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

Meera

By Debasree Chakraborti

Place: Chittorgarh Fort – Time: 2019

Saanj has left the hotel and has been staying at Bhavna Masi’s house for the past few days. Along with Pratap, she has picked up several traditional outfits from the local market.

Her days are spent exploring different parts of Chittorgarh, and in the evenings, she returns to Bhavna Masi’s home, where she sits beside the stove in the dimly lit room, resting and chatting. This way, her time is passing beautifully. Besides, the expenses she had at the hotel for just one day are now enough to cover her lodging and meals at Masi’s place for an entire month—at only a third of the price.

At the same time, she is learning about the ancient history of Chittor.

One evening, while Masi was making bajra rotis on the stove in a dark corner of the room, Saanj sat leaning against the adjacent wall, sipping camel milk tea and eating gobi parathas with chilli pickle, listening to her stories. Masi was telling her about the Rajput wars.

“Saanj, the stories I’m telling you are known to every person in this fort, because they’re not just stories—they are living history. And our ancestors are entwined with this history.

In 1522, Rana Sanga declared war against the Sultan of Malwa and Gujarat. It was a terrible war. The fort was left almost devoid of men. From time to time, a few would return on leave, stay for a few days, and then go back again. Once they left, their families lived in constant anxiety—was this departure their last? Such questions would haunt the minds of their loved ones. The women of the fort would be tormented by the pain of separation from their beloveds. On one hand, there was the fear of death; on the other, they feared that in some faraway land, their husbands might marry another woman… They eventually did. Living with such fears day after day, it became a habit. All those anxieties would gradually fade from their minds. Every morning, they would bathe in the Suraj Kund, offer prayers at the temple, and then devote themselves to household work. Every day, someone from Rana Ji’s camp would bring news. When news arrived, everyone would gather around, listening intently to the messenger. Then, after lunch, they would rest, wake up, bathe again in the Suraj Kund, and dress up. In the evenings, the misranis would come together and sing in a sorrowful tone.

“Saanj, even today, if you place your ear against the broken walls of this fort, you can hear the misranis’ mournful songs. All these songs were about the kurja bird. For example, imagine a woman in separation, sitting by the palace window, gazing at the sky. Tormented by the pain of longing, she cries and says to the kurja bird: ‘O kurja bird, go to my beloved and tell him of my suffering. Tell him that my mother-in-law and sister-in-law torment me terribly, and I cannot live like this anymore—he must return quickly. O kurja bird, my beloved hasn’t gone and married another woman, has he? Please come back and tell me the news.’”

As Meera had advised, they became self-reliant. After finishing their household work, they would make various clothes and home decorations, then deliver them to Gadadhar Pandit. This Gadadhar Pandit was a very mysterious man. It is said that people from all over India—and even from faraway lands—came to him. Foreign traders would also buy the goods made by the women of Chittor from him and sell them in markets abroad.

Saanj said, “Just imagine—because of Meerabai, the products made by Chittor’s women gained international recognition! Five hundred years ago, sitting in this stone fort, Meerabai in a way brought global recognition to Chittor’s women—something we still can’t even imagine today.”

Bhavna Masi replied, “It would be wrong to say only Mewar—any corner of Rajasthan where Meera’s footsteps fell, the women there received this recognition. I was speaking of Gadadhar Pandit—if you think of him as an ordinary pandit It would be wrong to think so. In the darkness of night, people of all kinds would come to him. He was said to have very good connections with ascetics from all over India. Sometimes he would go outside the fort and spend a few days away, during which someone appointed by him would perform the worship in his place. He was reportedly seen many times in the tribal regions of Kumbhalgarh. In such places, he would hold meetings under the cover of night. No one knew why he did this, because Rana Sanga had ordered that under no circumstances was Panditji to be put under surveillance.

Saanj asked, “And Meerabai—what was she doing during this time?”

Bhavna Masi replied, “Hmm… During this period, Meerabai held her discussion circles twice a day, and her connection with the common people of Chittor became even stronger. During this time, the women of Chittor would come to hear her speak on the Gita and other sacred scriptures. One day, Meera told them: every person is a seeker, and although each seeker’s path and method may differ, their goal is the same. The Gita warns human seekers that one should commit no injustice or unrighteous act through body, speech, or mind. Injustice and unrighteousness weaken and enfeeble the human heart, giving rise to fear in the heart. I will give you the example of Ravana: the lord of Lanka, whom all three worlds feared. Yet, when Ravana was on his way to abduct Sita, he looked around in fear, because he himself knew that he was committing a sin.

That is why Tulsidas wrote in the Shri Ramcharitmanas:

‘When Ravana saw the hermit’s garb nearby,

The one whom gods and demons alike feared,

He could neither sleep at night nor eat by day.

