The air was thick with the heavy fragrance of jasmine and sandalwood as the night settled over the narrow, labyrinthine streets of Heera Mandi, Lahore’s most famous kotha. The soft hum of sitar strings and the clinking of anklets filled the night, punctuated by muffled laughter and the tinkling of glasses. Heera Mandi was where men of wealth, power, and influence came to be entertained by the most talented tawaifs, women who could command fortunes with just a glance and break hearts with a single smile.
Tonight, the kotha was particularly abuzz, for the famed tawaif Meerab, renowned as the jewel of Heera Mandi, was performing a mujra for the city’s wealthiest patrons. Her beauty was legendary, and her voice carried a haunting melody that could pierce through even the most hardened of hearts. But Meerab was more than just a singer or a dancer; she was a goddess among mortals, and every man who crossed her path was left yearning for something they could never have.
Among the crowd of eager patrons that evening sat a man whose presence commanded more attention than even Meerab’s. Murtasim Ali Khan, a young nawab, recently returned from Delhi where he had been educated, was attending a mujra for the first time. His family had been rulers of the Punjab region for generations, but Murtasim, despite his title and wealth, had never been one for indulgence in the pleasures of Heera Mandi. His days were spent managing his family’s vast estate and conducting affairs of state, and his nights were often solitary, filled with books and reflection.
But tonight, his friends had convinced him to come.
“Come, Murtasim,” his childhood friend Rehan had urged him earlier. “You’re back in Lahore after all these years. You can’t be a recluse. You must see Meerab perform. She’s unlike anything you’ve ever seen.”
And now, here he was, sitting on plush cushions in a candlelit room filled with smoke from incense burners, his eyes scanning the opulent surroundings. His heart, however, was not in it. He had little interest in such distractions, and though his friends were already laughing and drinking, Murtasim found himself feeling out of place.
That was until the curtains parted, and she appeared.
Meerab stepped into the center of the room with the grace of a swan, her ghungroo-clad feet barely making a sound on the polished wooden floor. She was dressed in a shimmering lehenga of deep red and gold, embroidered with intricate patterns that caught the light and seemed to sparkle like stars. Her dupatta, draped loosely over her head, framed a face that could only be described as ethereal. Her skin was as smooth as silk, her eyes kohl-lined and mysterious, and her lips were curved in a smile that sent a ripple of anticipation through the audience.
Murtasim’s breath caught in his throat.
She was, without a doubt, the most beautiful woman he had ever laid eyes on. The air in the room seemed to still as she began to dance, her movements fluid and mesmerizing. The sitar played a haunting tune, and the tabla followed, its rhythm pulsating like a heartbeat. Meerab’s body moved in perfect harmony with the music, her arms swirling gracefully as she twirled and spun, her ghungroos chiming with every step.
Murtasim was transfixed. His heart pounded in his chest, and he could not tear his eyes away from her. The room faded away, the noise of the crowd became distant, and all that remained was her—the radiant, unattainable Meerab.
The mujra was intoxicating. She moved like a flame, her beauty burning into his soul with every step she took, and by the time the song reached its crescendo, Murtasim was no longer the same man who had walked into the kotha an hour earlier.
He was in love.
When the music ended, the crowd erupted into applause, the sound breaking Murtasim from his trance. Meerab offered a small bow, her eyes briefly scanning the room, and for the smallest of moments, they met his. The connection was fleeting, but it was enough to send a jolt of electricity through his body.
