In the year 1759, nestled amidst the dusty hills and sprawling sugarcane fields west of Pune, lay a village forgotten by maps but whispered about in caravan camps and soldier's tales—Kaladwadi.
Kaladwadi was a quiet place. The air hung heavy with the scent of earth and cow dung, carried by a breeze that rustled through the green paddy and mango groves. Thatched roofs crowned the low mud houses. Smoke curled lazily from earthen stoves. Children ran barefoot through narrow lanes, herding goats and chasing dreams made of monsoon rain and harvest tales. Life moved slow here, but stories always traveled fast—especially the ones about the mansion beyond the banyan grove.
Just outside Kaladwadi, beyond a patch of neem trees and shaded footpaths, stood a mansion unlike any other in the region. Built of chiseled black basalt stone and seasoned teak wood, it rose two stories high—an unusual sight in a land of humble huts. Latticed jharokhas peered out like half-lidded eyes. Its broad verandah was supported by carved wooden pillars that bore the weight of both the ceiling and decades of secrets. In front of the mansion, a stone well brimmed with clear water—cool, untouched, and deep as the woman who owned it.
This mansion belonged to Ratnabai.
Her name was legend. A Lavani dancer by tradition, Ratnabai's fame had long outgrown the village stage. Her performances were like fire in silk—bold, sensual, and impossible to look away from. Her beauty, they said, could unstring bows and silence courtrooms. Her laughter had drawn men from distant cities; her glance had made them forget their vows.
But Ratnabai was not just a performer. She was a mistress of wealth and wits. Her fortune came not only from applause but from the glint in the eyes of the powerful. Wealthy merchants, Portuguese spice traders, Dutch sailors docked in Chaul, British envoys from the East India Company, and the rising lion cubs of the Maratha army—many had crossed her threshold hoping for a night under her spell. Some left lighter in coin, others heavier in secrets. All remembered.
They called her many things. A temptress. A courtesan. A queen in shadows. But in Kaladwadi, they only whispered her name. Because those who crossed her, they said, sometimes disappeared like sugar in boiling jaggery.
Two men stood at the mansion gates—tall, broad-shouldered, and silent as shadows. Their presence was as solid as the stone they stood on. Both had thick black mustaches curling upwards like sabers, and the rough, sun-browned skin of men who had worked the land all their lives. Their names were Rambhau and Dagadu, though most now only knew them as Ratnabai's gatekeepers.
But just a year ago, they had been simple farmers from the neighboring village of Wadshet, neck-deep in debt, backs bent under the cruelty of monsoons that never came and landlords who never forgave.
It was in Pune, in the stifling air of the Kasba Bazaar slave lane, that fate turned.
Ratnabai had been performing for a wealthy merchant from Lucknow—an opulent affair where the scent of rose attar lingered longer than the guests. After the final applause faded, her palanquin was being carried through a narrow alley when she heard a woman weeping—a soft, broken sound that pierced even through the bustle of bullock carts and spice hawkers.
Curious, she halted and stepped down, trailing her silk anklets toward the sound.
There, in the crowded square near the slave stalls, she saw two women—dirty, starved, yet with eyes full of fire—being appraised like cattle by a coarse-looking broker. Beside them, a young girl clung to her mother's sari, her face hidden in fear. Ratnabai asked no questions—she simply raised a brow and beckoned the broker closer.
He told her, with no shame, how the women were wives of two farmers who had defaulted on their debts. The moneylender had taken everything—their land, their cattle, and now, their dignity. The men had been sold for hard labor in the ghats. The women were next.
Ratnabai didn't speak a word. She stepped forward, locking eyes with the broker, then turned away and ordered her servant to pay the price—in full.
But she didn't stop there.
Later that night, cloaked in perfumed finery and veiled modesty, Ratnabai visited the powerful moneylender Sitaram Sheth at his mansion. She arrived under the guise of offering a private dance for his exclusive guests. But there were no guests that night—just the two of them, candlelight, and a jug of Mahua wine.
By morning, Sitaram had forgotten the very papers he held over Wadshet land. He'd signed them away, enchanted by eyes that held both fire and honey.
Rambhau and Dagadu were returned within days. Broken, confused, but alive.
