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

Meera

By Debasree Chakraborti

Location: Chittorgarh Vrindavan, Bohra Bari

After a long day of exploring the distant past at Rani Padmini Hotel in Chittorgarh, Saanjh awoke from her evening sleep at around ten in the morning. When she opened her eyes, she lay for a while in a trance, caught between reality and the surreal, staring at the ceiling. In her mind, the shadows of dancers from the past were still whirling. On that fog-covered, endless path, amid a play of light and shade, specks of luminous particles still floated on that moving picture screen. Somehow dragging herself back onto the solid ground of reality, Saanjh picked up her phone and saw that it was ten o’clock. Without realizing it, the name “Pratap” slipped from her lips.

After bathing and hurriedly eating breakfast, she took the hotel’s car straight to the Chittorgarh Fort. Saanjh had learned about Pratap from Vikram Sen, a professor of archaeology at the university. Pratap had been researching the life of Meera Bai for a long time. When Professor Vikram learned that Saanjh wanted to research Meera, he gave her Pratap’s phone number. It was at Pratap’s invitation that Saanjh had come to Chittorgarh. Today, she was supposed to meet him at the fort. But having gone to bed late and being utterly exhausted, she simply couldn’t wake up early in the morning. If she had set an alarm on her phone, this wouldn’t have happened. But perhaps her body had simply wanted some rest, which is why she didn’t even remember to set one. Thinking over these various things, she reached Chittorgarh Fort.

Cars can’t go directly inside the fort. The vehicle stopped at one side near the main gate. The driver told Saanjh that from here, she would have to enter the fort on her own. As soon as she got down from the car, an elderly guide came up to her and said, “Memsaab, for just a hundred rupees, I’ll show you the whole fort—come along.”

Saanjh told him, “I can see it myself; there’s no problem.” But the old man seemed determined—he would show Saanjh the fort, no matter what. Saanjh reached into her bag—taking out a hundred-rupee note from her bag, Saanjh handed it to the old man and said, “Now you may go.”

The old man, delighted to receive the money, left happily. Saanjh had read about people like him in many places before—descendants of the ancient inhabitants of Chittor Fort, now forced to work as guides just to survive. Each of their family situations was extremely dire.

The moment Saanjh entered through the main gate of the fort, she felt as though she had stepped into a fairytale kingdom. Outside, there had been no sign of fog, but as soon as she crossed this gate into the fort, she saw a thin mist. The gateway seemed to connect the past and the present at a single point, with completely different atmospheres on either side.

Right at the entrance stood Rana Kumbha’s palace, and there, in front of it, stood a young man. The light mist still lingered all around, and within it, the youth appeared like a figure from history. The closer Saanjh came, the clearer his presence became. In one ear he wore a diamond earring, which glittered from afar; he was dressed in a yellow kurta and white pajama, with a green Rajasthani turban on his head. His physique was tall and powerfully built. Seeing Saanjh approach, he pressed his palms together in greeting and said, “Pratap Singh.”

Saanjh, also folding her hands, replied, “Namaskar, I’m Saanjh.”

Today she was wearing a yellow salwar-kameez with a golden dupatta. The moment she entered the fort, an unusual feeling stirred within her—it was as if she had been connected to this fort for centuries. The presence of the ancient fort in the mist began to draw her in deeply. It seemed as though somewhere nearby a shehnai was playing, accompanied by the faint tinkling of anklets. Within each chime of those anklets lay the story of a profound sacrifice. Far away, through the haze, she thought she could see the flames of a fire, along with the smell of burning leather. This scent seemed to carry with it the dark chronicles of the past. Many subdued chapters appeared to be silently telling their own tales.

After standing silently for a while, enraptured by the atmosphere, Saanjh looked at Pratap.

After watching Saanjh for a long while, Pratap said, “Saanjh, this is exactly why I told you that unless you came to Chittor, you wouldn’t be able to truly feel the history of Chittorgarh and Meera. Come, let’s go further inside.”

Saanjh walked along, running her hand over the walls of the fort, sometimes stopping to press her ear against them, as if trying to listen to something. After they had gone quite a distance inside, Pratap said, “Look, here is Meera’s Giridhar Nagar Temple, and there is her idol too.”

Before entering the temple, Saanjh carefully observed the surroundings. Amid the concrete, it seemed as if a green custard apple tree had sprung up. Beneath the custard apple grove was fresh green grass, like a soft carpet. Upon it sat a queen, surrounded by common women, who gazed at her in rapt attention. Saanjh recognized this queen—it was in search of her that she had come so far. But the vision did not last; in the blink of an eye, it vanished.

