Through this award-winning novel, the author has attempted to illuminate a lesser-known chapter of Meerabai’s life

Meera

By Debasree Chakraborti

Location: Chittor Fort, Jodhpur Mehrangarh Fort

Even amidst a harsh and rugged landscape, traces of life’s beauty—its colors, scents, and flavors—still remain. Within the stark environment of Chittor Fort, Meera’s palace stands like a small Vrindavan. Surrounded by hatred and envy, this space seems untouched, as if all forms of negativity are reflected away and repelled from entering. The palace is open on three sides, and in one corner stands a small temple dedicated to Giridharji. Rituals and prayers take place there four times a day.

Every morning, Meera bathes early and then performs the ceremonial bathing of Giridharji with milk, rose water, Ganga water, and turmeric water. She dresses Him in garments of her choice, then decorates His throne with flowers of various colors and seats Him there. After that, the worship begins with incense and offerings. The maidservants bring various dishes from Meera’s kitchen as offerings for Giridharji. As per Meera’s instructions, a different special offering is prepared each day. The dairy cows of Chittor Fort’s cowshed provide fresh milk, which is then brought to Meera’s personal kitchen. There, the milk is turned into ghee, butter, and other ingredients, which are then used to prepare Giridharji’s favorite dishes—kheer, mohanbhog, manda, and various types of milk-based sweets and delicacies.

It has been nearly a year since Meera became the royal bride of Chittor. Perhaps even longer. After coming here, she has stopped keeping track of time. She simply spends each day somehow and waits eagerly for the evening, when she can go to the Kumbhshyam Temple.

During this time, Janmashtami was also celebrated in Chittor. On that day, devotees came from far and wide to the Kumbhshyam Temple inside Chittor Fort. Most of them were Meera’s devotees—those who used to celebrate Janmashtami every year with her at the Chaturbhujji Temple in Merta. After Meera’s marriage, they started coming to Chittor. As per Rana Sanga’s orders, the Kumbhshyam Temple was adorned with yellow flowers that day. Every tree in the Aata Bagan (guava garden) beside the temple was decorated with garlands. Oil lamps were lit in every corner of the fort.

Yes. After completing her early morning bath and rituals, Meera personally enters the kitchen and prepares the chhappan bhog (a traditional offering of 56 food items) for Giridharji with her own hands. Rana Sanga had given specific instructions that Meera herself should bathe and adorn the idol of Kumbhshyam. And so it was done. Meera gave Giridharji a ceremonial bath using rose water, sandalwood water, turmeric water, Ganga water, and milk—one after another. She then gently dried the idol and dressed Him in fine silk garments and ornaments.

Afterward, she arranged the chhappan bhog she had cooked herself and sat down for worship. That day, hundreds of visitors had the fortune of witnessing this sacred ritual, while thousands more waited outside the fort to hear Meera’s devotional songs.

As Meera continued with the Janmashtami puja, she was overcome with divine ecstasy. She picked up her ektara and began to sing:

“Heri main to prem divani, meri dard na jaane koye,

Suli upar sej hamari, kis bidh sona hoye.

Gagan mandal mein sej piya ki, kis bidh milna hoye.

Ghaayal ki gati ghaayal jaane, ke jin ghaayal hoye.

Johari ki gati johari jaane, ke jin johar hoye.

Dard ki maari ban ban dolu,

Meera ke Prabhu pir mitegi jab bhed sabaliya hoye.”

(“Behold, I am a lover mad in love; no one knows my pain.

My bed lies on a cross—how can one find comfort there?

In the cosmic skies lies my beloved’s bed—how shall I reach him?

Only the wounded know the plight of the wounded, only they who have been wounded.

Only a jeweler knows the nature of a gem, only one who is a jewel himself.

Wounded by pain, I wander through forests.

Meera’s Lord will heal her wounds only when He reveals His secrets.”)

As Meera sang this bhajan, lost in divine rapture, she began to dance in ecstasy. When the song ended, she went into deep meditation in front of Kumbhshyam. The gathered devotees erupted with cries of victory in Meera’s name. Even those waiting outside the fort, upon hearing Meera’s song, began chanting in her praise.

