The Mehfil, the Nawab and the Courtesan
By Asha Krishna
The Mehfil
The elite have gathered here, like they always do when the evenings get colder. On this new moon night, the room is filled with invitees, a rare confluence of the younger and the older generations, drawn together to hear this nightingale, famous for her melodic concoction of beauty and tradition.
Seated in a strategic position in a corner, the Nawab nods in recognition as the guests arrive. He beams at the reputed names walking in, aware that it is the impressive list of courtesans on his payroll that draws them in. These performers offer their talent and more in return for his patronage, but the artiste performing today is a personal favourite. He feels lucky to own this talent, a striking beauty who demands a generous patronage but her unfaltering loyalty makes it worth the price.
True to promise, she appears at the entrance, a striking vision framed by the ceiling-to-floor drapes artfully pulled back from view. A collective hush falls as the male eyes drink her beauty and the female gaze envies the grace with which she moves towards her seat, her flowing dupatta trailing behind like fishermen casting their net.
The demurely lit glass lamps cast an ethereal glow on her face while the courtesan takes time to adjust her lehenga, a work of elaborate embroidery. The lamps placed in strategic corners cast an intimate glow, catching the shimmer in the guests’ regal attire. The hookahs sigh visibly while the performer settles into her seat, a wave of eager anticipation runs through the audience but it is laced with patience, for they know that art thrives when given the space it deserves.
A true professional, the courtesan begins by showing her gratitude to the audience and bends her head a little as she brings her palm close to the face. She nods at the accompanists and the sarangi and the tabla players commence with the prelude that sets the mood, until the courtesan takes over at the right note.
The slow melodious tunes glide from one couplet to another, building up a hypnotic haze, while her words create whirlpools of longing and desire, as she takes the audience on a journey of intense love.
The youngsters connect with sufi undertones as a passionate ode to first love while the mature audience interpret the lines as a surrender to the divine. The trained voice, lingers on the lower notes and as it moves to the ascending notes, it infuses the composition with an intimacy and emotion such that by the time it travels to the peak, it hovers just enough to build and deliver a cathartic release. When the mesmerising tune winds down to a slow meander, the reverberating echoes of wah! wah! fill the air, as the audience recovers from this intense emotional experience.
This is what the audience comes for, this subliminal experience that only this artiste can deliver, her ability to make them feel special and revel in their privileged existence.
The Nawab:
A wave of pride swells up in the Nawab’s heart as the courtesan drops an exclusive salaam in his direction after the recital. The grin on his face inflates his faltering sense of self, her voice working like a soothing balm especially on this bruising day. That afternoon he’d assigned more funds to his British associate, despite the accountant’s warning that their once abundant coffers were growing bald. He is feeling cornered by these pesky guests who are overstaying their welcome, elbowing their way into his life and wealth.
He now knows it was their white skin and flattering words that fooled him. His benevolence in return for their support against unseen forces felt like fair exchange at the time. He is beginning to realise his folly now, but it is too late and too difficult to extract himself out of this complicated situation.
He is a soft hearted ruler, who prefers to occupy himself with the important task of upholding traditions and ceremonies, ensuring that his realm, Lucknow reflects the rich Mughal taste in architecture. As a dedicated patron of the arts, he believes it is his prime duty to organise mehfils like these, bringing the artist to an audience that appreciates her talent. Lucknow’s legacy in art owes a lot to her Nawabs and his cultural contribution is directed towards posterity, to cement his place in history.
This is why he invites the English gentleman to this much coveted event known for its Mughlai kebabs and wine, a set of inner circle privileges that come from being part of the royal set. Surely this will enlighten his foreign friend to appreciate the luxury of this friendship and refrain from pestering for more financial handouts.
He is surprised when a messenger goes up to the Englishman and hears the words “trouble” and “immediately”. He is glad he doesn’t have to deal with it and is only too happy to grant permission when the Englishman wants to leave, confident that the foreigner must be overwhelmed by his hospitality. The thought lifts his spirits and the Nawab settles further into his couch to enjoy the evening.
The Courtesan:
Making her way to the divan, the courtesan is amused to catch the desire in the men’s eyes and the jealousy among the women. She allows herself a moment of arrogance as her eyes lock with the Nawab’s wife, a beautiful woman in purdah. The courtesan may not come from a lineage like hers, but she is aware that the wife covets her financial independence and resents the closeness with her husband. Yet, the courtesan yearns for the wife’s highborn status, her right to nobility that comes from being born in the right family.
