone attending for the first time would inevitably buy one of the bottles, but old spectators like me would lose interest at the closing couplet and consider Sardar’s ghazal and narrative finished with the stories of snakes and human beings.

I do not know whether Sardar is still alive or not, or whether his snakes are still present with the same qualities and shortcomings. In the eye of imagination, I see that childhood crowd as today’s political arena.

Today’s Sardar, the Snake Charmer, is telling the crowd his charming, fictional narrative. People are in a situation like “Make Believe.” But when Sardar, at the closing of his act, starts talking about selling those same red bottles, the spell breaks.

No matter how good a speaker, showman, or motivational speaker Sardar was; whether he broke the microphone or opened and closed his baskets; whether he waved the snakes or merely displayed them; whether the red bottles are shown again and again or the avoidance of default is mentioned—this does not have an effect on the crowd.

If only Sardar’s medicine had been as effective as his speech was.

Similarly, in government, politics, and the economy, if only as much improvement were visible as the charm of Sardar’s claims was…??