When news of this mass celebration in Meera’s name reached the royal women in the inner chambers of the palace, the flames of jealousy grew even stronger. The senior queen, Kuvarbai, remarked scornfully, “A daughter-in-law who dances before commoners has now shown her true colors to the people of Chittor.”

Upon hearing from the Rathore women about Meera’s dancing, the second queen, Dhanabai, sneered and said, “It’s always the vulgar women who earn applause from the street crowd. No respectable woman ever receives such praise—because noblewomen know how to stay hidden behind the veil of decency.”

The Rathore women nodded in agreement and added, “Look at Meera—she’s beautiful, and on top of that, she’s a woman. The crowd is cheering not for her devotion, but for the beauty of her body. If we were given the same opportunity, we too could compose songs like hers. But would anyone cheer for us like they cheer for her? Never.”

Dhanabai curled her lip and scoffed, “Beautiful? In her age, I was far more beautiful than Meera. Even the maidservants of the Rathore household are more beautiful than her. So please, enough of this talk.”

On Janmashtami, Meera offered her homemade malpua—fried in ghee—as prasadam. The devotees were overwhelmed. Her name, followed by joyous chants, spread far and wide. As they departed, each of them raised their hands to bless Meera.

But within the walls of Chittor Fort, the atmosphere became increasingly tense, like the harsh, scorching desert winds. These bitter undercurrents struck Meera again and again. To escape it all, she tied a red veil to the window with small anklet bells (ghungroo) attached. Whenever the gusty wind from outside blew into the room, it created a soft jingling sound—chham chham.

The entire room was decorated with fragrant flowers. In each corner hung different styles of chandeliers. Before dusk, the maidservants came and lit every wick in the lamps.

After evening, only Meera and Bhojraj stayed in the palace quarters. No one had the right to disobey Prince Kunwar Sa’s strict command. During this time, Meera would sing her own composed songs to her husband. The newlyweds were deeply absorbed in tender conversations. Meera saw Shri Krishna in her husband. The profound love she had cherished for Giridhar all her life, she now poured completely into Bhojraj.

But tonight, Meera’s heart was not at ease. Her face and eyes were veiled with sadness. The bed was covered in white and pink rose petals. Bhojraj lay there, his head resting on Meera’s lap, while Meera looked away—gazing out the window.

In the darkness of the night, the towering turrets of Chittor Fort appeared like silent sentinels or watchful giants.

The towering turrets of the fort looked like silent, looming giants. From all sides of the fort, the sound of spears striking stone echoed in the night. The guards continued their patrol through the long hours of darkness. But each of those sounds pierced Meera’s heart like arrows. She felt like a prisoner trapped inside a mythical Yaksha’s palace.

Just then, from the Aata Bagan beside the Kumbhshyam Temple, a chorus of owls hooted into the night. Their cries seemed to rip through Meera’s spiritual trance, startling her. She looked toward the idol of Giridharji. In one corner of the room, the lamp before His image still burned steadily. It would burn all night.

In the middle of the night, Meera would wake and quietly add small amounts of ghee to keep the flame alive. That lamp was like a symbol of her hope—flickering quietly within her soul. Even though she lived within the confines of worldly domestic life, she felt completely detached. Trapped within this dream-like realm, her soul yearned to break free—to open itself up to a vast, limitless field. But she could find no way out.

Bhojraj, watching Meera closely for a long time, finally said, “What is it, Meera? Where is your mind tonight? I can’t seem to understand you.”

Meera didn’t know how to respond. It was true—despite her husband’s affection, despite the comforts and luxuries of the royal palace, she remained unsatisfied. But to explain why—would have consequences, possibly affecting the very foundation of her worldly life. Composing herself, she said softly,

“Nothing really… I was just thinking about the country.”

Bhojraj sat up and replied warmly, *”Meera, this is exactly what I desire—who else but my life partner should think about the country and its people? Perhaps you already know that if fate supports me, and if all goes well, I may one day bear the responsibility of ruling Chittor. That’s why I must keep all five senses alert at all times. Since childhood, I’ve been trained to observe and listen carefully. So I’ve learned to understand the nature and thoughts of the people around me very well.

