I imagine a haveli, or a building of that time. Maybe a hundred years ago, or more. A fully fledged tawaif danced in the courtyard in the evenings, accompanied by musicians on the harmonium, the tabla, and more.
The fragrance of flowers wafted out into the night. And if you stayed out late, you could hear the roars of laughter and applause. Or maybe you’d be so lucky as to catch the final string of song, of love and longing, as it was carried out of the house with the wind.
I imagine a woman, bored but playful, dancing with joy for her audience in this night. The mehfil is beautiful, the music is just right. She moves with the grace of birds in flight, her hips swinging in thumkes to the taal.
I imagine her dance ending with a flourish, and then she retires to rest for a moment, while other women take her spot as the center of attention. Some sing, some recite, some tell such clever jokes and riddles that the crowd can’t help but cheer.
She arrives back into the room, politely and with finesse, socializing with the princes, the nobles, the merchants. She reclines and holds court with her admirers. Each one thinking, at the back of his mind, would she allow me to become her patron? To take her to bed and put my hands on the hips that swing with such tender ferocity?
As the night grows late, the men are made to leave. Or perhaps the party moves into smaller, more intimate corners.
The woman waits for her flock of admirers to disperse. There is one last hanger-on, a new visitor. She introduces him to one of the newer initiates, and finally, there is no one left.
As the musicians start to smoke in the big main hall, she lazily saunters over to the tabla player. A Lucknowi hat on their dark wavy tresses, it covers a small bald spot at the crown. Their eyes are downcast, fingers lightly practising a new rhythm (she makes a note to ask later).
Almost too close, the player startles as they smell her perfume, she’s barely a palm’s length away.
Oh. Its you.
They look up at her, blinking slowly at first. And then letting a smile bloom onto their face.
Of course its me. Who else would it be?
She gracefully sits down, with the stately manners she’s been taught. As she sits, she passes a slow glance around the room, nearly empty, and then rests her eyes on the object of her affections, and leans in to whisper.
‘Come now. Hold me. I’m tired from all the fuss.’
And the player chuckles.
‘Aye. Of course my jaan.’ and packs their tabla away.
They rise first, and then hold a hand out to the lady. She accepts demurely, already looking forward to a warm fragrant bath, where she can be loud and soft and less full of longing. For all the callouses on the players fingers, their arms are a salve after these long nights.
They walk softly through the corridors, her ornate fabrics swishing on the floor, /& their cottons comfortable and unobtrusive. She discreetly checks in with the new girl and the new boy, they seem to be getting on. Opening the door to her own chambers, she turns around to face her lover.
How was your night? playing?
They smile and lean in, wrapping their arms around her. A gentle ‘good’ whispered into her ears.
They close the door behind them, while she starts pulling petals into the bath. The junior girls knew to draw her bath when they saw her coming. It’s steaming still, and she is grateful for this life. The hot water, the sweet lover.
They had both been brought in to learn the tradition, but while she continued into the initiation, her new friend preferred to dress like a boy and quietly play with the musicians. Not so suited for this life, they chose a new path and followed a maestro to Lucknow, while she practised her arts and conversations, drawing baths for her seniors, massaging their feet in Bernares.
They only came back last year, with a new name, a new style. A glance, a dance, a card game and four rounds of antakshari later, they kissed under the guava tree, and… as much as the grand dames would prefer she choose a patron, all she wanted was the tabla player. She’d have to make the decisions eventually, but for now — still new enough to command mystery, and skilled enough to charm — she wanted to enjoy the way the player washed her hair, kissed her gently, tenderly, and whispered poetry into her ear.
She had been told that longing was necessary and inevitable, when it came to love. Yet, here in this bath, she wished the grand dames had experienced this instead of the betrayals of men. Maybe they would feel differently.
I hope this story was true somewhere, in that time. I hope I was that tabla player, but I recognize my upbringing in the lady too.
I am not beautiful in this part of the world, but when I go home, men look at me like they’ve been starved, and all I want is to lie in the sun with the big blankets and sheets. Or maybe walk so far that I begin to forget the time.
Kotha, in urdu, means step entrance, or stage, I believe. In Bangla, it means words.
Bari means home.
I hope I get to visit a kotha house one day, or at least a mehfil. Like many South Asians socialized as a woman, I like to imagine that it would bring great freedom and joy to be empowered in my sexuality and talents, as a sought after performer /& artist in the Kotha Houses.
Of course, there is great stigma around that culture, and those involved in this grand tradition have not had a good time in our ‘modern’ society. Publicly, it is shameful. But still, a secret dream. In this story, a secret queer dream.
I think, this story, too — This is the essence of non-binary that I experience. Queer, neuro divergent, would prefer to sit essence.
If this ever reaches the talented ears of someone who lives in the Tawaif tradition, or has ties to this lineage, please write to me. I feel like there must be so much power and wisdom in the joys and tragedies of your world and history.
In all likelihood, I will plot endlessly to convince you to record your songs and then present them somewhere and find ways to send you money. I really do believe you are all glorious. The original path for women to chart her own destiny. Maybe a place for other genderbendy babes Thank you. Wishing you well, wishing you every prosperity.