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

Meera

By Debasree Chakraborti

She believed that enemy soldiers were hiding behind those trees. She imagined that Mehrangarh Fort, founded by Rao Jodha, had been surrounded by enemies from all sides, and the men of the fort were all asleep—so it was his duty alone to protect it.

In this way, he would create a battlefield in her mind. But it was all a game of politics. Without her knowledge, her marriage was arranged with the ruler of Chittor, Rana Sanga, who was three times her age. One day, the sound of shehnai (traditional wedding flute) echoed through Mehrangarh Fort. But in Dhanbai’s palace, the melody of the shehnai struck a melancholic note. Through the gap in a small window, she watched the grand wedding procession arrive from Chittor. That day, she was pulled out from her imagined battlefield and thrust into the diplomatic battleground of royal life.

Though she was not a victim of vile palace politics like Kunwarbai or Meera, a hidden current of resentment always flowed within her. She always felt that despite having all the qualities of a king, she was denied what she truly deserved. Had she been born a man, a brilliant talent like hers wouldn’t have been confined within the four walls of a palace, condemned to such a stifling life. She began to channel all her anger and bitterness into the internal politics of Chittor Fort. A constant urge to prove herself the best and to gain control over Chittor’s political affairs took root in her.

Rana ji was very fond of paan (betel leaf). So, Dhanbai always kept a royal arrangement of paan in her palace just for him. She would source various paan spices and ingredients from different corners of the country. Then, after dinner, she would prepare the paan herself and offer it to Rana ji.

That night, after the meal, when Dhanbai placed the paan in Rana ji’s mouth, he gently took her hand and made her sit beside him. The distinct aroma of paan spices filled the royal bedchamber. While chewing the paan, Rana ji kept looking at the queen, lost in thought. Dhanbai knew what he was thinking. She also knew that during such moments, her husband usually agreed to most of what she said. Taking advantage of the moment, she said softly to Rana Sanga, “Lately, I’ve been very worried. I can’t stay calm even for a single moment.”

Rana ji placed his hand gently on Dhanbai’s cheek and asked, “Why do you worry so much?”

A deep concern was visible on Dhanbai’s face. She replied, “Rana ji, I’m deeply worried about Chittor’s future. It doesn’t suit the wife of a Rana to be anxious like this, but a true king must think about the security of his kingdom. That’s why multiple royal marriages are sometimes necessary—to build political alliances. Kunwar Bhojraj is the heir to Chittor’s throne. Arrange another marriage for him. Just as you have married three times for the sake of political harmony and protection of Chittor, Bhoj too should now forge matrimonial alliances with other royal houses. It will be for Chittor’s benefit.”

Rana Sanga said, “But from what I know, Bhoj and Meera share a very good bond. Their wedding night’s fragrance still lingers between them. How can I suggest another marriage to Bhoj?”

Dhanbai embraced the Rana and said, “But Rana ji, I am saying this precisely because there is a problem.”

Rana Sanga, visibly worried, asked, “What problem? I don’t understand anything.”

Dhanbai replied, “All three of your queens bore you sons within a year of marriage. But it’s been a year and a half since Bhoj and Meera were married, and Meera still hasn’t conceived.”

Rana Sanga smiled gently and said, “I don’t see any problem in that. Many couples take time—it’s not unusual.”

Queen Dhanbai, now visibly agitated, exclaimed, “No, no Rana ji! What you’re thinking isn’t right. I had sent a spy into Meera’s palace. My informer tells me that Bhoj and Meera’s relationship is unlike that of other couples. They spend their time discussing politics all day—they don’t speak of love or intimacy.”

Rana Sanga pulled Dhanbai into a warm embrace and said, “Hearing this from your spy makes me happy. Now, come—let us speak of love instead.”

Still in his arms, Dhanbai insisted, “You don’t understand. There is still time—marry Bhoj again. Otherwise, there could be succession problems in the future.”

Rana Sangha jokingly said, “If Bhoj has no heir, then it’s for your and your son’s benefit—so why worry so much?”