Thinking about the nation is a noble thing, but right now, you are thinking of something else. I know what it is that troubles you.”*

Meera remained silent. She kept her gaze fixed on the world outside the window.

Bhojraj gently reached out, placed his hand on her cheek, and said softly, “Meera, look at me.”

As Meera turned toward her husband, the lamp’s glow lit up her eyes, making them gleam with an inner fire. Between them, it felt as though a wave of scorching desert wind had just passed. From the crevices of the ancient fort walls, nocturnal creatures began to cry out. At such a moment, the scent of palace politics seemed to rise and coil into the air, making the atmosphere even heavier. It was as if the very emotions of the fort’s inhabitants grew more alert in that instant.

Bhojraj let out a deep sigh and said, “Grandmother Sa called for me yesterday. She warned me that a conspiracy against you has begun within the palace. She urged me to do everything in my power to protect you from it.”

Startled, Meera looked at him and asked, “How did Grandmother Sa come to know of this?”

Bhojraj gave a faint smile and replied, “There has never been anyone in Chittor as wise and perceptive as Grandmother Sa—at least not before you arrived. Her eyes are everywhere. After she told me, I assigned one of my most trusted men to investigate, and he confirmed her suspicions were right. Meera, you are destined to become the Queen of Chittor, and that means you’ll have to face many such conspiracies in the future. You must start preparing yourself mentally from now on.”

Meera smiled softly and said, “Hmm. I haven’t really been thinking about all this.”

Bhojraj said, “Since you’re not thinking about it, let me tell you something. The women of this fort are spreading all sorts of falsehoods about you. All of it eventually reaches my ears. I hope you are aware of it too.”

Meera let out a long breath and said, “I know everything. But still, I want to hear it from your own lips.”

Bhojraj replied, “Why dwell on such filth? Instead, let’s lose ourselves in this beautiful moment together.”

Meera insisted, “Even so, I want to hear it from you. Please don’t keep me in the dark.”

Bhojraj gently placed his hand on her head and said, “They say that during our wedding, you refused to walk around me during the pheras, saying that you would never circle anyone but your beloved Giridhar Nagar.”

A shadow of sorrow returned to Meera’s face as she said, “Oh no, this is a complete lie!”

Bhojraj replied, “Don’t worry. When Masa informed Babu Sa of this rumor, he himself strongly protested, saying it was all false. He said you had wished to circumambulate Giridhar first, and then me—and that simple truth has been twisted and exaggerated. Besides, Masa has a very naive and gentle nature. Since her marriage, she has lived confined within this fort. She was never able to assert her own rights. That has left a trace of jealousy within her. You see, her character was shaped by constant pressure and palace politics. She’s easily influenced by others.”

Meera said, “But from what I’ve heard you say about Dadi Sa, she too has been confined in this fort since marriage. Yet she’s never been influenced by anyone. In my short life, I’ve rarely seen a woman with such a commanding personality.”

Bhojraj nodded, *”No one can be compared to Dadi Sa, Meera. Her personality is unique—unparalleled. Just think: though she was never the Chief Queen (Patrani), she still managed to place her own son on the throne of Chittor. Just imagine how powerful her character must be for that to happen.

Besides, the ones spreading these rumors are the Rawla women. Slandering and gossiping is their constant occupation. It’s practically a rule in Chittor Fort—whenever a new bride arrives, conspiracies begin against her. If you can survive these schemes, you’ll become the next Dadi Sa. If not, your fate might be like Ma Sa’s. Do you understand?”

Bhojraj smiled and kissed Meera gently on the forehead with great affection.

Meera said, “Now it’s clear to me. The women from Jodhpur—our relatives who came for our wedding—those Rathore women are the ones spreading all this. It’s quite clear now. Don’t worry about it anymore. I’ll handle them myself.”

Resting her head on Bhojraj’s shoulder, Meera added, “I feel so much lighter now. All the weight in my heart is gone. I have no more worries. I feel like singing. Singing always lifts the heaviness from my soul.”

Bhojraj embraced her and said, “That’s perfect—our love story would be incomplete without your songs.”

Meera began to sing:

“Asuyan jal seechi seechi prem beli boi,

Ab to beli phail gayi, anand phal hoi.”