Like a dog, he glanced nervously this way and that,

His path was wrong, his glory, intellect, and strength all gone.’

The women of Chittor once asked Meera, ‘Queen, is it all our fault? What sin have we committed by being born women? Must we endure day after day of oppression from a man’s mother, sister, and entire family just because we live in his household and eat there? What kind of rule is this?

That day, Meerabai said, “Today I will tell you the story of Akka Mahadevi. About four hundred years ago, the Lingayat movement began in South India. Women and people from lower castes joined this movement. Women raised their voices against the oppression of patriarchy, while people from the lower castes spoke out against the oppression of the upper castes. The women declared that they would no longer hide behind the veil—they would defy all kinds of barriers imposed by male society. Look at me: on one hand, I am a princess, and on the other, the bride of a royal family. Yet I dance and sing in temples. These are also forms of protest. But think about it—four hundred years ago, women expressed their defiance in such ways.

I was speaking to you about Akka Mahadevi. She was born in a village in South India and from childhood worshipped Shiva, considering Him her husband with all her heart and soul. One day, she was married to a king. But the rules and discipline of royal life could not bind her. One day, Akka Mahadevi decided to renounce worldly life. When she appeared in her husband’s court to announce her decision, her husband told her that all her clothes and ornaments had been given to her by him, and she must return everything before leaving. Then, standing in that royal court, Akka Mahadevi removed all her ornaments and garments, covering herself only with her hair, and left her home.

At the time of her departure, her mother pleaded with her to return, but she did not. Here, you can see how patriarchy tried to bind a woman with the chains of food and clothing, but the woman was able to break free from those chains. This is exactly why I have shown you the path to economic independence. Without economic independence, a woman can never truly be free. My grandfather understood this very well, which is why, after I was born, he allocated several jagirs in my name, so that I would never have to depend financially on anyone.

In this way, daily discussions on various topics would take place between Meerabai and the women of Chittor.

After a whole day of discussions, in the evening Meera would sit in her palace before Giridharji, her body weary. Before Bhai Dooj, Meera would always feel sad. So many years had passed since her marriage, yet she had not applied the tilak to Jaymal. Since Mewar had established ties with Merta, Merta had been directly involved in wars. Moreover, after the death of Ratan Singh, even greater responsibilities had fallen upon Jaymal, so he could no longer come to Mewar.

But this same Jaymal had once told Meera that even after her marriage, she should welcome him with the Bhai Dooj tilak. Now, however, Jaymal no longer had time for Meera. It pained her deeply, for Jaymal was not only her brother but also her childhood companion. She could never forget him. Sometimes she felt that after her grandfather (Dadu Sa), if she loved anyone the most, it was Jaymal.

Meera was leaning against the stone wall, gazing at Giridharji, lost in these thoughts, when a maid entered with someone. Who could it be at such an hour? In the faint light of the palace, Meera saw the man’s clothing and realized he had come from Merta. That meant a messenger had arrived from Merta. But the messenger’s face looked strangely grim. Meera’s heart trembled again. She was familiar with such situations—many times in her life, she had faced moments like this. But today… had this messenger brought some new misfortune?

The messenger stepped forward, placed a letter in Meera’s hands, and stepped back.

In a tired voice, Meera told her maid, “Kalpana, he is weary. Arrange food and rest for him. Let him stay the night and leave at dawn.”

The messenger bowed to Meera and left with the maid. Meera looked at the letter, written on plain white cloth. Then, by the light of the oil lamp, she began to read it.

It was from Jaymal.

Meera,

It is with the deepest sorrow that I inform you that Dadu Sa has just departed for the eternal abode. By the time this letter reaches you, his funeral rites will have been completed. Meera, at this moment I am thinking of you very much. Bapu Sa has gone to war, and after the death of Kaka Sa, we all…

…as if I have become. Today, there is no one beside me. I am thinking of you so much, Meera. I do not have the strength to write more. I will only say this—from today, we have become orphans.

Yours,

Jaymal.

After reading this letter, Meera cried out in grief. She had witnessed many deaths in her life, endured much suffering, yet never had a cry of pain escaped her lips. But today, she felt as if a great banyan tree had been removed from above her head. The one who had given her life its meaning, the one whose ideals had slowly, step by step, transformed Meera into Meerabai—that banyan tree was no longer there to shelter her. The thought itself was unbearable. Meera collapsed in her palace, almost unconscious.

After receiving the news of Rao Dudaji’s death, Meera shut herself away in her palace. Meeting anyone was out of the question; she all but gave up food and drink. The women of Chittor, too, became deeply lonely, for Meerabai’s discussion circles had also come to a halt. But human feelings cannot be held captive by grief and sorrow for long—they continue to flow. Life for the women of Chittor went on in this way.