Dhanabai let out a deep sigh and said, “That is exactly the problem. Before thinking of my own wellbeing, I always think about the future of Chittor. But even today, you have failed to understand me. Moreover, Chittor cannot restrict itself in matters of marriage like this. You’re hesitant to get Bhoj remarried because of his love for Meera, but have you ever thought that I too once loved you deeply? But you never valued my love. The day you married Karmetabai for political reasons, you forgot about me and the love we once shared.”

There was a tone of emotion and reproach in Dhanabai’s voice that struck something deep within Rana Sangha’s heart.

Rana Sangha said, “In my pursuit of ensuring Chittor’s safety, I have wronged you deeply—and for that, I am truly remorseful. I don’t want any other woman of Chittor to suffer as you have. Because you women are the very Lakshmi of Chittor—if you suffer, my kingdom will never prosper. There are many ways to forge political alliances. But not through repeated marriages. That benefits no one.”

Then Rana Sangha held Dhanabai’s hand firmly and said, “I know you love me deeply—your resentment only comes from that love. Always remember one thing—no one has ever understood you as well as I have, and no one ever will. That’s why I’m repeatedly drawn to you—your intelligence, your love, your pull. I keep coming back to you.”

He pulled the queen into his arms. In the dim light of the chamber, Rana Sangha began to transcend the worldly realm and sink into a realm of divine love. But in Queen Dhanabai’s eyes, a blazing fire of vengeance and jealousy erupted—a fire whose smoke would stretch far and wide, enveloping the politics of Chittor.

The darkness of the night in the inner chambers of Chittor Fort was like a play of light and shadow—where love and conspiracy walked hand in hand. Down below, on the stone floor, the tip of a spear…

The guards stood watch with stern vigilance, while from a distant village, the faint sound of a song drifted through the air. Amidst the soothing darkness, one could also sense the smoke of a burning fire of deep-seated hatred. From queens to maids, a strong animosity toward Meera began to rise among the women of the palace. Meera’s unique beauty, talent, and powerful presence overshadowed all the other women, making them feel diminished. As a result, Meera became isolated, and a deeply rooted conspiracy slowly formed against her.

The supreme authority of the inner chambers of Chittor Fort was Rajmata Ratan Kuwar Jhali. No one yet had the power to disobey her commands.

Rajmata Ratan Kuwar Jhali harbored a soft corner for Meera. Her spiritual guru, Raidas, had gifted Meera his personal idol of worship. Ratan Kuwar Jhali truly believed that Meera was a highly evolved spiritual being. Lately, however, she had been hearing slander about Meera from the women of the palace. They said Meera was extremely arrogant.

They claimed that she never participated in palace celebrations with the other women, that she didn’t consider them her equals. That’s why they mocked her songs for amusement.

Meera would sing, “Mere toh Giridhar Gopal, doosro na koi.”

(“To me, only Giridhar Gopal belongs—no one else.”)

The palace women would sing this line mockingly and laugh. But Rajmata found the song beautiful. What lovely lyrics, and the melody—so graceful!

With interest, the Rajmata would ask, “Then what?”

They would reply, “What more is there? We don’t remember. We don’t wish to remember such foolish things.”

Lately, a strange restlessness had begun to stir in Rajmata’s heart. Meera’s palace intrigued her deeply. There seemed to be some hidden mystery in that space, something she felt she must uncover.

At dusk, the aarti (evening prayer) took place at the Kumbhshyam Temple. At that hour, Meera would sit in the temple and sing. The Rajmata had heard that both Rana Sangha and Bhojraj were often present during that time.

Moreover, saints from far and wide, along with many townspeople, would gather at the temple just to hear Meera…

People come to the temple just to hear her sing. It is said that Meera often engages in deep conversations with these ascetics on various topics. However, these discussions take place in utmost secrecy. No maid has the authority to overhear them. Rajmata had heard from her own son that Meera possesses remarkable political intelligence.

