Isha Mirza 1 Rhea Sen stepped off the dusty evening train into the heart of Lucknow, her senses immediately overwhelmed by the city’s curious blend of melancholy grandeur and stubborn life. Rickshaws rattled past the faded gates of old nawabi havelis, and the air carried the scent of marigolds, incense, and the distant, lingering sweetness of attar. As an art historian specializing in forgotten women of the Awadh court, she had dreamed of this moment for years: to walk the same stone paths once graced by courtesans whose dances whispered through history only in half-remembered couplets and brittle letters. Rhea…