The adept fingers of the tabalji maintained the beat on the two single headed drums- the slimmer tabla and the wider kettledrum shaped dagga.  As he vocalised the mnemonic syllables of the "bol" the patter of young feet, weighed down with the traditional brass ankle bells called ghungroo, tried to keep pace.

dha dhin dhin da   I   dha dhin dhin dha

na tin tin ta              I   ta dhin dhin da

 Ta thei thei tat....Aa thei thei tat....Ta thei thei tat...As thei thei tat

If the footwork was not matched to the "bol" the errant kathak trainee was made to practice it until the rhythmic pattern became a natural extension of herself.

"Listen carefully, and now move your feet in the correct order!" The ustad directed the bevy of girls to fall in with the tempo as it progressed gradually from the slowest vilambit, to the madhya and then to the fastest drut laya.

Ta - Strike the right foot
Thei - Strike the left foot
Thei - Right again
Tat - Left           Aa - and left again

Thei - Right

Thei - Left

Tat - Right      Ta - Right

Thei - Left
Thei - Right
Tat - Left
Aa - Left

Thei - Right

Thei - Left

Tat - Right

Bahut acchey, now once more!" The ustad encouraged his young charges. 

"Keep your bodies upright. A kathak artiste does not sway her hips or her waist tantalisingly like a nautanki performer. The gestures and expressions should be subtle, the eyes must create a sense of allure, not tease the spectator! The bells on your ankles should communicate more than your body language!" The instructions from Nikhat exuded the confidence that came from her years of experience. It was important for the girls to absorb the message. The veneer of respectability was vital to set them apart from gaudily clad street dancers who were showered with coins by raucous audiences during their performances. A true artiste received her honorarium in a far more dignified fashion. 

The practice session continued well into the afternoon until the tunics of the preteen girls were soaked with perspiration. Their lower bodies were sheathed with churidar tights that were comfortably wide around the hips but narrowed down toward the ankles revealing the graceful contours of their well toned legs. The girls tried to mopped off the sweat with the end of their muslin dupattas and massaged the soles of their bruised feet. Every now and then little iron balls fitted into the brass bells to make their sound, slipped out and rolled around on the floor. They could hurt the dancer's feet badly if they stamped on them with sufficient energy.

"Ustadji, I think the girls have earned themselves a break!" Nikhat Aapa, the constant companion of the girls, called her handmaid to bring forth earthen pitchers of cooled bael sherbet as refreshment on the hot summer day. 

Nikhat, a retired but accomplished artiste herself, was the girls' custodian during their school years. Each girl entered the facility at a tender age of four or five years. Most of them were born to mothers who professed the performing arts and so were naturally destined to follow in their footsteps. Some were orphans abandoned by unwed or widowed mothers. Other orphans had been disposed of by their extended families who were unwilling to pay for their upkeep and their dowries. 

However the most striking ones among the girls would materialise at Nikhat's doorstep quite mysteriously. There were rumours about them being procured by agents after they had been abducted from fairgrounds or shrines during festive times, or even being taken forcefully from their mother's arms by armed bandits who robbed travelling caravans. When the children had calmed down sufficiently they were bathed, clothed and plied with the choicest of sweetmeats for a few months until they no longer remembered their past and thus could be initiated into the school effortlessly.

It was Nikhat's  job to ensure that the wards received meticulous instruction in singing and dancing. The girls slept in a common dormitory, ate their meals and trained together. They were accustomed to being under the constant supervision of Nikhat Aapa or her eunuch retainers. The only men who they came into contact with were the old darzee who stitched their clothes, the equally ancient hakeem who treated them for any ailments and the musicians with whom they trained under Nikhat's watchful eye. 

