But Bhansali complicates this heroism. Mallikajaan collaborates with the British to preserve her power. Fareedan trades secrets for safety. The series asks: When survival depends on pleasing the oppressor, is there a moral difference between the courtesan who sells her body and the one who sells her nation?
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In the end, the series asks one question, repeated like a ghazal’s refrain: What do women owe the world that has enslaved them? heeramandi
Bhansali’s series does not pretend to be a documentary. Instead, it uses this history as a canvas for a fictionalized saga—one that spans from the Swadeshi movement (1905-1911) to the eve of Partition. The real Heeramandi haunts every frame, but Bhansali paints it in his signature hues: crimson, gold, and the deep blue of a wounded sky. At its core, Heeramandi is a family feud wrapped in a national liberation struggle. The central conflict pits two rival courtesans—Mallikajaan (Manisha Koirala) and Fareedan (Sonakshi Sinha)—against each other for control of Heeramandi’s most prestigious kotha, Shahi Mahal.
She speaks perhaps 200 words in eight episodes. Yet her silence is devastating. Watch her hands during a British officer’s toast—fingers twitching, then still, then reaching for a wine glass she will never drink from. Hydari embodies the tragedy of the revolutionary who outlives her cause. But Bhansali complicates this heroism
This feature explores how Heeramandi transforms a historical reality into a lush, operatic tragedy, examining its characters, craft, politics, and the quiet revolution of its making. Long before Bhansali’s cameras rolled, Heeramandi (literally “Diamond Market”) was a real locality in Lahore, near the walled city’s Rang Mahal. From the Mughal era through the British Raj, it was the epicenter of tawaif culture—courtesans who were not merely sex workers but custodians of classical music, dance (Kathak), Urdu poetry, and etiquette. They were the taste-makers of North Indian aristocracy, their kothas (brothels) doubling as salons for nawabs, poets, and revolutionaries.
The answer is never clean. And that is the point. To describe Heeramandi ’s visuals is to list impossibilities. Bhansali, working with cinematographer Sudeep Chatterjee, built an entire set in Mumbai’s Film City—a 1.5 lakh square foot labyrinth of archways, fountains, mirrored chambers, and secret staircases. Every shot is a Mughal miniature come alive. The series asks: When survival depends on pleasing
Yet defenders argue: Bhansali is not a realist. He is a myth-maker. Heeramandi is not the story of all courtesans—it is the story of power. And power, for Bhansali, is always beautiful, even when it is evil. Will Heeramandi endure? It lacks the tightness of Devdas (2002) or the tragedy of Gangubai Kathiawadi (2022). But it has something new: space. Eight hours allow Bhansali to breathe. We see Alamzeb learn to write. We watch Fareedan’s revenge curdle into emptiness. We sit with Mallikajaan as she counts her wrinkles in a mirror.
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