She turned to look at Pratap and saw that he, too, was staring at her in astonishment. Saanjh knew she wasn’t acting “normal,” for she could never quite move in step with the flow of ordinary time. She found it difficult to stay in one timeline, and without realizing it, she would suddenly slip into the past and become connected with a beloved figure. Not just Pratap—anyone who spent some time with her would eventually notice this unusual behavior.

Saanjh smiled faintly and said in a natural tone, “It’s just that I’ve been studying this fort and its history for a long time. Today, setting foot here for the first time, it feels as though I can see everything before my eyes. It’ll be like this for a while, and then everything will return to normal. Let’s go inside the temple and see.”

Pratap extended his right hand, gesturing for Saanjh to enter.

Inside the temple, Saanjh saw the queen from the custard apple grove, sitting with an ektara in her hand at Shyam’s feet. One look at that serene, gentle face filled her with a sense of detachment from worldly life. Saanjh bowed deeply to Meera and her Giridharji. After coming here, she felt she could truly sense the presence of Giridhar and Meera.

Pratap said, “Let’s sit in this temple and talk about Meera. That way, you will be able to deeply feel Meera’s presence in Indian history and her philosophy.”

Just a little while ago, the priest had come and performed the puja. From the sanctum sanctorum drifted the fragrance of incense and burning frankincense—an extraordinary spiritual atmosphere.

Pratap said, “Saanjh, now tell me, where should we begin?”

Saanjh replied, “Start wherever you feel like.”

Pratap began, “After the death of her husband, Bhojraj, the first Meera fled in fear of her life from this far-off land of Rajputana to the land of her Giridhar Gopal. She stayed there for a long time. But even there, she could not remain for long. Meera’s method of worship was entirely different; most importantly, her immense popularity angered the prominent scholars of Vrindavan at the time.

“How could a woman become so popular?”—many such questions began to arise. The most vocal among them was the famous Vaishnavite Govindacharya. In answer to his questions, the daughter-in-law of the Rathore clan had declared, ‘In Vrindavan, there is only one man.’ In that web of logic woven by the Rajput princess Meera, the pride of manhood was defeated that day.

“Even today in Vrindavan stands the temple of the first Meera Bai. Meera’s biggest problem was that she was a woman, which is why her temple was built in a narrow alley, some distance away from the Banke Bihari temple and other temples. The reason was her simple, straightforward method of worship—something the obstinate and orthodox Goswamis of the time simply could not accept.

“This great Chittor Fort you see here—within its walls Meera founded a sect known as the ‘Meerapanthis,’ who, even five hundred years later, continue to maintain their identity. Think about it, Saanjh—even today, when ninety percent of women in Rajasthan spend their lives behind the veil, what must society have been like five hundred years ago!”

Saanjh nodded in agreement and said, “Hmm, exactly—Meera was far ahead of her time.”

After a moment of silence, Pratap said, “Five years ago, I went rushing to Vrindavan in search of the Meerapanthis.”

Surprised, Saanjh said, “Meerapanthis?”

Pratap nodded. “Yes. During her stay in this palace—though calling it a palace would be unfair—Meera…”

From her days in Merta itself, she had begun building her community of followers—a community that still exists today. Now listen to what I saw when I went to Vrindavan.

Through lane after lane, I kept walking; the task was not as easy as I had imagined. It was like wandering in an unfamiliar maze. Within this labyrinth, finding the Meerapanthis was extremely difficult because they have no connection with Meera’s main temple. The most curious thing is that even the Meerapanthis themselves do not recognize Meera Bai’s main temple.

I asked everyone I saw at Meera’s temple, but in every face and eye I met with a terrible irritation. Day and night I roamed through Vrindavan’s alleys and lanes searching for them.

And then, during this search, I arrived at a temple. Inside, beneath a huge banyan tree, sat an old man. In the dim light of evening, his face was not clearly visible. I felt as though he was my last hope. As soon as I sat down at his feet, the old man opened his closed eyes.

The moment he looked at me, I said, “Babaji, can you tell me where to find the Meerapanthis?”

A faint smile crossed his lips, and he said, “After so many years, someone has come again seeking them.”

It was that old man who gave me the directions to the Meerapanthis.

“Saanjh, you will be surprised to know that all Meerapanthis are, in a sense, Meera themselves—but they have a special identity: they are known as the Laal Kapdewali Maai—the women in red cloth.

“That day, I went with that old man to where the Meerapanthis lived. In a dark alley stood a centuries-old house. There was no arrangement for tube-light inside—only a few flickering bulbs glowed.

“In the yellow light of those bulbs, amid a sorrowful atmosphere, broken walls stood, and between them banyan trees had sprouted, silently hinting at many hidden stories. Clad in red saris, a few women stood here and there on the high platform, watching us. Their long shadows became symbols of an endless shadowed path, guiding the way into an unknown world. Each of them had a distinct history. None of them wanted to speak; all seemed to have withdrawn into their own snail shells.