So many years have passed since Meera’s marriage, yet after that very first day, Rajmata never went to visit her again. Meera too had never come to see her. Now, at this age, Ratan Kuwar Jhali no longer wishes to dwell on such matters. Besides, such things are unbecoming for a Rajmata.

After Meera arrived in Chittor, Rajmata did once go to her palace to visit her. But Meera should have, at least once, come to meet her too. She never did. Perhaps she didn’t have the time. Rajmata had heard from her son Rana Sangha that through Meera, Chittor has now forged ties with the country’s largest monastic order. As a result, Chittor’s presence on the political map of the land has become more secure than ever. It was a strategic step taken by Meera to fulfill Rana Sangha’s long-held vision. The girl’s political foresight was said to be extraordinarily sharp.

These days, ascetics from distant lands are said to come to meet Meera. She is the first royal bride of Chittor to be granted the right to engage in private discussions with holy men. This has sparked many filthy rumors and malicious gossip throughout the palace courtyards, which Rajmata is well aware of. She hears everything.

Yet somewhere deep down, she held a silent support for her son. And somehow, she saw a reflection of herself in Meera. The dignity, honor, and freedom that she herself had been denied in her life—Meera was now receiving those. That feeling held immense value for her. So she no longer held on to petty anger or hurt feelings.

The evening aarti was underway at the Kumbhshyam Temple. Meera sat in one corner, singing bhajans. In another corner sat Rana Sangha and Prince Bhojraj. Lost in her own world, Meera continued singing, tears streaming from her eyes:

“Taat maat bhraata badhu aapan na koyi,

Bhakt dekho raaji hoyi…”

(“Neither father, mother, brother nor sister is truly one’s own —

Only the Lord’s devotees bring true joy.”

“Jagat dekho roi, daasi Meera, laal Giridhar, taar ab mohi,

Mere to Giridhar Gopal, doosro na koi.”

(“The world weeps, but I—Meera, the humble servant—am now bound only to my beloved Giridhar. For me, there is none but Giridhar Gopal.”)

Seeing the Rajmata enter, Rana Sangha and Prince Bhojraj immediately rose to their feet. But Meera, lost in her devotion, continued singing, her eyes fixed on Kumbhshyam. From the tone and depth of her song, it was clear that she was dwelling far beyond the current world and its circumstances—in a divine realm of nectar, where the social ties of this world seemed no more than specks of dust and debris.

Every evening, when Meera sang bhajans at the Kumbhshyam temple, a few villagers from within the Chittor fort would gather outside to listen. At such times, they seemed almost transformed, as if disarmed and deeply absorbed in Meera’s music, merging with her in that divine realm. Even the guava grove on one side of the temple would seem to fill with a strange, sacred calm. The birds in the trees sat in silence, as if they too were carried away in the current of devotional bliss.

When the puja ended, Meera remained gazing at Kumbhshyam for a while, then slowly descended from that ethereal realm back into the earthly one. A gentle murmur began among the devotees waiting outside the temple. Just then, Meera, holding the aarti lamp in her hand, turned and saw Rajmata standing quietly in one corner of the temple. She walked up to her with the aarti lamp and said:

“Since the day I first entered this palace, this is the first time I’ve seen you again. It feels good. But we’ve met in such a place where I cannot even offer you my respects. Because I never bow to anyone in front of God.”

The Rajmata replied, “Meera, I know you dwell in a realm far beyond the ordinary. One cannot expect someone who lives in that divine space to follow the rules of this worldly life. So I don’t mind such things.”

She smiled gently and continued, “I came running just to hear your song. Meera, to tell you the truth, the depth of your devotion…”

“In the midst of it all, we float along like bits of straw,” the Rajmata said softly. “And perhaps, drifting like this, one day we too shall find liberation.”

Then she turned to Rana Sangha and said, “Your daughter-in-law possesses an idol of Giridharji. After taking my initiation in Benares, I had offered that very idol to my guru, Saint Raidas, as guru dakshina. And now, through Meera’s hands, it has returned to Chittor. Can’t you see? It’s all His will.”