(“I watered the vine of love with the tears of jealousy,

Now that vine has spread far and wide and is bearing the fruit of bliss.”)

Meera’s song drifted through the corridors, echoing across distant wings of the palace. Some who heard it were moved to deep emotion, while others responded with scorn and mockery.

The lives of the women in the fort—though they appeared dazzling from the outside—were, in truth, hollow and impoverished within. Cloaked in splendor and gossip, they carefully hid the wounds of their own existence. Over the years, repeated exposure to physical and emotional violence had left them scarred. Each of these grand forts functioned like vast machines—transforming once-healthy, vibrant girls nearing the end of their childhood into fractured beings through long-term mental and physical suffering.

Deprived of love all their lives, they could not bear to see another woman in the embrace of true affection. The fire of jealousy consumed them—and it was from this jealousy that their mockery arose.

As Meera’s song ended, a breeze from outside swept into her chamber, stirring the dimly lit room. The wind struck the bell in Giridharji’s temple, causing it to ring loudly. Meera’s palace—nestled in the heart of Chittor—truly felt like a tiny Vrindavan.

After the song ended, Bhojraj said, “Meera, your writing is so beautiful, so deep—it touches something in the soul. The way you’ve described our love… it’s incredible. You’ve sown the vine of love by watering it with your tears, and now that vine is spreading more and more each day. Oh, Meera, this is exactly how I feel. How did you manage to capture the words of my own heart?”

Meera replied, “Only someone who can feel Giridharji in every living being can write such a song. I feel Him in the stone walls, the pillars, every corner of this palace, and in every person. And now, as you sit before me, I feel Him through you.”

For a while, the palace was enveloped in silence. The sound of the temple bell echoed through the stillness, mingled with the soft tinkling of anklets behind a curtain. It felt as if a devadasi was dancing before a deity in some distant temple.

There was a brief pause—a hush. In that silence, they both felt the waves of emotion flowing between them, as if immersed in the ocean of their shared feelings.

Then Meera spoke: “Kunwarji, tomorrow a few sages are arriving in Chittor from Dwarka, carrying the prasad of Shri Krishna. Today, I received news of their arrival through a messenger. They will rest here for a few days. They are in need of some funds. I wish to donate this money from my personal estate.”

She paused, then added gently, “Do you have any objections?”

Bhojraj replied, “Meera, how could you even think I would object?”

“It is a tradition in the royal family of Chittor to serve and support sages and saints. I have learned this from my father. Whatever funds they need, I can arrange for them myself. You need not worry.”

At that moment, Meera’s voice took on a depth of emotion and an intense joy that could be clearly felt. Sitting within the stony walls of the Chittor fort, she seemed like a messenger delivering tidings from a monsoon forest. Every word she spoke carried the fragrance of those monsoon winds, of a season soaked in devotion and vitality.

Meera said, “These sages are secretly engaged in a great mission. Every step of their path is filled with danger, yet they walk it in silence. My grandfather, Rao Dudaji, always said—‘We are Kshatriyas. It is our sacred duty to ensure the protection of ascetics, and to provide them with food, money, and service.’ And so, I do what I can, wholeheartedly and with devotion. But the mission they have taken upon themselves requires immense resources.”

Bhojraj looked at Meera in astonishment. She appeared more radiant, more vibrant than ever before. It was as though, in this moment, Meera was drawing Bhojraj into the secret world of her deeper duties and spiritual commitments.

She continued, “They are trying to revive the fading traditions of this vast land of Aryavarta. The very vow that your father, Rana Sangha, has taken—these sages share the same goal. It is our duty to support them. And without their help, it will be impossible to unite the rulers of Aryavarta under a common cause.”

You might be surprised to hear,” Meera said, “that these sages often come bearing highly confidential information from distant kingdoms. Through them, we are able to glimpse the larger political landscape of Aryavarta.”

Bhojraj listened to Meera in astonishment. Another significant layer of political reality—how simply Meera had made him understand it. Curious, Bhojraj asked, “How did you become involved in the activities of these ascetics?”