From that day forward, they stood guard outside Ratnabai's mansion, rain or shine, with loyalty carved into every breath. Their wives, Gauri and Tulsi, now served Ratnabai with quiet devotion—tending to her silk sarees, oiling her hair, and managing the inner courtyard with care.
To the world, they were servants and guards. But in truth, they were rescued souls, indebted not to coin, but to a woman who had given them back their names.
The sun had just dipped behind the Sahyadris, casting long golden streaks across the sky. Shadows stretched over Kaladwadi like the arms of sleeping gods, and the air turned fragrant with champa flowers and the smoke from cow-dung fires.
In the inner courtyard of the mansion, under the hanging lamps and the soft rustle of ghungroos, Ratnabai sat like a queen of the dusk.
She was bare, her dusky skin gleaming under the last of the day's light. Her long hair—black as monsoon clouds—flowed down her back, wet with perfumed oil. Gauri, gentle and skilled, massaged her scalp with a warm concoction of hibiscus and jasmine oil, her fingers working in slow, practiced rhythm. Tulsi, kneeling beside her, rubbed mustard oil into Ratnabai's back, arms, and legs, her hands moving with the reverence of one who knew she was tending not just to a woman, but to a legend.
Across the courtyard, a group of young dancers practiced their footwork. Anklets jingled. Silk swirled. Ratnabai's voice, deep and rich, rose over the rhythm.
"No, Rekha… you lead with the left foot first. Lavani is like breathing—force and grace together. Your eyes must speak before your lips do."
The girls adjusted their stances quickly, eager to please. Ratnabai, even in repose, ruled the room.
Then came the clatter of hurried feet.
Rakma, the elderly house servant, approached with her dupatta flapping behind her like a flag in the wind.
"Baaisaheb!" she said, breathless, her palms folded as she bowed. "A… a messenger has come. From Pune, he says. For a request… of a performance."
Ratnabai didn't react at first. Her eyes remained fixed on the dancers.
"Who sent him?" she asked quietly.
"Don't know, Baaisaheb. He only says it is urgent… and important."
For a long moment, there was only the sound of jingling anklets and cicadas outside.
Ratnabai finally smiled—just a little, the kind that didn't reach her eyes.
"Hmm," she murmured, rising slowly from her seat. Her body gleamed like sculpted bronze in the fading light. "Tell him to wait. Give him gud and water. Not too cold."
She turned her gaze to Gauri. "Gauri, draw my bath. I'll need to be ready. Something tells me this is no ordinary request."
Then to Tulsi: "Lay out the green Banarasi saree. And the gold nath. The one with the pearl drop."
There was a new light in her eyes now. Not fear, but curiosity. A ripple in still water.
She could feel it—change had stepped through her gate.
As twilight deepened, Rakma moved through the mansion with slow, practiced steps, lighting the oil lamps one by one. Their warm glow crept along the carved wooden pillars and stone walls, casting flickering shadows that danced with the hush of the evening breeze.
Ratnabai stepped into the bathing chamber—an inner sanctum lined with dark stone, cool to the touch. A large copper tub sat in the center, already filled with steaming water. Rose petals floated lazily on the surface, and curls of steam rose like whispers to the ceiling. The scent of neem, tulsi, and sandalwood lingered in the air.
Gauri stood by with a brass jug, pouring warm water over Ratnabai's back as she entered the tub. Her oiled skin shimmered in the lamplight, and the bathwater rippled gently around her. Ratnabai leaned back, closing her eyes, letting the warmth melt into her body. The water embraced her like silk.
Tulsi came forward with a soft cotton cloth, gently scrubbing Ratnabai's arms and shoulders, her hands respectful, almost reverent. Neither of the women spoke. They knew the rhythm of this silence well—it was when Ratnabai thought, prepared, and sharpened her poise like a dancer readying for the stage.
Only the sound of water and distant anklets filled the chamber.
When the bath was done, Gauri brought her a fresh cotton robe and helped her step out of the tub. The air was cooler now, but Ratnabai stood calm, composed, already turning in her mind the face of the messenger waiting at her door.
After the bath, Rakma, Gauri, and Tulsi surrounded Ratnabai with gentle hands and soft cotton towels. They wiped the water from her skin, careful not to disturb the lingering oils. Her body was warm, supple, and fragrant—like the earth after the first rain.
Without a word, the three women began her makeup.
