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, Khatoli, Bankarol, Chittor Fort

It must be midnight now. There is no clock in this room, so no one is keeping track of time—nor does anyone wish to. Since coming to Chittor, Saanjh has severed all connection with her mobile phone. The three of them are sitting in a ground-floor room that opens to the outside. A cold wind is blowing, rustling the banyan leaves. This region has many banyan trees. From the other end of the fort, a plaintive tune drifts in. It fills the heart with melancholy.

Bhavna Masi said, “Every night, Rukminibai’s singing makes us feel so lonely—especially me. Since your Mausa-ji’s death, I’ve been very lonely. Sometimes, when people like you come, the time passes more easily. But enough about me, let me tell you stories of your Rana-jis’ wars.”

All around, nature lay still; only the scraping sound of dry leaves driven by the storm could be heard. Saanjh gazed out through the window at the fort beyond. In the morning, Pratap had told her that in the direction she was looking, Queen Padmini had performed the jauhar ritual along with her attendants. In the darkness of night, such a place made Saanjh’s heart feel strangely heavy. On every stone of this fort is inscribed an invisible, tragic history—one that comes alive in the shadows of the night.

Bhavna Masi leaned her head against the wall and began to speak. In the half-light of the dim room, her shadow stretched longer and longer across the floor as her story unfolded.

“From the time Rana Sanga set out on his war campaign, a dark cloud of despair gathered over Mewar; no one’s heart was at ease. Every single person lived each moment in anxious anticipation. Just then, news came via a messenger that Ibrahim Lodi was advancing from the north. I am speaking of the winter of 1518—on a night just like this—when the horses…”

A messenger came galloping into Chittor Fort with news. That very night, Meera was still singing her plaintive songs.

Near Bukarol, a fierce battle broke out between Sultan Ibrahim Lodi and the Rana—a true fight to the death. Both knew that this war would decide who would rule Aryavarta. Forgetting their own lives, the Rana and the Sultan fought on relentlessly. In the end, the Rana emerged victorious. When the Sultan’s army fled the battlefield, celebrations broke out in our camp. Couriers would bring news daily in those times, and when the news of the Rana’s victory reached the fort through them, joy erupted there as well.

What happened a few days later—at that time Rana-ji had set up camp in Khatoli. Night had just fallen on the Khatoli encampment, and as the chill of night wrapped itself around the camp, everyone was resting after their victory celebrations. It was then that Ibrahim Lodi attacked the Rajput camp under the cover of darkness. Fighting at night was forbidden, but no one had imagined they would abandon the rules of war and strike in such a cowardly way.

All around were barren hills, and beyond the light of the camp torches, nothing could be seen in the distance. From the trees nearby, the calls of owls echoed through the darkness. Exhausted soldiers, after the day’s exertions, had just finished eating and gone to sleep. That night’s food had tasted a little different than usual, and soon after eating, a strange drowsiness set in. The old cook had gone missing three days earlier, and it was then that a new cook appeared. No one knew where he had come from. But the camp desperately needed someone for the kitchen, and in the midst of that dark, uncertain time, no one questioned much before keeping him on.

That night, everyone slept far more deeply than on other nights. It was a kind of peaceful sleep they had never experienced before. Even the sentries, while on watch, had dozed off in a corner. It was then that the attack began. In truth, the Sultan’s soldiers had been hiding nearby in disguise. His spies, too, had infiltrated the Rana’s camp in various guises. Later, it was discovered that—from cook to sentry—they had taken every form to blend into the camp. Seizing their moment…It turned out that the cook had mixed a drug into the food that rendered everyone unconscious, which was why they had all fallen asleep.

In the darkness of the night, no one realized what was happening. Once everyone had drifted off, the cook stepped outside the Rana’s camp and made a strange sound with his mouth—calling out to the Sultan’s soldiers who were hiding nearby in disguise. Instantly, it was as if a fierce dust storm rose in the dark surroundings. From all sides, the Sultan’s troops attacked Rana Sanga’s camp.

