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
These days, Maharana Sangram doesn’t enjoy visiting Queen Kuwarbai’s palace. He’s already overwhelmed with political turmoil, and if he doesn’t find peace somewhere, how can he concentrate on matters of the kingdom? The peace he finds in Dhanbai’s company is unlike anything he experiences with the other queens. However, in the last few days, Kuwarbai had sent for him multiple times through her maids. Surely she must have something important to say—she never sends for him like this without good reason.
As soon as the Rana entered her palace, Queen Kuwarbai burst out like clanging metal utensils. She said, “What is this I’m hearing? You’ve supposedly ordered the construction of a temple in the Ata garden?”
The Rana replied, “Don’t summon me like this. I have many responsibilities—I’m not prepared to listen to such accusations.”
The queen retorted, “No, you must answer. Why have you ordered the construction of a temple?”
The Rana said, “That order is not mine—it came from the Rajmata. And you have no right to question such matters.”
The queen shouted even louder, “Yes, I do have the right! You cannot keep excluding me like this. My son is the crown prince of Mewar. I am the future Rajmata—and you’re telling me I have no authority? You’re planning to seat my daughter-in-law in that temple to sing devotional songs? Disgraceful! The crown prince’s wife will sing and dance there, and people from far and wide will come to watch her? What are you doing? I thought your enemies were Lodi and the Sultan of Gujarat—perhaps you should focus on them instead of humiliating your own daughter-in-law!”
The Rana replied, “Humiliation? I’m honoring Meera. One day, Meera will…”
She is going to become the queen of the entire kingdom—she must come into contact with the people. And the only person who can truly help me fulfill my political aspirations is this girl. Do you know that in Bengal, Nimai the monk is singing kirtans in the streets in defiance of the Sultan, and people—regardless of caste, creed, or religion—are joining him in large numbers?
—Ah, so now you’re planning to use Meera to rally the people against the Lodis, is that it? If that’s the case, then mark my words—just as your Chaitanya had to seek refuge in Utkala, one day this Meera too will be forced into exile. You are doing something terribly unjust. You are determined to turn your daughter-in-law into a wandering saint like Nanak, like Kabir!
Rana Sangram replied, “Queen, you only see the spiritual side of Nanak and Kabir, but you fail to see their influence on the politics of Aryavarta. Ugh, and here I am—like a fool—explaining all this to a woman so devoid of political insight.”
“No,” the queen retorted. “I am a woman—I neither understand politics nor do I wish to understand it.”
Rana Sangram said, “With the passage of time, human thought must evolve. It is people like you who maintain these rigid divisions between men and women. But what’s the use of blaming you? You too are a victim of this dreadful societal structure.”
After the puja, Meera would sit on the temple courtyard and attentively listen to the grievances and hardships of villagers who came from inside the fort’s surrounding hamlets.
Rana Sangram sat down, his head in his hands. On one side, the threat of enemy invasion loomed large, and on the other, he found himself trapped in the toxic web of internal palace politics. Maharana Sangram felt utterly wounded. Even at this age, he hadn’t found a shred of peace. At times, he felt it would be better to renounce everything and retreat into the forest in search of spiritual liberation.
But how could he? God had cast him in a role he could not abandon. He could not afford to think only of himself—his fate was intertwined with the future of all the people of Chittor. So, there was no escape.
Queen Kuwarbai continued shouting relentlessly. The Maharana understood her mental state, but amidst the vast responsibilities of his kingdom, Kuwarbai’s emotions and feelings seemed trivial—far too insignificant.
Like bits of straw floating in the wind—he had no time to dwell on such trivial matters. After sitting with his hands over his ears for a while, the Maharana finally got up and walked out.
Kuwarbai felt as if darkness had descended before her eyes. On that dark canvas, she saw the faded vision of her and Rana Sangram’s youth. A carefree young girl sat on a swing while a young man gently pushed her. Sunlight streamed in through the palace window, illuminating the scene.
But slowly, droplets of blood began to splatter across the image, gradually staining the entire picture red. The couple was no longer visible, and in place of their laughter came the sound of a young woman weeping. Slowly, that weeping grew louder and louder until it became the anguished wail of a middle-aged queen. The sound echoed through the four walls of Queen Kuwarbai’s palace, transforming it into a dark, bottomless pit.
While conspiracies, jealousy, resentment, and hatred continued to brew within the palace walls of Mewar against Meera, she quietly began shaping her own political path. Among her most strategic moves was bringing the priest Gadadhar Pandit from Merta to Chittor. Gadadhar Pandit had direct connections with nearly all the political ascetics across Aryavarta.
Even Rao Dudaji of Merta used Gadadhar Pandit to deliver financial and military aid to these ascetic networks. Under Rana Sangram’s leadership, it had become essential to unite all of Aryavarta and align with the ascetic warriors to free the land from foreign rule and claim the throne of Delhi. Across the vast subcontinent, the bhakti saints were dissolving the boundaries of caste, creed, and religion, and working toward building a nationalist unity from within.