“However, when a young boy came forward toward us, I learned from him that this…

The boy told us that the head of the Meerapanthis, Shrimati Lakshmibai, had passed away many years ago. He also said that Lakshmibai’s in-laws’ house was in a village called Lateri in Madhya Pradesh, and after enduring years of abuse there, one day she fled and came to this place. At present, the head of this order is an elderly woman named Chanda Mata, who lives in Vrindavan. With her live two young women—Ramsakhi and Shyamsakhi.

I noticed that they always kept themselves covered from head to toe in red cloth. I was a complete stranger to them. From a corner doorway on the high platform, an elderly woman emerged. I understood at once—this was Chanda Mata. She had white hair, her head covered in red cloth, and the stoop of age in her posture. Seeing her, the young boy brought a chair. She sat on it with an expression of irritation. From the very first glance, I could tell she was quite displeased at my arrival.

Moreover, in the way the others kept their bodies covered, I sensed an unspoken fear. By then, news of our arrival had spread, and a few thuggish-looking men gathered there. Their faces looked like something out of a horror painting. They began threatening me, saying that if I valued my life, I should leave at once.

But I am not the sort to run away. I rushed up onto the platform and sat down, clutching the old woman’s feet. At last, she seemed to take pity on me. At her signal, the men left. After that, I spoke with Chanda Mata for a long time. She had lived there for sixty years and had never married. Many years ago, Lakshmibai had given her shelter in that order.

The old woman had written Shri Radha Krishna Prem Madhuri entirely from the oral recitation of her guru Lakshmibai. It was later published. But Saanjh, do you know something strange?—They do not want to share any accurate information about themselves. By speaking to a few others, I learned that the old woman was the daughter of a schoolteacher in Dariyabad, and that she had come here right after completing her B.A.

There had been many other women in that ashram, but most of the Meerapanthi women were too afraid to come before me. I couldn’t help but wonder—Meera Bai was never afraid of anyone, so why were her followers so timid? Talking and talking, it grew very late that night.

From a crevice in the broken walls of that house came the hooting of an owl, and I didn’t wait any longer—because after crossing so many twisting alleys, reaching the hotel…

I used to have trouble finding the place. The old man who had guided me to the Mirapanthis was the same one who later guided me all the way to the Banke Bihari temple.

Sanjh asked in a tone of surprise, “What are you talking about? Who are these people? Are they running some other kind of business in Meera’s name? Are these women being silenced by threats? Who knows what’s going on there in Meera’s name? I don’t trust them.”

Pratap said, “Better to hear the whole story first, then come to a conclusion.”

After that, I went to Godhulipuram, a village very close to Vrindavan. It was the Vrindavan Mirapanthis who had told me about Bansidhari Meera, and the next day I hurried there in search of her. On the edge of a crop field stood a white ashram, its door bolted from the inside. After I knocked several times, a middle-aged woman opened the door. She seated me on a cot and went to bring tea and bread.

You must have heard of Barsana’s famous Lathmar Holi—the festival where the women of Barsana, Radha’s birthplace, playfully beat the men with sticks. The woman told me that Bansidhari Meera had gone there for the occasion. Without wasting any more time, I set off for Barsana.

The ashram there, surrounded by lush green hills, was stunningly beautiful. When I asked for Meera, she came before me dressed in a saffron dhoti and shirt. After speaking with her, my heart was filled with joy, and Meera, happy as well, played the flute for me. That day, I heard from her own lips a harrowing story of pain—how Vrinda of Sasaram, Bihar, became Bansidhari Meera.

As a child, she was married off to a middle-aged man. But to Vrinda, her in-laws’ house felt like a prison. She had to remain under a deep veil at all times. Coming from a poor family, she was constantly subjected to gossip; if she protested, she was met with physical abuse. One night, she ran away from home and came to Vrindavan. In order to strongly protest against the oppression of women by men, she gave up her sari and began wearing a dhoti and kurta.

Later, she established her own ashram, giving shelter to other abused women like herself. At the same time, she has been fighting for the rights of female ascetics. Before, women… The yogis had no right to hold any special position. At one time, she took up a broom, led a march, and surrounded the district magistrate’s office, building an intense movement for their rights.

In Banshidhar’s ashram lived two other women called Meera. One of them, Krishnadevi Upadhyay, was a simple rural woman. She came to the women’s ashram simply because she wanted to live on her own terms.

At the time of departure, Banshidhar began singing: “Mero Vrindavan shashural, samhal Rana thari nagari” (“My Vrindavan is my in-laws’ home, take care of your city, O Rana”).

Saanjh said, “Truly, had we not come here, we would never have known about the Meeras of the present time. From what I’ve felt listening to you, each one of them has a rebellious nature. They have reached here by registering strong protest against the social system.”

