The caged bird dances. Inside the world of Bihar’s trolley dancers

Despite being a key Bihari wedding flavour for decades, the cage trolleys grew popular during the pandemic through viral videos. Earlier, the women danced in open trolleys, usually at the back of a tractor. But that meant being vulnerable to harassment, injuries, and in some cases attempted abduction and hence, the cage trolley was invented to protect the performers. But not everyone appreciates the “safety”.

“Pinjra sone ka ho ya lohe ka, hota toh pinjra hi (Whether a cage is made of gold or iron, it is nevertheless a cage),” says Suman, 35, a former performer, who lives between Patna and Sitamarhi. She belongs to the kinnar community — a term used in north India for transgenders. Suman quit trolley dancing and other forms of public dancing about eight years ago and now advocates trans rights. “Because the men pay for the dance, they think they own us, whether it is us kinnars or the girls. No one likes to be touched without consent. We dance to entertain and earn a living, but we are branded as nachaniya, a lowly creature. Will they say the same about a Bollywood star who performs on stage? Does she need to be caged or will the organisers ensure her complete safety?” asks Suman.

These dancers, mostly women, sometimes men and transgenders too, are a common sight in weddings and other celebrations in large parts of rural and semi-urban Bihar. No baaraat (wedding party) is complete without a trolley dancer and DJ set-up. Sometimes, a set of trolleys joins the baaraat, which may include live singers as well.

An orchestra company caters to all wedding needs: a chariot for the groom, a horse cart, and a DJ trolley set-up (Credit: Anwiti Singh)

But performers on open trolleys have been targets of assault and perversity. For instance, Suman recalls how a wedding guest would wave a Rs 500 or Rs 1,000 note at a dancer and coax her to bend down to receive it. He would then slash her chest with a hidden blade. Such malevolence is rare but she claims that she has witnessed it happening to friends.

“Years ago, a friend was hit by a bullet from the celebratory firing of baaraatis (wedding guests). She lost her hand and cannot perform anymore, but organisers don’t care,” she says. A trolley dancer performs for three to six hours at night during weddings, with barely an interval in between. They are paid around Rs 4,000-5,000, in addition to tips.

Though safer, the cage is quite cumbersome and difficult for the performers. Anjali, once a bar dancer in Mumbai, moved to Bihar a few years ago to earn from the lucrative wedding season. The 20-something dancer has mixed feelings about dancing in a cage. “I prefer a stage performance. We can at least sit or go out. In trolleys, we are completely confined and have to keep moving as long as the baaraat is moving. There is no room to rest,” she says. However, compared to the relative openness of stage performances, she admits feeling safer in a cage. The cages with their criss-cross bars in steel make it impossible for human hands to get through.

Suman, however, questions the use of cages, “They want to earn from our art and show us off. But in the name of safety, they abandon us in the cages. Can’t they hire muscle to keep the performers safe to ensure we aren’t hurt?” She believes the cage is just a way out for organisers to shirk responsibility. “Their excuse is that girls fall from open trolleys but in reality, they just don’t have the capacity to stop the men from groping performers,” she says.

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Golden-ochre sparks fly as two workers methodically cut and drill large steel pipes to size for new cages as the wedding season revs up. “We are engineers, without the degree,” says Ram Ashish Vishwakarma, the owner of Ashish Engineering, one of the main trolley sellers in Noorsarai, Nalanda. The 47-year-old takes the credit for introducing steel cages which were earlier made of iron. With rising demand in the wedding season, he has four welders working to complete a cage within 24 hours, which otherwise takes about two to three days.

Vishwakarma’s shop supports five other businesses including wood, tyre and iron used to build trolleys. While he sources his material from Bihar Sharif, other cage makers bring in material from Nalanda and across the border from Jharkhand. Iron and steel are bought from the most competitive bidder. While a simple cage trolley can sell for Rs 70,000, Vishwakarma notched up his price for a bespoke one last year to Rs 1.5 lakh. The buyer wanted special ornate designs and kalakari, he explains. “After the cost of material and paying the workers, I make a profit of about Rs 15,000-Rs 20,000,” he adds. During the wedding season, he employs about six workers who are paid daily wages of Rs 200-Rs 400. During the time that Vishwakarma is talking to us, his son Ashish, 24, is fielding wedding season calls. He consults his father over prices as he strikes deals.