All the women awaited the night of the full moon. Saanj sat staring into the fire in the stove. In the dark room, the stove’s flames looked like the full moon. On the rooftop of the fort, women in separation gathered to perform the ghoomar dance. Their ghagras spun in wide circles, pouring all their exhaustion, sorrow, and pain into the dance. From above, they looked like spinning wheels.

“O… my ghoomar is so graceful, mother,

O… my ghoomar is so graceful, mother, O… my ghoomar is so graceful, mother,

My ghoomar sways like the branches of a jasmine tree,

Oh royal one, my ghoomar sways like the branches of a jasmine tree,

O… my ghoomar is so graceful, mother,

O… my beloved has brought me a kajal tika, mother…”

 O… my beloved has brought me a kajal tika, mother,

My ghoomar sways like the branches of a jasmine tree,

Oh royal one, my ghoomar sways like the branches of a jasmine tree,

O… my beloved has brought me sweets, mother,

O… my beloved has brought me sweets, mother.

“During the war, a charani would come from some faraway village and sing various historical ballads.” Most of the time, she would arrive in the afternoon. Sitting on one of the terraces of the fort, she would narrate the chronicles of Chittor. The women would gather around her, listening to those tales. Their favorite story was of how Rana Kumbha defeated Sultan Bahadur Shah of Gujarat and built the great Vijay Stambh. Looking at that Victory Tower, they would listen to the saga of valor.

Slowly, the darkness of night descended upon the fort. Lying in her bed at night, Meera would gaze out of the jharokha before her, watching the lamps in different homes go out one by one. From a distant village, a plaintive melody would drift in: “Chhod diya tane yaad karke” (“I have stopped remembering you”). The tune was deeply sorrowful.

In the dark of night, different sounds would float from various corners of the fort—somewhere, the cracking of betel nuts in a mortar, somewhere else, the faint murmur of conversation. In front of Meera’s palace stood the palace of the junior queen, Karmet Bai. From there came the sound of a child crying—perhaps little Udai Singh or Panna Bai’s son. A little later, the sound of Panna’s singing reached her: “Tharo nayna kaali, shone chali” (“Your eyes are black, let’s go listen”).

Meera’s heart filled with deep anguish. She rested her head at Giridharji’s feet, closed her eyes, and wept. In the night’s silence came the sound of the guards striking the floor with their heavy spears as they patrolled. Listening to this sound, she would drift off to sleep each night.

These days, the dead often appeared in Meera’s dreams. One day she dreamt she was sitting by the pond in Merta, singing. Pink lotuses bloomed in the pond, black bumblebees played upon them, and under the bright sun in the sky, everything was bathed in light.

At that moment, Dadu Sa came out from the Chaturbhuj temple and sat down before Meera. Dadu Sa looked like a saint—white hair, dressed in pure white clothes, a sage whose two eyes were like two reservoirs of compassion. Meera put down her ektara, looked at Dadu Sa, and broke into tears.

Meera said, “Dadu Sa, since you left, I have felt so very alone. Even the death of Bhojraj did not affect me as deeply as your passing has. You may have been far away from me, but still, I always felt that the creator of the present Meera, though distant, existed—always watchful, always ready to protect the existence of this Meera. But today, Dadu Sa, I feel utterly alone.”

There was a strange peace on Rao Dudaji’s face. He said, “Meera, death cannot separate people, nor can it extinguish their consciousness. The consciousness of the soul flows on eternally—it cannot be ended by anything. In the vast ocean of life, death is like a port; after the long voyage of deeds, the soul rests there, and then begins the preparations for another long journey. Meera, though my body is gone, death has not taken me away from you. Even today, in all your troubles, you will find me by your side.”

After Rao Dudaji’s death, Meera’s composition of devotional verses almost ceased. There was no fixed routine for bathing, eating, or resting—she spent the entire day at the feet of Giridharji.

One night, in a dream, she saw Bhojraj. Meera saw her palace illuminated by the brilliant rays of the sun streaming through the window, so bright that it hurt her eyes to look in that direction. Yet from there came the call of her pet peacock, Shyam. Struggling to look despite the dazzling light, she saw Shyam cry “kya kya” and leap from the radiant window, coming towards her.

Halfway, he transformed into Bhojraj, who slowly came and sat beside her. Placing a kiss on her forehead, Bhojraj rested her head on his lap. After a long time, Meera felt a profound peace at the touch of her husband. Whatever she might have said outwardly, within herself she knew that she longed for that touch.