Gauri applied a base of finely ground sandalwood paste, cooling her face and giving it a soft glow. Then came a light dusting of rice flour to set it, leaving her skin smooth and pale-golden. Rakma, with steady hands despite her age, lined Ratnabai's eyes with kajal, dark and deep, making them look even sharper under the lamplight. Her lashes were long and thick, casting shadows like secrets.
Tulsi pressed crushed rose petals to her lips, staining them a deep, natural red. A small dot of vermillion was placed precisely at the center of her forehead. Her long, black hair was combed and oiled again, then twisted into a high, elegant bun wrapped in a string of jasmine flowers.
Tulsi then stepped forward with the clothes: a black Nauvari saree, rich in texture, along with a tight black blouse with gold-thread work. Ratnabai wrapped the saree with expert ease—its folds hugging her curves, the pallu thrown over her shoulder with quiet command. Her waist gleamed with a delicate silver chain, and her ankles bore slim ghungroos that whispered with each movement.
Gauri handed her the jewelry: large golden jhumkas, a wide chandrakor bindi, bangles of glass and gold, and finally, the nath—a black-beaded nose ring with a pearl drop that caught the light like a tear.
She looked into the mirror once, then stood.
Without a word, she walked to the meeting room, her bare feet silent on the stone floor, her presence now composed and commanding.
The messenger stood waiting inside, clutching a scroll, nervous and unsure in the mansion's quiet grandeur. When she entered, he looked up—and immediately lowered his eyes.
Ratnabai took her seat across from him, her gaze fixed.
"Speak," she said, her voice calm, cool, and unmistakably powerful.
The young man stood up as Ratnabai entered, bowing his head with folded hands.
"Namaskar, Baaisaheb," he said politely, voice low. "I've come from Sadavarte house in Pune. My master is expecting a Dutch trader tomorrow for a deal, and he wishes to entertain our foreign guests."
He stepped forward and offered her a scroll, sealed with red wax. Ratnabai broke it without a word and unfolded the parchment. Her eyes skimmed over the message, expression unreadable. Then, she looked up briefly, studying the boy.
"What's your name?"
"Gafur, Baaisaheb."
Ratnabai tilted her head slightly. "From your tone, your Marathi… it's not from here. You're not local?"
"No, Baaisaheb," he replied, lowering his eyes. "I'm from Peshawar."
"Hmm… are you a slave?"
"Yes, Baaisaheb. Master bought me when I was seven. That was eight years ago."
She was silent for a moment. Then her voice came, calm but cold.
"I want you to tell Sadavarte something clearly. I performed for him two times already. He still has not paid me the amounts due. This scroll makes no mention of that."
She folded the scroll neatly and placed it on the low table beside her.
"In the morning, when my accountant comes, I will send a letter with all his transaction details. Till the previous dues are cleared, I will not perform for him. Not for him. Not for his guests."
Gafur opened his mouth, hesitating. "Baaisaheb, but—"
"You may leave," she interrupted, standing in one graceful motion. Her anklets jingled softly as she turned.
Without another glance, Ratnabai left the meeting room, her silhouette fading into the flickering lamplight.
Gafur returned to Sadavarte wada in the heart of Pune, his feet dusty, his heart heavy. The courtyard was bustling with laborers unloading sacks of red chillies from the bullock carts, their spicy scent mixing with the smoke from cooking fires. Gafur moved through them quickly, straight into the inner chamber where Jayram Sadavarte lounged, chewing on fennel seeds and counting coins.
When he saw Gafur, his eyes narrowed.
"Well?" he snapped.
Gafur lowered his head. "Baaisaheb Ratnabai refused, saheb. She said… she said she will not perform until you clear the past dues."
Jayram's hands froze mid-count. His face turned a slow, deep red, like the chillies drying in the courtyard.
"That stupid randi…" he hissed through clenched teeth. "That wretched woman! I took her beneath me multiple times… made her moan like a common street dancer—now she dares deny me?!"
He stood up suddenly, the low table shaking from the force. Coins scattered onto the floor. Servants outside paused, sensing the storm building inside.
His younger brother Shankar, who had been reclining nearby smoking a hookah, spoke up calmly, "Bhau… control yourself. If this gets out, people will laugh at us. They'll say the Sadavarte brothers paint their nights on credit. That we can't even pay a woman who dances for generals and firangis."