The very young ones were hardly aware that Nikhat was the custodian of their virtue and was personally responsible to ensure that their persons were not defiled by any inappropriate touch. After all, as much as the girl's mosiqui (music), their exclusiveness mattered more to their future patrons. The training in blandishments began much later, between the age of eight and nine, the normal marriageable age during the eighteenth century. Although none of the girls left the school as brides, when their training was complete the best inmates would be handpicked to begin their careers as court dancers, the most fortunate ones being chosen as companions by the ruling class or their mandarins.

"Aapa, let me help you!" A young girl willingly offered to help knot the brass ankle bells with a white cotton chord. Each novice began with a string of fifty bells on her feet and gradually progressed from a hundred to two hundred bells. 

"Don't you want to enjoy your afternoon siesta like the others?" Nikhat smiled benevolently at the girl whose had the makings of a particular fine artiste.

"I am not tired, Aapa. And I was curious, where do these bells get made?" The girl's  natural curiosity was complemented by her mind which acted as a sponge, absorbing and memorising constantly.

"They are made in a number of places. But our best ghungroos come from Jalesar, known for its brasswork. The place is quite close to Agra, you see!" Nikhat watched the girl as she meticulously hand knotted each bell in its place tightly. Soon a couple of other girls joined them in the activity. 

"The brass bells in yonder Krishna temple may have also been brought from Jalesar. They ring perfectly!" To the girls' attuned ears the temple bells were a familiar sound. Nikhat said nothing, the girls lived a sequestered life but she could not possibly keep out external sounds. In any case several kathak compositions celebrated the romance between Krishna and Radha, exposing the girls to a world of syncretism. 

To distract the girls Nikhat proceeded to explain how Agra was famous for its carpets and zari work as much as it was renowned for its snacks like petha, gajak and dal moth. And that the town of Firozabad was renowned for its glass industry.

"So the glass bangles that the married women wear on their wrists when they visit the Krishna shrine come all the way from Firozabad?" The girl had indeed a keen eye.

"Maybe, Meher! I don't know! Did I tell you girls that the Taj Mahal of Agra is the most beautiful specimen of our architecture in the world? It looks like a poem in white marble!" Nikhat collected the strings of the knotted bells.

"Aapa,  I have heard that it is particularly beautiful when viewed under the light of the full moon!" One of the girls asked.

"Yes, that is true. When you girls find the favour of your respective lords you may visit the Taj too!" Nikhat never failed to impress upon the girls the importance of finding the right patron.

"Aapa, is it true that Shah Jehan ordered the arms of his construction workers to be chopped off so they may never build a similar or more beautiful monument again?" One of the older girls asked.

"There are many myths that surround the Taj Mahal. Most of them are unsubstantiated. But it is undoubtedly the only monument of our times built by a ruler for his beloved!" Nikhat straightened her dupatta over her head.

"But he built it for her in grief, after she died. And she died while giving birth to his fourteenth child, a daughter! Maybe if he had not taken Mumtaz Mahal to his bed that often she would have outlived him and then there may not have been a Taj Mahal to remember her by!" Sakina, the eunuch who was the girls' guard, added sceptically.

"Khaamosh, Sakina, enough of your balderdash! Girls, don't forget that Mumtaz Mahal Begum commanded an enviable position in her Lord's heart. She accompanied him everywhere, even on his battle campaigns and he never took decisions without consulting her. His other wives paled in comparison, such was the power of their love! Tell me, is there any other woman who can be so fortunate?" Nihkat rose, reminding the girls that it was time for the Asr, the afternoon prayer.

Nearly five hundred miles from there the Peshwa's family was celebrating the occasion of the upanaya or thread ceremony of Kashi's first born son Balaji,  better known as Nana. A Brahmin boy whose upanayan is being celebrated is called a batu. Nana's head had been shaved in a ceremony called "choulkarma", leaving just a small tuft of hair on the back. This was followed by the Abhyanga Snana, a ritual bath, where the mother bathed her son for the last time, symbolising the cutting of the apron strings.