Rana Sangha smiled gently and replied, “Ma-sa, I need say nothing more. Your wish is my command.”

The Rajmata asked, “Tell me clearly—what you are planning to do?”

Rana Sangha replied, “I’ve begun work on building a temple dedicated to Giridharji, right beside the guava grove near the Kumbhshyam temple.”

The Rajmata placed both her hands over Meera’s head in blessing.

Just then, a guard came running and stopped at the temple door. Guards only arrive in such haste when there is an emergency. He stood panting at the entrance, and all eyes turned toward him. The sounds of bells and conches from the temple rituals had just faded. A heavy silence settled over everything. Amidst that silence, the distant cries of women could be heard.

Hearing the lament, the Rajmata sighed deeply and said, “Again?”

Meera looked at her, as if sensing something unsaid.

The guard finally spoke, “Ranaji, the gatekeeper of Chittor Fort, Ram Singh, passed away a little while ago.”

At the news of his death, a deep shadow of grief fell upon the temple courtyard. The visitors didn’t wait any longer; they rushed back to their villages. Ram Singh’s home was in one of the villages within the fort, and those who had known him were devastated by the news.

Rana Sangha and Bhojraj quietly left the temple. Now, only Rajmata and Meera remained. Outside, the wind slowly swayed the temple bell, while the sound of distant weeping mingled with it—creating an atmosphere heavy with sorrow.

The Rajmata let out a long sigh and said to Meera, “Meera, come… come sit beside me.”

Meera placed the five-wick lamp before the deity and came to sit beside the Rajmata. Placing her hand gently over Meera’s, the Rajmata said, “Many years ago, on the day your grandfather Sangha passed away—I still haven’t been able to forget that day. The night before his death, he was with me. Around midnight, he suddenly began to have difficulty breathing. Before the royal physician could arrive, he died before my very eyes, gasping for air.”

The Rajmata’s eyes suddenly lit up, as though becoming a mirror into the past. Meera gazed into those eyes and, through them, began to witness an event that had once taken place deep within the inner chambers of Chittor Fort. Cries echoed from all corners of the fort. Beside the body of the deceased king, the rudalis—professional mourners—sat, beating their chests and weeping. Grief had cast its horrifying reflection on every face, thickening the air with sorrow.

Meera’s consciousness drifted and floated through the various chambers of the fort. She saw three queens, dressed like newlyweds, seated together. Married women came forward and applied vermillion to their hair partings and bowed before them in reverence. Despite their ornate attire and fine jewelry, there was no joy on their faces. It seemed as though a dark cloud of death had settled between their eyes. Meera’s awareness moved on from there to another chamber—one she now called her own.

She entered her own palace quarters and saw a young woman, dressed so regally that she appeared to be a queen. Meera heard the voice of Rajmata Ratan Jhali calling out to her.

“Meera, the place where you now reside—that was once my palace chamber. On that day, I was alone, neglected, searching inwardly for a path. The maids had placed new garments and jewelry in front of me. They were grinding turmeric and sandalwood to bathe me.”

Meera saw the young queen seated in front of the new clothes and ornaments, the scent of turmeric and sandalwood in the air. From the direction of the bath chamber, she could hear the faint sound of something being ground on a stone slab.

Just then, before the Rajmata could finish speaking, a young boy entered the chamber. He rushed in and clung to the queen, sobbing uncontrollably. The queen sat still, as if turned to stone.

Through his tears, the boy cried, “Ma-sa, is it true you’ve agreed to become sati? Why, Ma-sa? Why did you agree? If you leave after Bapu-sa, have you thought what will happen to me? Please don’t do this.”

Hearing these words from the boy seemed to stir life back into the stone-like figure. A faint sound came from the queen’s throat. Placing her hand gently on the boy’s head, she said, “Sangha, you have been misled. I can see that even the people of Chittor have received the wrong message—that I have agreed to become sati.”

Meera heard Rajmata Ratan Jhali’s voice again: “Without further delay, I took Sangha by the hand and walked out of my chambers. Then we went to where your grandfather’s body was laid.”