Even though everyone felt the attack in their half-sleep, no one had the strength to get up immediately. Moreover, the attackers had extinguished all the camp’s torches, plunging everything into darkness. Without light, no one could find their weapons. Those who survived later recounted that, rubbing their eyes in groggy confusion, they had somehow managed to grab their swords and start fighting. But many were struck down by the cowardly Sultan’s soldiers before they could make sense of what was happening. The air was filled with nothing but cries of agony and the clash of weapons. Somehow, in these dire circumstances, the Rajputs stood their ground. A terrible battle raged in the darkness between the two sides. But before dawn broke, the Sultan’s forces fled like cowards.

When the Sultan’s army retreated, the search began for the soldiers. It was found that the Rana had escaped with his life by a narrow margin, but he had lost an arm. Many of his closest men had been killed in that night’s battle. Writhing in unbearable pain, he said, “Find the young prince, Kunwar Bhojraj—he is nowhere to be seen.”

Indeed, Bhojraj could not be found that day. That night, Bhojraj had gone to sleep without eating, as his stomach had been unwell. Around midnight, he noticed that all the lights in the camp were slowly going out. Soon after, a sound like a bird’s call grew louder and louder. As a Rajput warrior, he knew such sounds carried special signals. He always slept with his sword beside him, so he pulled it from under the blanket and stood ready. Bhojraj’s instincts had been right—within moments, enemy soldiers stormed the camp. Before he could fully grasp what was happening, the attack began, and Bhojraj fought back single-handedly went on fighting. At that moment, the sleeping Rana Sanga came under attack. Before he could even grasp his sword, a sudden blow in the darkness struck his arm, severing it. Enduring excruciating pain, the Rana continued to fight with one hand.

Meera’s father, Ratan Singh, and her uncle, Biramdevji, were in the tent next to Rana Sanga’s. They too were drowsy from sleep, but upon catching the signal of the enemy’s assault, they somehow seized their weapons and rushed to the Rana’s side—because in any battle, if the king is killed or captured, the kingdom is lost. In such a moment, protecting the king was their foremost duty. So, with a few soldiers, they ran to Rana Sanga. If they had not been there that night, it might not have been possible to save him at all. Somehow, in the darkness, they fought and protected the Rana.

Afterwards, Rana Sanga told them, “Protect my son—you must save him before you save me.” Ratan Singh and his elder brother ran in search of their son-in-law, Bhojraj. By that time, the camp’s soldiers had woken up; very few of them were able to fight that night, but those who did fought like true warriors.

Prince Bhoj had chased the Sultan’s soldiers far from the camp. Near a stream, beside a thicket of thorn bushes, he engaged in fierce combat with them. But fighting alone, he could not hold out for long—soon he was surrounded on all sides, and then the attack began in earnest. The enemy’s assault left Bhoj gravely wounded.

Just then, the forces of Ratan Singh and Biramdev arrived at the scene. Seeing them approach, the Sultan’s troops abandoned the wounded Bhojraj and fled. Had the forces from Merta been delayed even a little longer, the Sultan’s men would have killed him. When he was rescued, life clung to his body by the barest thread.

Ratan Singh told Rana Sanga that he and the prince should return to Chittor to rest, for both urgently needed proper medical care, and that he would take charge of the battlefield. Rana Sanga himself felt that rest was absolutely necessary for him and his son at this time. He trusted Ratan Singh.

When the two of them—Rana Sanga and Bhojraj—were brought back from the battlefield to Chittor Fort, that day the entire fort…

A shadow of grief had descended. In temples across the fort, prayers were being offered for the well-being of the Rana and the prince. In the courtyard of the Kumbh Shyam Temple, Pandit Gadadhar had organized a Mahamrityunjaya yajna. When the two palanquins carrying the Rana and the prince were brought through the main gate of the fort, the common people stood lined along both sides of the road. On every face was the mark of deep sorrow.

Both the Rana and the prince were wounded; their deaths would mean the defeat of all Chittor and the looming threat of being bound under a Muslim ruler’s chains. Tears streamed from the people’s eyes, for the remaining heirs were incapable—none could protect Mewar. Moreover, they were not unaware of the foul palace politics within the royal household. Under the ill fate cast by a dark planet, they had been forced to endure such misfortune.