As she settles into her seat, she feels a sense of superiority at this ability to enthral her listeners as only she can. She pretends to adjust her lehenga to take time to gauge the pulse of the assembled group in the room. She is good at tuning in: to her patron’s psyche when he seeks her company during evenings, to her audience before scaling up the emotional quotient of her songs, to a society where her status oscillates between admiration and disrepute.
Once the accompanists tune in, she begins a low hum, leading her listeners down a path, coaxing them to let go of their concerns as they connect with their innermost desires through the medium of her voice and words.
After the performance, the courtesan allows herself a moment to revel in the resounding “wah-wahs” but reality strikes when she spots the Englishman, sitting next to the Nawab.
She has been dealing with these foreigners for a while and is not fooled by their white skin or their weak attempts to speak her dialect. A seasoned competitor used to contending with peers for patrons, she instantly recognises a rival when she sees one. Her political acumen and proximity to the Nawabs are thorns pricking the Englishman’s intentions and she knows they want her out. Labelling her as a bad influence on the town, the foreigners seek her removal to the suburbs, a compelling campaign to distance her from the patrons. Her establishment, — a prominent city landmark for decades — has now become an eyesore for the respectable townsfolk passing through, they say. She, who tutors the younger Nawabs on literature and poetry, is branded as a tainted woman for entertaining her patrons in the evenings, terming a centuries-old practice as bad influence. She boils and simmers at the injustice of it all but ultimately finds a way to get back at them.
It is her survival instinct that leads her to align with the nationalist rebels trying to oust these foreigners from the realm. Her establishment has now become a venue for secret party meetings and her jewellery a means to fund the cause, even if it means risking her patron’s disapproval. But when she attends one of the meetings, hears about devout Indian soldiers forced to bite bullets made with cow and pig fat, prohibited by their religion, her blood boils. She learns about the atrocities on the poor in the name of taxes, and her hatred for the Queen’s men no longer remains personal. She becomes a willing ally in this first fight for Indian Independence, agreeing to spy and be the decoy for covert missions.
This evening, her performance is actually a distraction while the rebels break into the ammunition warehouse. Only the courtesan notices the fluster on the Englishman’s face when a messenger whispers in his ears and he hastily says his goodbyes to the host. Her patron is too drunk to make much of it but he is certainly relieved to see the officer leave.
She knows the Nawabs lack her resolve, already crumbling to the English army’s random demands. Unable to put up a fight, this entitled lot do what they do best – feign ignorance and seek reassurance in her mehfils, preferring this alcoholic blur instead of facing up to the unpleasant truth. After indulging in an evening of food, culture and drink, her patrons will soon return to their homes satiated, falsely reassured in the continuation of a world cushioned by luxury and privilege.
But she who tunes into the moods of her patrons is an artiste sensitive to the changes around her. The “Divide and Rule policy” of the newcomers has been squashing singular rebellious attempts, making them feel powerful as they counter every protest with strategy and force.
Unable to understand the culture of the land they are taking over, mehfils like these will soon disappear, and in the absence of such gatherings, where the music is revered by both the performer and the listeners, the artistic soul of the land will be lost forever.
Soon a time will come when all that remains of this night will be nostalgia, to be resurrected only in memories and stories, for art gains antique value only after it becomes obsolete.
This thought nags her as she heads for her carriage after the performance. She is surprised when an elderly man in servant uniform blocks her way. Her puzzled gaze relaxes when the man folds his hands, and says how he heard her song hidden from behind a wall, transporting him to a world away from his mundane existence. He thrusts something in her hand and she discovers an intricately painted stone and sees the tears in the elderly patron’s eyes. She acknowledges this heartfelt gift from one artiste to another with a salaam. As he moves out of her way, she finally finds hers.
Art thrives only when shared indiscriminately, she realises, boarding her horse carriage. As it drives out of the palace gates, she vows to take music beyond the confines of the privileged elite. This is how she will leave her mark, by making her musical legacy public, a vision that will evolve as it travels through each century, taking on a contemporary hue, as it bounces off the waves of time.
Asha Krishna was born in South India and raised in the North, for which she feels lucky. She speaks three Indian languages and understands a few more. She is proud to be included in the Flash Fusion Anthology, a compilation of flash stories and conversations on craft by South Asian writers and feels honoured to share space with so many talented names.
When Asha is not reading or writing, she is experimenting with yarns, recipes or her vocal chords while driving around a wannabe football legend and a glamourous teenage cricketer to their training sessions.
She lives in Leicestershire, UK with her family.