Venom in the Eyes

In the remote, arid belts of Rajasthan and Madhya Pradesh, where the golden sands whisper secrets of ancient traditions, a startling and mysterious practice continues to survive among certain nomadic gypsy tribes: the use of cobra venom in place of traditional kohl (surma) to line the eyes.

While this may sound like a perilous beauty ritual or a dramatic tribal myth, it’s a cultural phenomenon rooted in a complex web of tradition, resilience, and identity. For generations, some sub-groups of India’s nomadic snake-charming communities—such as the Kalbeliya of Rajasthan or the Sapera tribes—have used minute traces of venom extracted from cobras not only in their performances, but also, astonishingly, as a cosmetic.

The Kalbeliya, renowned for their sensual and hypnotic dance imitating serpents, have long lived in symbiosis with snakes. Historically snake charmers and healers, their knowledge of venom, its handling, and its properties is profound. According to oral lore, cobra venom, when used in extremely diluted forms, was believed to “cleanse the eye, sharpen the vision, and ward off evil spirits.” Elders claimed it provided an intense cooling effect and a gleaming black finish—more striking than conventional kohl.

The venom used is not raw or lethal. Instead, it’s typically mixed with soot from oil lamps or other herbal ingredients and applied in microscopic amounts. The process is known only to a few within the tribe, passed down from mothers to daughters, or master to apprentice, and done with utmost precision.

This unusual ritual is not just cosmetic—it borders on ritualistic. In many nomadic belief systems, eyes are the windows to the soul and also vulnerable to spiritual attack or nazar (evil eye). The venom, paradoxically feared and revered, is believed to hold protective power. By wearing it so close to one’s vision, the tribes signal their intimacy with danger, their mastery over it.

While there is no modern scientific endorsement for this practice, it mirrors many ancient Ayurvedic ideas where venom, in carefully controlled forms, was used for healing. In fact, vishavaidyas (poison doctors) in traditional Indian medicine studied the controlled use of toxins as cures.

Today, this practice is rarely seen, as modernization, laws protecting wildlife (including snakes), and growing access to commercial cosmetics have overtaken traditional ways. The younger generations, moving towards urban livelihoods and distancing themselves from the snake-charming identity, often view it as dangerous and outdated.

Moreover, the Wildlife Protection Act of 1972 and campaigns against cruelty to animals have further marginalized these tribes, cutting them off from their traditional livelihoods. As a result, even their cultural knowledge—including the ritual use of cobra venom—is on the verge of extinction.

The practice raises numerous ethical and biological concerns. Is venom—even in trace form—safe for cosmetic use? How were snakes handled in the past to extract venom? Were they harmed or milked repeatedly?

While modern standards of safety would never permit such practices today, understanding them through the lens of anthropology offers a valuable glimpse into how deeply human culture can intertwine with the natural world—sometimes dangerously, sometimes spiritually.

In the quiet camps of the Kalbeliya, under starlit skies where flutes still call serpents to dance, the story of cobra kohl survives—in whispers, in eyes outlined in mystery, and in the vanishing lore of India’s nomadic past.

This is not a call to revive the practice but to acknowledge it as part of a cultural archive, deserving both wonder and caution. It is a reminder that beauty, for some, was not just in the eye—but of the eye, steeped in poison and power.