While the people of Chittor were drowning in grief, Meera stood by the window of her bedchamber, watching intently the Mahamrityunjaya yajna being performed on the terrace of the Kumbh Shyam Temple. She thought to herself that her grandfather had prepared her for a day such as this—today, Merta and Mewar were united in the fight for freedom. Without concern for their own lives, all the small and large kingdoms of Rajasthan were standing together to defend their honor. But at what cost—how many loved ones had already been lost, and how many more would they have to lose? She must be ready in her heart for everything.

As she thought these things, a maid came to give her the news of the prince’s arrival. Meera quickly glanced around the bed, making sure everything was in order. All the necessary things had been placed at the bedside. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Then, as she turned, she saw several men carrying Bhojraj into her chamber, holding him in their arms.

Saanjh could almost see it unfolding before her eyes. Listening to Bhavna Masi’s story, her mind had been racing back to the Chittor Fort of 1518. The wounded Bhojraj had been brought back to Chittor and was now in Meera’s palace. Day and night, Meera tended to him with tireless devotion. Bhojraj seemed to understand that his time was drawing to a close, for every time he looked at Meera, tears welled in his eyes. But Meera steeled her heart like stone and served him with a smiling face…

Bhojraj said, “Meera, the time for our parting has come; there are not many days left.”

Smiling, Meera replied, “It’s not that easy—now we still have a long road to walk together.”

At that time, everyone in the palace was shedding tears for the young prince. In every home within the fort, the kitchen fires had gone out. But Queen Dhanbai and her brother Maldav were overjoyed, for after Bhojraj’s death, the next crown prince would be Ratan Singh—what could bring them greater happiness?

One day, Queen Kuwarbai came to Meera’s palace with her maids to see her son. Meera was sitting in one corner of her palace, worshipping Giridharji. Bathed in the rays of the rising sun streaming from all sides, and mingled with the fragrance of incense and flowers, Meera’s palace had transformed into a temple. Here, all the mind’s sorrows, pains, and afflictions seemed to melt away. Even Meera’s maids watched her worship with complete devotion.

It was then that Kuwarbai and her maids entered Meera’s palace like a sudden dark storm. When Meera prayed, she withdrew entirely from her surroundings—whether worshipping or doing any other task, she preferred to focus wholly on it. From childhood, Rao Dudaji had instilled this habit in her. He had taught his granddaughter that whatever task she undertakes, she should pour her whole heart and soul into it, without paying heed to whatever else is happening around her.

As soon as Kuwarbai stepped into Meera’s palace, she cast a sidelong glance at her, twisted her lips in scorn, and then walked toward the bedchamber. The queen and her maids surrounded Kunwar Bhojraj and began wailing. But Meera continued her worship of Giridharji, seemingly unmoved by the fact that her husband was gravely ill. From the gap in the bedchamber door, she could be seen praying.

Kuwarbai’s maids looked in that direction, twisted their lips, and cried even louder. It was as if a competition had begun to display their grief for the young prince. But the very person for whom this show of sympathy was staged seemed somewhat displeased. Even in this beautiful, open atmosphere, he felt a heavy pressure on his chest.

Kuwar Bai, crying, said to her son, “I can see that no one here takes care of you. I can no longer bear your suffering. That’s why I’ve come to take you away. From now on, you will stay in my palace.”

Mira’s palace was glistening in the morning light. A cool breeze from outside swayed the red, bell-adorned scarves, producing a soft tinkling sound. Mira was offering incense and fragrant smoke in worship of Giridharji.

At that moment, it felt as if Shri Krishna Himself was reveling in the Rasa Lila with the gopis. Such an atmosphere was exactly what Bhojraj loved. After marrying Mira, he had discovered the true meaning of life amid such spiritual surroundings. Having spent most of his years in the dirty world of palace politics, this felt like a new understanding of existence. Now that he lay on his deathbed, he wished to set out from here on his journey to the immortal realm. Mira, paying no attention to her mother-in-law or husband’s words, continued her worship with detachment.