Seated within the walls of Chittor Fort, Meera had begun following this very current of the Bhakti movement.
After arriving in Chittor, Gadadhar Pandit assumed the responsibility of conducting worship at the Kumbhshyam Temple. His presence in the sanctum sanctorum throughout the day began to envelop the fort in a new air of mystery. Following his arrival, sages and saints began arriving in Mewar from faraway regions. The courtyard of the Kumbhshyam Temple gradually began to resemble the holy precincts of Kashi.
Every day, Meera personally arranged for the service of these ascetics. In this role—as the crown princess of Mewar—she was gradually elevated to the status of a goddess in the minds of the people of Chittor. Over the ages, many queens and princesses had come and gone in Chittor, but none had ever stepped directly into the lives of the people or carried forward their duties in such a way.
The daily lives and actions of queens had always been far removed from public knowledge. But Meera’s way of life changed that. Slowly, a growing group of admirers emerged for her even among the local population of Chittor. Earlier, Meera would leave her palace during evening hours to join the sandhya-puja (evening worship) at the Kumbhshyam temple. But after the arrival of Gadadhar Pandit, Meera began attending both morning and evening worships regularly.
After the puja, Meera would sit on the temple courtyard and attentively listen to the grievances and hardships of villagers who came from inside the fort’s surrounding hamlets. She extended help to each one as per their needs. From unmarried girls to the dying elderly—Meera became the most beloved figure among all.
Some afternoons, she would sit with the village women in open discussion circles. These meetings often took place under the shade of the trees in the Ata orchard next to the Kumbhshyam temple. Each day, a new topic was chosen for discussion.
One day, Meera said, “From my palace, your village homes are clearly visible. Late at night, cries of women can be heard coming from these houses. If it were from a single home, it might have been understandable—but these cries come from nearly every house.”
After saying this, Meera let out a deep sigh and closed her eyes. In the darkness of the night, she could see a full moon rising like a silver plate in the sky. The moon’s yellow glow lit up the entire scene.
Just then, her pet peacock cried out harshly, as if expressing a bitter complaint. Meera rose from her bed and wrapped her arms around the bird. At that moment, the peacock turned its head and stared down toward the villages below.
Since coming to Chittor, Meera had been hearing the cries of women at night. When she once questioned a maidservant—who lived in one of those villages—the girl lifted her veil and revealed red, festering wounds on her shoulder. That silent gesture told Meera everything she needed to know.
When she opened her eyes again, she noticed that the faces around her—sitting under the shade of the Ata trees—had turned pale and dim.
A murmur had begun to rise among the women. Meera was waiting for a particular moment. She didn’t have to wait long. A young married girl stepped forward and stood before Meera. Then, she lifted her veil and revealed a bruise on her cheek.
Meera drew her closer and saw that her cheek bore the deep mark of a bite—mangled as if by the fangs of a wild animal.
Meera said, “The wound hasn’t even healed yet. I’ll speak to the royal physician—he’ll inform your village healer and you’ll get the treatment you need. How did this happen?”
The girl’s face bore a terrifying silence—the kind one sees in a deer just before the fatal arrow strikes. After a few moments of silence, she finally said, “I’m married to a wild beast. Every night, after getting drunk, he inflicts brutal violence on me. At first, I bore it in silence. But when I started protesting, he used his claws and teeth to tear me apart.”
She extended her hands, and Meera saw deep scratch marks all over her arms, as if from vicious nails.
After the girl walked away, another middle-aged woman spoke, “We endure this torture every day—to protect our bellies and our shame. Where can we go? We have no place even in our fathers’ homes.”
After listening quietly for a while, Meera said, “You must carve out your own space. No one will give it to you. In our society, when a daughter is born, she is either killed or abandoned. And if she is allowed to live, from the moment she becomes aware of herself, she’s taught to endure abuse. She is mentally prepared to become a ‘sati.’
The same girl, who will one day carry within her womb this very society and civilization, is left to survive on scraps. A half-fed girl is seen as deserving nothing more. And once she is bound in the so-called sacred bond of marriage, begins the relentless cycle of physical and emotional violation.
From the past to the present, this terrifying pattern of violence against women must be changed. Because if it continues, we are heading toward extinction. Civilization’s chariot runs on two wheels—woman and man.”
If one wheel is removed, the other alone cannot carry the chariot forward. That’s why society’s prevailing mindset must change. I request each and every mother, grandmother, and elder woman present here today—when a daughter is born, let no shadow of sorrow fall upon her. Give her a beautiful environment to grow up in. Provide her with enough food to nourish her body, because this child will one day carry the future generation within her womb.
At the same time, she must be educated—not the kind of education that teaches her to become a sati or to silently endure suffering. Teach her to at least write her own name, and to be able to read the Gita kept at home. The central message of the Bhagavad Gita is to keep performing one’s duty, without expectation of the result. You must each apply that teaching in your daily lives. That’s how you will create your own place in this world.