In her subconscious mind, Meera could see the queen walking, holding her young son’s hand, standing before the dead king’s body. The royal courtiers all turned their gaze toward them. Seeing the queen arrive like this, holding the young prince’s hand, even the rudalis fell silent. For a while, a heavy silence spread all around. Then, suddenly, the queen broke the silence with a thunderous voice:

“I will not become sati. Because the heir to Rana-ji’s throne is still a minor. Until the future ruler of Chittor is made worthy of the throne, I have no right to seek liberation.”

At that moment, the Prime Minister stepped forward and said, “But Ranima, it was you who agreed to become sati. Why are you changing your mind now?”

The royal priest, with evident fury, added, “You are the Rana’s wife. You must become sati. That is your duty.”

The queen looked directly at the Prime Minister and said firmly, “Whom did I tell? You? Bring forth the person I actually spoke to as my witness.”

The royal priest interjected, “What is customary must be followed. What has always happened—must happen again.”

The queen turned around and said, “No, what happens today has never happened before. The first wife of the Rana must become sati, but it seems you are now creating new rules. I am his youngest wife, and therefore, I will not become sati.”

The royal priest responded, “Since you are the youngest wife, remember this too—your son has no right to the royal throne.”

The queen replied, “During his lifetime, Rana-ji had declared Sangha as the heir to the throne of Chittor. The Prime Minister and all the royal courtiers were witness to that moment. If any of them deny it now, then let them be warned—a widow’s curse will reduce their entire families to ashes.”

Once again, Meera heard her grandmother’s voice, saying, “Because of my determination that day, the conspirators of Chittor could not raise their heads. Thinking of Sangha’s future, I had turned myself into a living sword. That evening, at sunset, your grandfather’s last rites were performed. Along with him, three living souls were burned alive, immersed into the darkness of death. I knew none of them wanted to become sati, but they had no path to voice their protest—the path that I had.”

Coming out of her trance, Meera asked her grandmother, “Dadi-sa, this is what amazes me the most—how did you, though not the chief queen, so firmly hold on to your rights within the Chittor fort?”

The Rajmata replied, “Meera, in my long life, many people have asked me this question. You know, in any situation, one must keep their eyes, ears, and mouth open. And every obstacle must be met with reason and logic, and conquered. The more you lower your head and accept everything quietly, the stronger your opposing forces become. So rise—and resist.”

Her grandmother’s words began to work like a life-giving elixir within Meera’s heart. In such a temple, with one deity worshipped in two separate sanctums, Meera saw a strange resemblance between her grandparents. Her grandfather, Rao Dudaji, too had once encouraged Meera to rise in protest against the barbaric practice of sati. Before her marriage, Meera… She had once traveled to various corners of Merta, trying to awaken people against the practice of sati. After coming to Chittor, it was as if that dormant power within her reawakened once again.

Dadi-sa said, “At one time, I had roared out many times against the sati practice. But now, with the weight of age, I can no longer handle everything the way I used to. Yet, you know, sometimes I still feel like taking on my old warrior form again.”

There was a moment of silence. The wind outside gently rang the bells of the temple. The sound of wailing from a distant village grew louder and more piercing. Meera could no longer remain still. She said, “Dadi-sa, whatever it takes, we must save Shanti.”

The Rajmata replied, “But on what grounds will you save her? Shanti is her husband’s first and only wife. Their marriage took place eight months after yours. So, in this matter, no logic will stand.”

Meera said, “But Dadi-sa, if one woman after another is burned alive like this, if newborn daughters are killed or abandoned, then our very existence is under threat. Without women, even the existence of men becomes endangered.”

The Rajmata said, “The truth you are now realizing and fearing—this simple reality is something no one seems to understand. The woman from whose womb the flow of creation begins, she is the one who is mercilessly destroyed. This is a primitive celebration of this so-called civilization. You won’t be able to stop it. And most importantly, in such matters, it is often a woman who is more eager than any man.”