But Bhojraj looked at Mira for a moment and seemed to reach some decision. As soon as the thought came, a glimmer of tears shone in the corners of his eyes. Then, turning to his mother, he said, “Mother, my time has run out. I want to spend my final days here in this palace. If seeing me causes you pain, then do not come here again—because I cannot bear your suffering either. At the end of life, I no longer care for the empty formalities and hollow exchanges; whatever remains now should be pure. It is time to let go of all attachments, illusions, and attractions. I will now free myself from every bond, one by one.”

Queen Kuwar Bai could not bear such great humiliation. For so many years, she had lived holding on to the hope in her son’s face—the son who, when he became king, would give everyone a fitting reply. But now, her son would not be king at all, and even at such a moment he had turned her away. What greater insult could there be? Queen Kuwar Bai felt that she no longer had the right to live in this world, because here, everyone had turned into her enemy; even the child of her own womb was no longer her own. Thinking of all this, she left Meera’s palace in tears. Seeing this scene, the women of the palace began making up stories of their own, which spread like wildfire throughout the entire fort.

The women of the fort said, “If a strong woman like Queen Kuwarbai had tears brought to her eyes by Meera, then just imagine how badly she must have behaved. Such arrogance does not suit a woman.” Some added, “Even if she were a daughter of a high royal family, it would still not be acceptable. But for a girl from a kingdom like Merta—whose father and uncles are sardars of Mewar—to have such pride, is unthinkable.”

Others that day said, “For Bhojraj’s fate to turn out this way, Meera is to blame. Her husband is suffering the consequences of her actions. A shameless girl, going to other men under the pretext of serving saints, inciting women against the Sati system—shame, shame, shame! For us Rajput women, chastity and the Sati ritual are a matter of pride; becoming a sati is our honour. A woman who opposes the Sati practice—well, we already know what kind of character she has.”

The talk about Meera did not stop there. A few others said, “Why, I’ve even heard this unchaste woman is trying to promote the custom of polygamy for women. By giving false interpretations of Hindu scriptures, she is belittling our own religion. All day long she chants Krishna’s name and preaches, but just like her Lord Krishna, her own character is bad too—that’s why she keeps saying ‘Krishna, Krishna.’ It’s all just depravity.”

In short, a Meera-opposing faction formed all around the fort of Chittor, and every member began opposing her. Meera’s situation became much like that of Abhimanyu in the Mahabharata—just as Abhimanyu entered the Chakravyuha, Meera too, for the sake of the nation’s political interests, had entered the political Chakravyuha of Chittor, but she did not know the way out. The royal politics of Chittor also took pleasure in playing a tiger-and-prey game with her.

These words reached Meera’s ears, but without giving them any importance, she brushed them aside with a smile. She spent the whole day sitting beside Bhojraj. One day Bhojraj said to her, “Meera, in just a few days your Babusa will return from the war, and then you will go back to Merta with your Babusa and Tauji…”

Go. I do not have many days left, and after that it will no longer be safe for you to stay in Mewar. Seeing the situation as it is now, I can already understand what your condition will be after my death. Don’t worry so much about me — I want you to be well. Even after you leave, I will live on in this palace, guarding your memory.

Hearing this, a stream of tears flowed from Meera’s eyes onto Bhojraj’s forehead. She held Bhojraj close to her chest and began to sing:

“Ksharo janam maran ko saathi, thāne nāhī bisaru din rātī.”

(“Through births and deaths you are my companion; I will not forget you day or night.”)

On hearing this song, a storm of mockery rose from all sides of the fort. People began whispering among themselves — now is the time to sing? The husband lies on his deathbed, writhing in pain, and she is putting on an act by singing? Shame, shame! Did Ranaji bring a wife for the crown prince, or a serpent?”

The maidservants came and informed Meera that these words had reached Bhojraj’s ears. He told Meera, “Meera, never stop singing. Through your songs, people will remember you for ages. Those who mock you are insignificant; do not listen to them. Through your music, I will live on. For centuries, these songs will remain as the memory of our love.”

Crying, Meera said, “But you will no longer be here — for whom will I sing?”

