Mehfil

The summer palace, the abode of happiness and the envy of heaven - stands here a shadow of its formal glory. The curse of a woman wronged. 

It was 1791. The summer palace  commissioned by Haider Ali was finally completed by his son king tipu sultan. It took 10 years to finish this magnificent summer palace and the grand opening celebrations were due. Freshly colored, scrubbed to a shine, the palace was decorated with flowers, bells, ittar and oil lamps all over. Artists were called from all over the country to entertain and present their best. It was announced that the winner will get a 1000 gold coins. The consequent fame will further set them for life. The queens, courtiers and their spouses from all over the kingdom gathered to partake in the celebrations.  

I was there too. 

I had trained for years for this day. Leaving my parents home as a child to beg for tutelage under the best music teachers. Spending thousands of hours of training, empty stomach, bleeding throat, sleepless nights in order to be the best. Till date I sang in front of my Guru only and for the first time I was to perform amongst an audience. My guru blessed me and said “You my dear have a magical voice. It can either bring out the best in good or the worse out of evil.” 

The night was truly magical. The artists were called from all over the world - famous qawall from Ajmer sharif,  rendition of cello (a strange and beautiful instrument) by a French artist, Kathak dance by the famous nautch girls of delhi riyasat,m and the soulful Hindustani music by an acclaimed descendent of Tansen. The organizer had positioned me last to lighten up and close the night. 

The long and deep Alaap got the attention of the audience, jhor and jhala immersed them, and the grand bandish burnt the place down. In the end the courtiers sat their dumbstruck. When I bowed down and said Shukriya they came out of their reverie. Some respectfully got up, applauding and clapping hard to show their respect and appreciation. While most already intoxicated and mannerless with liquor started passing lewd comments and lechorous looks.

King and the queen quietened the room. They came fwd to thank me for my performance and awarded the 1000 gold coins much to the chagrin of others. It created unrest as more famous and qualified artists felt insulted and walked out to show their disappointment. When the night closes at such a scandalous note, it doesn’t really end.

Over the night, the drunk courtiers and generals knocked at my doorstep at various hours. They quarreled and created a ruckus as their wives and families pleaded to take them back. By morning the news spread all over the town that a new courtesan has taken over the entire court and created a civil strife. A singing woman can’t hold a respectable place in a patriarchal society. The wives of the courtiers appealed to the queen to save their homes. The public wrath turned me into a witch who broke homes and stole husbands. Eventually, to save his court and kingdom’s peace the king announced a death warrant for me. 

I should have lived a life of fame and applause, after that celebratory night. Dead and defaced, I now live as a ghost singing in the old palaces. All I wanted was to sing and celebrate music, now I avenge myself scaring the rich descendants of evil royals out of their inherited properties. I curse their children who carry their blood and bear the burden of their crimes. 

Note: We were assigned to visit a historical place in our city. Imagine you are a ghost who is visiting that place and use it as a prompt to ghost write it. I visited Tipu Sultan’s Summer palace which is over 230 years old and I was a ghost.