The little boy was dressed as a groom, strings of pearls adorning his forehead. As he sat down for his afternoon meal he was accompanied by the Ashtavarga, eight other boys close to his own age. It was a proud moment for Kashi who, weighed down in her finest Paithani brocade of shell pink and gold, fed him morsels of the festive vegetarian meal.

  The rising might of Rau as the Chhatrapati' s Peshwa was evident in the impressive attendance of the invitees, which included a spectrum of nobility along with relatives and friends. Hundreds of meals were served, with the guests being plied with a range of traditional delicacies such as kheer, shrikhand puri, keshar bhaat and laddoo.

Rau himself, clad in traditional sovale, played host while Chimaji joined him in welcoming the dignitaries. The priests performed the rituals and recited the verses of the  "Mangalashtak" while father and son stood across from each other, separated by the Antarpat screen.

  Rau recited the Gayatri Mantra, a verse dedicated to the Sun, an original composition from the Rig Veda, for his son. It was custom to commence the study of the sacred Vedas with the reciting of this verse. After the thread ceremony the boy would begin his formal education. 

ॐ भूर्भुवः स्वः ।तत्स॑वि॒तुर्वरेण्यं॒भर्गो॑ दे॒वस्य॑धीमहि ।धियो॒ यो नः॑ प्रचो॒दया॑त् ॥

  "We meditate on the glory of that Being who has produced this universe; may He enlighten our minds."  

Kashi watched as father and son continued the obligatory rituals. The mother did not participate much during this part and remained a passive spectator. Her second son Ramchandra, still a toddler, sat on his mother's lap and bombarded her with questions about the ceremony. Little Ram was not sure what was happening. He was usually the centre of attention but today, it seemed, his big brother was the star of the day and he was quite miffed. 

"Ram, in a couple of years from now we shall celebrate your Munj, too. And it will be an even bigger ceremony!" Kashi assured him and he calmed down a little. Still uncertain, he rushed to the comfort of Radhabai' s lap. Radhabai 's aura made adults feel ill at ease but for little Ram, his grandmother  was his favourite go to person whenever his mother was occupied. 

The batu was then asked to perform "Bhikshaval" which means to ask for alms from the people around him. This charity was supposed to sustain him through his scholastic years although this act was largely symbolic. 

 "Om Bhavati Bhiksham dehi!" Nana chanted confidently, asking for Bhiksha or alms. A scholar whose parents could not afford to support him through his learning years depended on food handed out from families in the neighbourhood where he was studying. This was called asking of the Madhukari (alms) and was an exercise in humility and survival training. 

"Date, coconut, peanut, sesame and boondi ladoos for my favourite nephew!" Bhiu fussed as she dropped a bundle of snacks and some gold coins in Nana's jholi. She was followed by her younger sister Anu and Rakhma, Chimaji' s wife. 

Rau's gift to his son for the occasion was a fine Bhimthadi pony, and Nana excitedly got into the saddle. He was lead in a procession around the town, accompanied by his father and uncle. Musicians played and the Peshwa's household staff carried loaded trays of pedhas which they generously distributed around among the townspeople. 

 "So, your son will head to Satara soon! How are you coping?" Bhiu appeared by Kashi's side. It was true. While the Peshwa was constantly occupied with his campaigns the responsibility of formally educating and grooming his first born son fell on his younger brother Chimaji. In fact Chimaji was also Rau' s deputy in the Satara court.

"We know Bhaoji will be the most responsible guardian for Nana, but Vansa, we find ourselves wishing that Swami had a little more time for our Chiranjeev. We sincerely wish that Nana becomes a fine warrior like his father. The Satara court atmosphere may at best make him a fine diplomat! Besides, we are worried that the courtly lifestyle may corrupt our son too soon. But looks like we have no choice in the matter, everything has been decided by Swami with Sasubai Saheb's blessings!" Kashi elaborated, with a touch of regret. Apart from Bhiu she would not dare speak of her inhibitions before anyone else.