Kunwar Bhoj placed his hand on Meera’s head and said, “Meera, who says I will not be here? I am within you — merged into your soul. You yourself have said that we are all devotees of your Kanha. We have no birth, no death. You and I are one. My heartbeat will forever be around you.

And Meera, one more thing — do you know why I am telling you to go to Merta? Because after my death, they will force you to become sati. But you must not become sati — under any circumstances. For the sake of this country, for the sake of human civilization, Mirabai must live. Mirabai’s song must live.”

That day the Prime Minister…

Didn’t he come? I have also told him that after my death, you must not become sati. So if anyone tries to force you, tell them the Prime Minister is witness — I have told him so before my death.

Meera broke into tears. “I myself am against this custom, but after your death no one will value my words. I will be forced to become sati against my own ideals.”

Panting, Bhojraj said, “Send word to your grandfather, Rao Dudaji, in Merta. He will surely protect you from this danger.”

Meera realized that at this time, it was not right to let Bhojraj speak much, so she composed herself and said, “Don’t worry, I have already sent the message to Merta through a messenger.”

After saying this, Meera thought of her grandfather. Through the messenger, she had received the news that her grandfather, Rao Dudaji, was in very poor health and that anything could happen at any time. Her brother Jaimal and the royal physician were managing the situation together. If she sent any news to Jaimal at this moment, he would leave her grandfather and come to rescue Meera — but Jaimal’s presence by their grandfather’s side was extremely necessary now. If something happened to her grandfather because of this, Meera would never forgive herself. She would have to find a way out of this web on her own.

Bhojraj said, “If the message has reached Merta, then I am at peace. Grandfather-sa will surely find a way.”

His words were beginning to falter. Meera lifted Bhojraj’s head onto her lap and began to sing:

“Suni main Hari aawan ke aawaz”

(“I have heard the sound of my Lord’s coming.”)

Bhojraj could see — in a bower of flowers, he and Meera stood facing each other, garlands in hand, as the priest recited the mantras. Through the vision of his mind, he could see those deep eyes beneath the veil. Those were not merely eyes — they were two oceans, whose depth could not be measured by anything. Meera placed the garland around his neck; the sound of sacred chants floated from all around. And now, darkness surrounded everything. He felt himself sinking into a deep, divine maze.

After a low, rumbling sound — silence all around.

Before the song ended, Meera saw that Bhojraj’s eyes had become still. His mouth was slightly open, and he was no longer moving.

The news of Bhojraj’s death spread through the Chittor fort like wildfire. Meera sat in his bedchamber beside his body, guarding it, as if she had turned to stone — no sign of emotion or feeling could be seen in her. Meanwhile, ever since hearing of Bhojraj’s death, Queen Kuwarbai had been fainting repeatedly; even when she regained consciousness for a brief moment, she could not bear to remain in this situation, and would faint again. From the royal servants to the common people, everyone began to weep upon hearing of the crown prince’s death. In the royal kitchen, on the temple steps — everywhere — time itself seemed to stand still.

Having lost such an extraordinary future heir, the royal fortune of Chittor seemed utterly shaken. Queen Mother Ratan Kuwar Jhali entered Meera’s palace with her son, the ailing Rana Sangha. The injury to the Rana’s hand had still not healed, and he was enduring severe pain daily; yet in that state, he somehow came with his elderly mother to see his son for the last time. Sitting beside Meera was Karmetbai. Tears streamed from Karmetbai’s eyes. Thinking of Meera’s impending fate, she felt utterly helpless. For if Meera were to become sati, Karmetbai’s last support in this fort would vanish, and she would lose Merta’s backing as well. Then, where would she go with her three children? Rana Sangha’s health was also poor; anything could happen to him any day. If that happened, they would surely reduce her to a mere servant. Thinking of all this, she began to sob.