One girl asked, “Could you tell us what kind of work we should do?”
Meera replied, “Each of you already makes your own clothes, bed sheets, curtains, and clothes for your families. Every region of Rajputana is known for its unique embroidery and handwork. I want you all to take up the local crafts of Chittor. Everything you’ve been making so far for your families—now begin making those things for sale.”
An elderly woman said, “That’s fine, but even if we make them, no one from around here will buy them.”
Meera said, “All of you will bring your handmade items to the priest Gadadhar Pandit at the Kumbhshyam temple. Buyers will come to him at the appropriate time, purchase these items, and each of you will receive your rightful earnings every month.”
The elderly woman responded, “But where’s the time? These women are already busy all day with household work.”
Before Meera could reply, other women interjected in protest, “Even after finishing all our daily chores, we still have time left—we usually spend it chatting among ourselves. From now on, we’ll use that time for work instead.”
Meera, overwhelmed with emotion, exclaimed, “Once you begin earning your own money in this household, you’ll see—anyone who dares to harm you will think ten times before raising a hand.”
Suddenly, one woman began arguing with the elderly lady. Meera intervened, saying, “Don’t raise your voice. Tell me what happened.”
The woman, shouting, said, “Rani Sa, since my marriage I’ve given birth to six daughters—and each one of them was drowned in milk by my mother-in-law.”
The elderly woman shouted back, “And I did the right thing! You’ll keep giving birth to girls every year, and I’m supposed to worship you for it?”
“I will establish women’s circles in every village, led by one woman from that village. Their duty will be to monitor any household where a girl is born—to ensure she is not mistreated or harmed. If any violence or neglect is discovered, action will be taken.
Meera, her voice now firm and unwavering, said, “You, a woman yourself, killed your own granddaughters? What if your grandmother had done the same to you when you were born? Do you think you’d be sitting here today, speaking so loudly? Think about it! Let me tell all of you this—whatever may have happened in Mewar until yesterday, it will not happen again tomorrow. No girl child will ever be killed again, and no woman will be forced to become a sati.”
“I will establish women’s circles in every village, led by one woman from that village. Their duty will be to monitor any household where a girl is born—to ensure she is not mistreated or harmed. If any violence or neglect is discovered, action will be taken.”
If a woman is abused by her husband or her in-laws, measures will be taken to protect her as well. From this day forward, no woman in any village of Chittor will be forced into becoming a sati. If, in some extreme case, a woman willingly chooses to become sati to preserve her dignity and honor, that is her decision—but no one will be coerced into it.
Every official of these women’s circles will be responsible for strictly enforcing my orders.”
Just as Meera finished speaking, a palace guard came running in, breathless. “Rani Sa,” he announced, “Ram Singh’s wife, Shanti, has given birth to a daughter.”
This was the same Shanti whom Meera had once saved from being forced into sati. Everyone in Chittor knew this. And they all knew that such an act could never have been done by Crown Prince Bhojraj alone.
As this news spread, it felt as though something in the Ata Orchard itself…
The joy of Holi spread everywhere. Meera removed a necklace from her neck—one set with a green emerald—and handed it to the guard, saying, “Deliver this necklace to Shanti’s newborn daughter. Tell her that I’ve named her Shaktibai.”
That evening, Meera personally cooked mohanbhog and offered it at the Kumbhshyam Temple, conducting a special puja for the well-being of little Shakti.
Bringing Gadadhar Pandit to Chittor had been one of Meera’s key political decisions. At this point, Meera had become indirectly involved not only in the politics of Merta but also of Chittor.
Late at night, when guards patrolled the outer edges of the fort, and the clash of their spears against the stone floors echoed like thunder, Meera would sit in her chamber and begin to sing:
“Virohini baithi jagu, jagat so rahe ali…”
(While the world sleeps, the longing woman sits awake…)
The meaning of Meera’s song: while the entire world sleeps, a woman in separation sits awake, stringing together pearls. She has no sleep in her eyes.
Rana Sangram, hearing this, would wonder—who is the subject of such longing?
Bhojraj, gently teasing, would ask Meera, “Who is this viroh (longing) for? For whom do you sing these songs?”
Meera, placing her hand on Bhojraj’s chest, would reply, “For the One who dwells within you—this song is for Him.”
Then Meera would softly hum, “Tāra gin gin raini bihanī…”
(Counting the stars, the night slips away…)
Her eyes glowed like evening lamps, and her faint smile radiated a deep serenity. Bhojraj would become lost in that calm. Even the women of the royal quarters would quietly weep while listening to Meera’s songs—for their beloveds, too, were far away from them. Meera’s words seemed to echo the unspoken voices of their hearts. Burning in the fire of separation, they would writhe in silent pain.
Meera sang:
“Khyāro janam maran ko sāthī, khāne nahi bisaru din rāti.”
(You are my companion through life and death—I cannot forget you, not even for a single moment, day or night.) (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, Part-19,
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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.