Nights like this have come many times in the history of Chittor. But this particular night was charged with meaning. Meera stood by the window of her bedchamber, waiting for Bhojraj. In one corner of the room, a ghee lamp was lit before the idol of Giridharji. Except for the glow of that lamp, all other lights had been put out. When despair and hopelessness engulf people from all sides, somewhere—like the flame of that ghee lamp—a faint light of hope continues to flicker. In Meera’s heart too, such a light of hope remained quietly burning was burning. Just then, Bhojraj entered the bedchamber. Seeing him, Meera rushed forward and said, “I’ve been waiting for you all this time. Why are you so late?”

Bhojraj said, “Meera, I was sitting alone in silence. This Ram Singh—he’s my age. His father too was a gatekeeper of the Chittor fort. It’s hard for me to accept that he had to leave so early. What pains me the most is the plight of his wife. Can you imagine her age? They’ve been married only recently, and now I hear she’s pregnant. And in this condition, she’s being forced to commit sati.”

It was as if Meera saw a glimmer of hope. She said, “How do you know she’s pregnant?”

Bhojraj replied, “The guards brought the news. Apparently, Ram Singh’s mother has been weeping inconsolably. You see, Ram Singh was the eldest son of the family. Since his wife became pregnant, the entire household had been filled with joy. Not long ago, they even celebrated the Godh Bharai (traditional baby shower) with great enthusiasm. And today, that very daughter-in-law, along with the unborn heir, is being forced to become sati. All the hopes and dreams of that elderly woman are collapsing before her eyes. I’m not even related to them, yet I feel such grief—just imagine what they must be going through.”

Meera said, “A pregnant woman can never be made sati. The scriptures clearly prohibit it. Moreover, according to the commentators of the Vedas, there is no mention of sati-daha (widow immolation) in the Vedas. On the contrary, they actually support remarriage after the husband’s death. Two mantras from the Atharva Veda are particularly noteworthy in this context:

‘Yaṃ nārī pati lokaṃ vṛṇānā nipadyata upetaṃ martyaṃ pretaṃ |

Dharmaṃ purāṇam anu pālayantī tasmai prajāṃ draviṇaṃ ca iha dhehi.’

Translation: “O human! This woman, desiring remarriage, has come to you after the death of her husband. By upholding the eternal dharma, grant her offspring and prosperity in this life.”

And another mantra says:

‘Udiṣarva nābhi jīvalokaṃ gatāsuṃ etam upa śeṣa ehi |

Hastāgrābhasya didhiṣo stabhedaṃ patyuḥ janitvam abhi saṃbabhūva.’

Translation: “O woman, what is the point of being immobilized by the grief of your dead husband? Return to the realm of the living. Grasp the hand of the living; you were born to create life, not to follow death.”

Yes. You shall once again become the wife of your new husband, the one who takes your hand in marriage.”

Even Sayana Acharya, one of the foremost commentators of the Vedas, supports this view in his interpretation of the Taittiriya Aranyaka.

“This is not the time for further discussion. You must protect Shanti. You must go now—any further delay will be dangerous.”

Without wasting another moment, Bhojraj left Meera’s palace. Meera poured ghee into the lamp before Giridharji and sat down beside it. Once again, a suffocating wait began. In the stillness of the night, one could feel the presence of nature stretching far and wide. Meera felt that the sound of weeping had stopped, but a crowd had gathered there, and the hum of their murmurings could be heard. The guards were patrolling, and the clang of spears striking stone echoed—tearing through the silence of her vigil. She couldn’t close her eyes all night.

At dawn, a weary Bhojraj returned and stood at the door of the bedchamber.

“Meera,” he said, “your wish has been fulfilled. I have saved Shanti and her unborn child. Of course, I had to offer some significant gifts to the royal priest to make it happen. But for the sake of saving two lives—it was worth it.”

Meera rushed forward and embraced Bhojraj. A flock of white doves flew across the sky above the Chittor fort. With the rising sun of the early morning, a strange and serene peace began to descend. (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, Part-18, 

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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.