Jayram clenched his jaw, nostrils flaring, but said nothing.
"You're right…" he finally muttered, pacing the room. "You're right, Shankar. We won't act now. But that woman thinks too highly of herself. She thinks she can insult me in front of a firangi guest…"
He stopped, staring out at the darkening sky.
"I'll teach her a lesson… when the time is right."
The next morning, the Sadavarte accountant arrived early—dressed in plain white cotton, with nervous eyes and a trembling voice. Without much conversation, he handed over a small wooden box filled with silver coins and two stamped parchments as receipts. Ratnabai didn't even meet him. She sent Rakma to receive it, and the man bowed quickly before vanishing into the misty morning.
A little after breakfast, as sunlight streamed through the jali windows into the carved stone hall, Ratnabai summoned her own accountant.
Pant Srirang Phadke arrived precisely on time, as always—his white dhoti spotless, his hair tied in a neat bun, and his tilak fresh. He was in his early sixties, a learned Chitpavan Brahmin, and had served not just her, but before her, a banker family in Satara. When Ratnabai had hired him eight years ago, many whispered it was a shameful thing for a man of his caste to work for a courtesan. But Phadke was unmoved by gossip—his pen was sharper than most swords, and his wisdom had helped her wealth grow tenfold.
He settled down beside her on a flat cushion in the outer hall, a bundle of scrolls in his lap.
"Here, Ratna," he said gently, unrolling parchment. "These are the accounts for the last quarter—the rents from your fields in Jejuri, the profits from sugarcane sold near Wai, and the returns from the warehouse you bought near Budhwar Peth. All are yielding well."
She nodded absently, flipping through the scrolls without really reading.
Phadke adjusted his glasses, then sighed. "But Ratna… don't get angry. I must speak."
She glanced sideways at him, curious.
"You are behaving like a warrior building a fort," he said, voice low but firm. "Your treasure room is overflowing. You buy land faster than local zamindars. You've bought slaves, oxen, homes, even the silk trader's daughter as a dancer."
He leaned in slightly, his tone more personal now. "This… will not go unnoticed. The generals, the firangis, the Sahukars—you think they will forever laugh, drink, and toss coins your way? No. They're already whispering. You're not just dancing anymore, Ratna. You're outshining them."
He folded his hands. "You earn more than a successful merchant—between your dance performances, the gifts, and your farmland income. And because of that, women hate you. Wives, sisters, mothers—they whisper your name like poison. Because their men adore you."
He paused, letting his words sink in.
"You're piling up enemies, Ratna. And I fear one day… someone will try to strike not your pride, but your life. Why don't you marry? Settle down? You have wealth enough for two generations."
Ratnabai listened in silence, her kohl-lined eyes distant. Then, slowly, she smiled—a wry, bitter smile.
"Kaka," she said softly, "who would marry a woman like me?"
He looked away, unsure.
"I'm a dancer. I've shared beds with generals, traders, and even firangis with skin like lime. Every powerful man in Pune knows what I sound like in the dark." Her voice held no shame—only resignation.
"I'm twenty-six. That's beyond marriage age for most women. No Brahmin will marry me. No soldier will risk his honor. And no merchant wants a wife who has out-earned him in silver and secrets."
Pant gazed down at the floor. He had no answer.
The silence between them was old. Familiar.
Outside, a koel sang from a mango tree. Inside, the scent of jasmine still clung to the air.
Ratnabai leaned back against the silk cushion, letting out a sigh. "Kaka… the mood is getting darker with all this talk of enemies and jealousy. Why don't you tell me what's happening in the Peshwa court?"
Pant Phadke adjusted his shawl, cleared his throat, and gave her a knowing look. "Ah… Rajneeti… it's always brewing like a pot of boiling milk, Ratna. You know that."
He leaned forward a little. "It's been nearly twenty years since the empire fought a major battle—last time was during Bajirao Saheb's Bundelkhand campaign against Muhammad Bangash. Since then, we've been rich in trade and short on war."
"But," he added with a meaningful pause, "there's talk in the town. Loud, restless whispers. Next war is near."
Ratnabai raised an eyebrow. "With whom?"