Meera replied, “If one has the will, one can always get involved. The missions of these ascetics rely entirely on support from the kings—sometimes financial, sometimes in the form of weapons. They need both. My grandfather has been associated with them since his youth. They’ve kept in regular contact with him. And since my own childhood, almost unknowingly, I too became involved in their work, directly and deeply.”

Bhojraj, filled with wonder, said, “Had I not married you, all this would have remained completely unknown to me. If Merta can contribute to such a noble mission, then Mewar must do the same. Meera, I will personally speak to Bapu Sa—our father. It is important that Mewar joins in this great endeavor.”

Meera said, “Very well, let it be so. As the royal consort of Chittor, I too have certain responsibilities. I wish to fulfill them till my last breath.”

Bhojraj embraced Meera in his arms and said, “Meera, Dadi Sa was right—you are the true Rajlakshmi of Chittor.”

To the other queens of Chittor, Meera’s palace remained a place of deep mystery. Since her marriage, the way she had managed to win over both her father-in-law and her husband had become the subject of much speculation. These queens believed that the sages who visited Meera had taught her mystical arts of enchantment and control.

The more they pondered these things, the more consumed they became by jealousy. Each of them had secretly appointed spies, whose task was to extract confidential information from Meera’s quarters.

Investigating what Meera did in the evenings with Bhojraj, they discovered—to their surprise—that she engaged in no such mystical acts. Instead, the couple discussed matters like Babur, Delhi, Malwa, Vijayanagara, and various other significant political concerns. And…

The rest of Meera’s time was spent serving the sages and singing devotional songs before her beloved Giridhar Gopal. When the other queens heard of this, they felt no particular enthusiasm. None of it contained the charm or intrigue they were hoping for.

The queens wondered, “What kind of things does she talk about? Who are these people—Nanak, Kabir, Tulsidas?”

How did Meera come to know about them? They themselves knew nothing of such figures—and had no interest in knowing either. Who was this Chaitanya Mahaprabhu, who had supposedly left Gauda and taken refuge in Utkala (Odisha), and was now advising the king there on political matters? But why did Meera know all this? What was the need for her to keep track of such things? The queens simply could not comprehend it.

Messengers had informed them that this girl—Meera—had been saying that in order to unify the country, one must not only seek the guidance of sages like Nanak and Kabir, but also come closer to the common people.

Disaster! Was this girl hoping to become a ruler like Razia Sultana?

If that were to happen, all the other queens would lose their influence.

So, the efforts to isolate and ostracize Meera began in full force.

Rana Sanga’s favorite queen was Dhanbai, the princess of Jodhpur. Dhanbai held the greatest sway over the Rana. If the other queens said anything, the Rana would listen carefully, consider every angle, and then make a decision. But Dhanbai—her words were different; they held special weight.

One evening, after dinner, when the Rana was in a particularly good mood, he retired in private with his beloved wife Dhanbai. Her palace was located in the southern part of the Chittor fort. The southeastern side of this palace was open, allowing strong gusts of wind from the south to flow in at night.

Entering Queen Dhanbai’s palace felt like stepping into a piece of Jodhpur itself. All around were marks of Jodhpuri art and architecture, along with various weapons of war. Dhanbai had been highly skilled in spear-throwing since childhood. While the other Rathore princesses were busy playing with dolls, Dhanbai immersed herself in mock battles.

One side of the Jodhpur fort had a large lake, beyond which rose steep hills, partially covered with forest. From the high terrace of the fort, young Dhanbai would stare at those wild landscapes, weaving dreams full of magical adventures. (Continues)

Click here for Part-1, Part-2, Part-3, Part-4, Part-5, Part-6, Part-7, Part-8, Part-9, Part-10, Part-11, Part-12, Part-13, Part-14, Part-15, Part-16, Part-17, 

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Debasree Chakraborti is a renowned novel writer of Bengali language. Based in Kolkata, West Bengal, India, she has done Master’s in Modern History from the Kolkata University, and authored some thirty books, mostly the novels, with historical perspective and themes. Her novel is ‘Maharaja Dahir’ that covers the history of Sindh from 662, the year of first attack on Sindh by the Arab armies till date, was published last year and translated by Nasir Aijaz into Sindhi language.