“So imagine—five hundred years ago, within the walls of this fort, she raised her voice of protest. Can you imagine? A royal queen, in the midst of a thousand obstacles, was still able to raise that voice of protest. And now, a group of women in the present time are echoing her voice. This means Meera was an extraordinary figure of resistance.”

All across India, their presence still exists today. Let me tell you a few incidents—then you will understand what kind of movement Mirabai actually initiated and how relevant it is in the present day.

These Meerapanthis have even composed songs against terrorism:

“Hinsa ka tandav chhod do atankwadiyon,

Ahimsa ka marg shreshth hai,

O atankariyon”

(“O terrorists, stop the dance of violence,

The path of nonviolence is the greatest,

O perpetrators of terror”).

After that, I searched for them in different villages of Rajasthan. At that time, in the Muslim-dominated Boharabari area of the small tehsil of Salumbar in Rajasthan, I came across another Meera—her name was Nirmala Singh Bhati. All of their stories are quite similar; these Meeras, unable to endure the unrest and oppression in their in-laws’ homes, took refuge in the Meerapanth. She now lives in the ashram in Salumbar. When she feels like—He writes poems and composes songs. For example, he wrote:

“Khao gyaan ki goli, yeh goli hoti hai badi anmol.”

(“Take the pill of knowledge — this pill is very precious.”)

He had once shown me a notebook filled with numerous poems. He told me that through writing poetry, he was searching for liberation.

Saanjh — like Meerabai — did not believe in caste distinctions. In Meera’s eyes, everyone was equal. That is why, among the Meerapanth followers, women from all social groups, as well as people from the Bhil and Meena communities, receive respect. Even Bohra Muslims have been granted the right to offer oblations to God. The most interesting thing is that many of the visitors to this Bohra household’s ashram are from the Muslim community. They believe in communal harmony, and so their writings often carry such songs:

“Chaand to door, ek taara bhi nahin hota

Din mein sooraj tak ka guzaara nahin hota

Us qaum se yeh ujale koson door rahte

Jis qaum mein ekta aur bhaichara nahin hota.”

(“The moon is far away, and there isn’t even a single star;

In the day, there’s no passage even for the sun.

Such light stays miles away from a community

Where there is no unity and brotherhood.”)

I have also been to the Bhil settlements, where I found their presence. There, I met a Bhil woman — she looked magnificent in her heavy silver and brass jewellery and black dress. We did not understand each other’s language, so we communicated through gestures. She conveyed to me, in gestures, that they hold the Meera of Salumbar in great reverence. They make embroidered garments on sewing machines to earn their living and are not dependent on any male family member.

Saanjh said, “Amazing — this is the very path Meera had shown. When I went to Merta, I heard from the local people that Meera had encouraged women in both Merta and Chittor to adopt cottage industries to become self-reliant. This means they are still walking on the path Meera once showed.”

Pratap remained silent for a while and then said, “All over Rajasthan, such Meeras can be found. There is a village called Gogunda in Rajasthan. There is a Meerapanth ashram there. I visited it two years ago. However, no women live there — only Radhika Sharanjit resides there. Sharanjit is extremely…”

A rational-minded man — his words made me think deeply. He had said, “Do you really think Meerabai was so naïve that, just because of something her parents told her in childhood, she considered the idol of Krishna to be her husband? No, the matter was not that simple. Meera was a highly charismatic woman, and every action of hers had a deeper purpose.”

Sharanjit shared that from childhood, he had felt the presence of a woman within his male body. Because of this, society saw him as a figure of mockery. For this reason, one day he renounced his home and took shelter here. He now lives here as a woman. Many people like Sharanjit find a place in this ashram.

Saanjh said, “I came here in search of the Meerabai of the past, but I found more than one Meera. Pratap, a woman protesting against patriarchy by taking on a man’s appearance, and another man adopting a woman’s appearance — this is, in one word, a strong protest against the entire social system. And the most remarkable thing is that the Meerapanthis have given all of them a place.”

Pratap replied, “The people I told you about — if I hadn’t found them, I could not have truly understood the original Meera’s philosophy. And now you see, this can’t be done over the phone without coming to Chittor. It takes effort. Now, come on — let’s go to the house of the Bhavanamasi of this fort. Once you drink her tea, you’ll forget about nectar itself.”

The two of them walked side by side toward Bhavanamasi’s house. As they went, Pratap said, “Do you know, these Bhavanamasis have been living in this fort for more than 800 years?”

Saanjh asked, “Have you ever been here at night?”

“At night I feel a bit afraid to come here, because after evening, even the Hanuman monkeys of this fort come down. I feel that at such a time, this fort is safe only for its resident Bhavanamasis, and not for anyone else.”

Pratap burst into hearty laughter. (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, Part-20, Part-21, 

_________________

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.