"The Nizam of Hyderabad," Pant said gravely. "Again. The same blood feud that never dies. The same Nizam who once dared to march into Pune, loot the temples, disgrace our honor… before Bajirao smashed him at Palkhed and sent him crawling back."
"But this time…" Phadke's voice lowered, "they say the Nizam has grown stronger. He has French artillery, trained musketeers, and his Gardī infantry drilled in European fashion. And our Peshwa court… they're preparing too, quietly. Buying horses, training men. But we have no Bajirao now. Only his son—Balaji Baji Rao—more of a scribe than a sword."
Ratnabai folded her arms, her face unreadable. "So the drums of war beat again."
Pant nodded. "Yes. But not loudly. Not yet. But when it comes—it will not be like Palkhed. It will be bigger, bloodier."
"And what do we do?" she asked, voice calm.
"We prepare, Ratna," Pant said. "You, me, everyone. Fortify your properties. Keep your guards loyal. Stay alert. Because when war comes, even the mansions of dancers get looted, and even the powerful can fall overnight."
Ratnabai smiled faintly and poured herself a little water from the bronze lota beside her. After a sip, she said calmly, "That's why, Kaka, I bought that large house in the outskirts of Ratangav, in Konkan. It's surrounded by dense trees, hidden paths, and a natural stream."
She looked out the window where the sun now slanted across her courtyard. "If anyone dares to invade Pune again—which seems unlikely with the British eyes everywhere—but if the worst happens, and fire rains from the Deccan sky, we'll have a place to run. I've already moved some of my jewels, scrolls, and fine silks there. The house is modest outside, but strong within."
Pant Phadke looked at her with quiet admiration.
"I even bought three sturdy Marwari horses from a Sindhi trader last month. Fast-footed and loyal. If there's chaos, I'll flee with my people—Tulsi, Gauri, Rakma, and the rest. They deserve a chance to live, not die in fire and pillage."
Phadke chuckled softly and stroked his beard. "You think like a king, not a dancer. Always four steps ahead."
Ratna grinned. "I learned from the men who held power while whispering secrets into my ears."
"You're smart as always, Ratna," said Phadke, his voice warm now, proud. "Smarter than most men I've served."
She looked at him, eyes glinting. "That's why they fear me, Kaka. Not just for what I do on stage or in bed. But for what I know. And for what I prepare."
The next morning, as the sun climbed over the tiled roofs of the countryside and the birds chirped lazily in the mango groves, a dust trail rose on the road leading to Ratnabai's mansion.
Jayram Sadavarte, the elder of the two brothers, arrived unannounced. Dressed in a rich red angrakha and golden-bordered turban, he stepped down from his palkhi, surrounded by five hulking bodyguards in cotton turbans, each armed with tulwars at their waists. Their eyes scanned the grounds with the watchfulness of men used to trouble.
He strode across the stone courtyard and into the front hall without waiting to be announced.
"Rakma!" he barked.
The old servant woman, who had been lighting incense, turned, startled. "Ji, saheb?"
"Call Ratnabai. Tell her Jayram Sadavarte has arrived. And I don't have all day."
Rakma hurried off, her feet bare on the cool stone floor.
Within moments, Ratnabai entered the meeting room, composed and radiant, every step measured like a dance. She wore a deep purple nauvari today, gold beads resting against her collarbone, her hair tied in a long braid. Her kohl-lined eyes scanned the room and settled on Sadavarte.
The meeting room was a fine chamber, with a black stone floor polished to a mirror-like sheen. Sunlight streamed through a jali window, casting patterns of flowers on the floor. Along the walls were low shelves with brass statues of gods, silk scrolls in wooden holders, and carved chests filled with ledgers and letters. In the center sat two large teakwood diwans, facing each other across a short, ornate table where betel leaves, sweet supari, and a silver lota of water had been placed.
Ratnabai sat gracefully on one of the diwans, her legs folded beneath her, posture straight, chin tilted just enough to suggest confidence without challenge.
With a slow, honeyed tone, she said, "Oh, Malak… why did you take such efforts to come here? If you had sent Gafur again, I would have graced your home myself. Were you missing me already?"
Her eyes sparkled with mischief—but her mind was sharp as steel.
Sadavarte didn't laugh.
He didn't even smile.
His face was stone, his jaw tight. He sat opposite her without a word, his eyes fixed on hers like a man inspecting a weapon, not a woman.