Queen Mother Ratan Jhali held her grandson’s face in both hands and kissed his forehead; two drops of her tears fell onto Bhojraj’s brow. Rana Sangha was a royal man — tears did not come easily to him — but losing his eldest son brought tears to his own eyes as well. Queen Mother Ratan Jhali looked at Meera in astonishment — she seemed like a statue of stone. She told her maid to bring a pot of water, for when she placed her hand on the middle of Meera’s head, she felt as if fire was burning there. Such a terrible day had never come in her life before…

Yes, and even now, the thought of how she had saved both her son and her own life that day sends chills down the spine.

When the maid brought the pot of water, the Queen Mother cupped some in her palm and began to pour it onto the middle of Meera’s head, saying, “Think carefully before you take any step. Do not make any wrong decision that would harm not only you but also the people of Mewar.”

In the midst of such a grief-stricken atmosphere came the sudden, resounding entrance of Dhanbai and her companion — women of the Rathore clan from Jodhpur. Dhanbai had never spoken to Meera; by relation she was both Meera’s aunt and mother-in-law, yet she harbored a deep jealousy and resentment toward her.

As soon as she entered Meera’s palace, Dhanbai said to Rana Sanga, “This is not the time to sit idly. After many years, someone from the royal family of Chittor is going to become sati. Today is a day of great pride for the people of Chittor. Begin preparations for the crown prince’s funeral along with his wife’s sati rites.”

Hearing Dhanbai’s words, Queen Mother Ratan Jhali felt her hands and feet turn cold — after so many years, she was once again facing that same dreadful day. Looking at Rana Sanga, she said, “Meera will not become sati. For before she is the wife of Bhojraj, she is a spiritual devotee, consecrated to Krishna. What has been offered to Krishna, we have no right to destroy.”

Dhanbai snapped back sharply, “You yourself did not become sati, which is why your arguments hold no weight now. Bhojraj had no other wife, so according to custom, Meera must become sati. The traditions of our Rajput royal lineage cannot be defied under any circumstances.”

The Prime Minister was standing beside Rana Sanga. Turning to him, the Rana said, “Tell the maids to prepare Meera for sati.”

Until then, Meera had been sitting like a statue. But hearing Rana Sanga’s words, it was as though life returned to her body. She looked at her father-in-law and said, “Bapu-sa, I cannot become sati, because Bhojraj himself did not want that. His last wish was that I should not commit sati after his death.”

Dhanbai now stepped toward Meera and said, “Your deceit and cunning tricks will not work here, do you understand? Don’t you feel ashamed to put your false wishes into the mouth of your dead husband?”

Supporting Dhanbai, the Rathore women from Jodhpur said, “Girls from Merta are extremely deceitful. They tell so many lies that they have no proof to support their own words.”

Meera then stood up and looked at the Prime Minister. “When you came to see Bhojraj, did he not tell you that under no circumstances should I be made to commit sati? Do not remain silent at this moment — my husband’s body is still here. I give you his name as an oath — speak the truth, or else even religion will not forgive you.”

From the Prime Minister’s face, it was clear that he was suffering from guilt. After a brief silence, he looked at Rana Sanga and said, “Ranaji, she is telling the truth. Before his death, the crown prince summoned me and expressed his last wish — that his wife should not have to commit sati. Forgive me, I was hiding the truth under pressure, but had I lied, under the curse of this goddess, Chittor would have been reduced to ashes.”

Folding his hands in apology, the Prime Minister glanced once at Dhanbai, then left.

Queen Mother Ratan Jhali embraced her granddaughter-in-law and began to sob. This victory was not Meera’s alone — it was hers as well.

The fear of Meera having to commit sati had cast a deeper pall of sorrow over Chittor than even the death of Bhojraj. How could the people watch a living goddess be destroyed before their eyes? While they were living under this dreadful fear, news reached them that Meera would not be made sati — she had been freed, in accordance with Bhojraj’s last wish.

That evening, at the royal cremation ground of Chittor, under the witness of the setting sun, Bhojraj’s funeral rites were performed. Meera, meanwhile, rested her head on Queen Mother Ratan Jhali’s lap in her palace, preparing for the lonely battle of a new chapter in her life. The crimson glow of the sinking sun spread across her chamber, while her pet peacock sat by the window, a silent witness to the death of an era. (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, Part-22, Part-23, 

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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.