On the opposite side of the road, three men, all of whom work for orchestra companies, loiter at a welder’s workshop. They are here to buy cages but are keeping a sharp eye on the work in progress. Initially reticent about the dancers in their orchestras, Aditya, a 25-year-old from Barh district, says, “Earlier, performers would come from Gaya, but not anymore, since the police might have closed the agency which supplied the performers. They now come from Kolkata and Ranchi. For locals, Arwal district is the biggest supplier of dancers.” He is purchasing a trolley worth Rs 80,000 and is satisfied that it will not need repairs for another four to five years.

Another buyer standing at an adjacent shop insists that his boss only does “clean” business. “We do only DJ, dhol or hire other musicians. Dancing is a risky business in more ways than one. We don’t want that,” he trails off. The trolley he is buying is a smaller one and has just enough space for the DJ to set up equipment.

A trolley maker welding the gate for dancers to enter and exit (Credit: Ranjan Rahi)

But in Chhapra town’s Janta Bazaar village, the tradition of dancing on open tractors has not been abandoned, as yet. The owner of one such enterprise, Gayani, in his late 50s, says, “We don’t have cages here. The girls are safe in the open. Only open tractor dances or stage dances happen, or both,” he says. He does not answer when prodded about complaints of sexual harassment by the dancers.

Gayani’s office has fancy aquariums with exotic fishes and five large sofas where he meets customers. He usually charges Rs 35,000-40,000 per event for which he supplies the performers, music and lights. Gayani pays for the train tickets and housing for the dancers. The women bring their own clothes and make-up. His performers, usually women, are from Kolkata, Delhi and Guwahati. He owns a chawl-like accommodation, with multiple single-room units that he lets out to the dancers. There are other orchestra groups that rent buildings like this — most women live alone. However, some married performers are accompanied by their husbands.

Even as women dominate the trolley dancing industry, Bihar’s rural areas in Arrah and neighbouring districts, performers or kalakars are sometimes cross-dressers — men who dress as women. Vijay, 24, who performs in Arrah, continues the tradition of launda naach of men dancing as and playing the role of women at weddings and birthdays. “When I dance, I am a woman. In my regular life, I am a man.” he says. He largely performs on stage or with the baarat and has rarely performed in trolleys.

The industry, which was dominated by transwomen, is seeing more women performers, according to Suman and Anjali. “The young girls today are willing to wear mini skirts or ghaghra, the kinnar cannot,” says Anjali. Cis women are a recent entry into the business of trolley dancing.

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Santoo, an orchestra owner, offers another explanation, “Earlier, there used to be purdah in the state and women would rarely dance at events. With the world opening up, there are more women performers who are also open to dancing in trolleys.”

Santoo, 23, owns two wedding event companies and has travelled from Naubatpur town, less than 100 km away, to buy a trolley in Noorsarai. While one of his companies is an orchestra company which provides services for weddings and celebrations, the other hires dancers. “Performers from outside, like Kolkata, come and stay during the wedding season to earn, and then leave,” he says, adding that he looks after the housing, meals and other needs of outstation performers.

He, too, affirms that trolleys are a safety mechanism. “It was much more dangerous in the open ones. Even we are afraid to help the girls. Agar koi katta nikal le, toh hum kya kar sakte hai (If someone pulls a local pistol, what would we do)?” he asks.

The cages often restrict the movement of the dancer and confines her within a 10×7 ft space (Courtesy: Ranjan Rahi)

Organising a ‘DJ programme’ including trolley dancing earns him around Rs 10,000 in profit. Earlier, his company hired several transgender artistes but now hires more women. “When girls and women from Kolkata started coming, their demand increased especially in urban areas,” he says. His company also hires performers from Rajgir and Pawapuri.

About 35 km away from Naubatpur, Karbigahiya in Patna is the central market for orchestra companies. According to Mohammed, the owner of one of Patna’s oldest orchestra band companies, Maharashtra Band, cage dancing isn’t seen in urban areas. The band procures cheaper cage trolleys for live singers, mostly male. Like others, Mohammed feels that cage dancing has improved the safety of women.

Tani, now in her 20s, lived in Delhi’s Mangolpuri area before she moved to Bihar for trolley dancing when she was 15, after an ‘agent’ spotted her. Born in a family with five sisters and one brother, she started dancing out of compulsion. “Majboori me shuru kiya, lekin ab maza aata hai (I started out of compulsion, but now I enjoy it),” she says. Her most recent bookings have been in Ara district. Dancing is therapeutic for her, she says, but it isn’t her lifelong dream. “I want a husband who will give me peace, love me and tell me that I can stay home or be safe anywhere,” she says.

Anwiti Singh is a Delhi-based journalist