Tears of contentment streamed from Meera’s eyes. Time passed in that dreamlike way, as it often does in dreams. She felt as if the fort of Chittor was completely deserted—no one anywhere, only she and Bhojraj, with the gusty winds of time blowing dry twigs between them. Blended with the surroundings and nature itself, they were wholly absorbed in each other. No words were spoken—everything was conveyed through feelings.

Through his feelings, Bhojraj asked her, “Meera, what new verses have you composed?”

Meera’s feelings remained silent.

A tremor passed through Bhojraj’s presence as he said, “Meera, you had promised me that you would never let your identity as a writer fade away—then why are you ending yourself like this?”

No. Meera’s feelings were still mute, giving no reply.

Suddenly, Bhojraj began to fade into the light. She could no longer see him, only sense his presence. He said, “Meera, if you destroy yourself like this, I will never come to you again. I will go far, far away.”

Meera’s feelings now burst into tears. She cried out in anguish, “Do not leave me like this—Dadu Sa has already gone away from me. Tell me what I must do, and I will do it.”

Bhojraj said, “Meera, start writing again. You were not born to end yourself in this way. You still have a long way to go. The day you begin writing again, you will feel me in every word, in every emotion.”

Then everything around her turned dark again. When the dream ended, Meera awoke to find herself alone in the darkness of the palace. Not a soul was around—everything was silent. These days, she seemed to live in a daze. After staying awake for a while, she fell asleep again. It was as if she wished to sleep only to escape the sorrows of her lonely life—for in sleep, she could feel the presence of her loved ones.

Then, after sunrise, the grating sound of the fort gates opening woke her. When she awoke, Meera once again stood before the jharokha, gazing out at the nature beyond. At this time, the fort would come alive again. From the surrounding villages, vendors would enter the fort with vegetables, milk, fruits, and other goods. The streets of the fort would be swept clean by the sweepers, while the women made their way to the kund to bathe.

After bathing, Meera would sit for the worship of Giridharji. Then she would compose verses. Indeed, by immersing herself in work, she gradually forgot her grief and sorrow. Meera restarted her discussion circles, where conversations on various topics would take place. She also cared for and tended to ascetics who came from far and wide. From these sadhus, she received much news, and through them, she sent messages to many people. These ascetics acted, in effect, as her messengers.

Though to an outsider Meera Bai might have appeared to be a lonely, isolated widow, she was by no means alone. She was connected with people from many corners of the Indian land. Quietly and silently, she kept advancing her work.

One evening, after the service at the Kumbh Shyam Temple, a sadhu arrived. This Eastern sadhu was on his way to Kaferistan. His coming to Chittor had a special purpose—he had come to deliver a message from Shri Chaitanya to Meera Bai. After the evening aarti, Meera and the sadhu sat in a corner of the Kumbh Shyam Temple and spoke. Eating Shyam’s prasad and sipping sherbet, the sadhu said that news had reached Mahaprabhu that in Rajputana, the oppression of lower-caste and tribal communities by the upper castes had taken a most terrible form. As a result, they were converting to Islam in large numbers.

Hearing this, Meera was astonished. She said, the tribal people do not have practices like sati, caste discrimination, or oppression of women. But the greatest injustice done to them is that they are Hindus—and for that reason, all these superstitions of Hinduism have been forcibly imposed on them. Those who, from time immemorial, had worshipped nature, whose society had given women respect and status, could hardly be expected to accept such practices. In this way—

How much longer could this go on! Besides, Islam grants men a great deal of freedom, and men are gladly embracing such a religion, while women are forced to accept it under male pressure. Moreover, everyone wishes to be freed from the torment of sati — every mother wants her daughter never to be burned alive. And there is no caste discrimination. After all, we are all human; we are all part of the Supreme Soul. But no one seems to understand this simple truth. Still, from within the walls of Chittor Fort, I am doing whatever is possible, but now I feel I must go to Kumbhalgarh. For if one section of the tribal community is awakened, the movement gradually spreads far and wide. You should rest today, for tomorrow at dawn you will have to begin your journey again.

The ascetic said, “If you wish to send any message to Mahaprabhu, please give it to me. A monk from Sindh will be coming to serve Mahaprabhu, and eight days from now I will meet him. Through him, I can deliver your message.”

Mirabai replied, “Tell Mahaprabhu to have faith in me. He must remember that my guru is Raidas. Though born into a Kshatriya family, I accepted the son of a washerman as my guru. After my mother’s death, I placed the maidservant Ramabai in my mother’s position. So he should trust me. In the name of Krishna, I will restore Hinduism to its true glory, and I will eliminate false divisions and violence among people. Just a little more time — once my work in Rajputana is done, I will take refuge in Vrindavan.”

At that time, Chittor Fort was nearly devoid of men; most had gone off to war. So, in that sense, social restrictions had temporarily come to a halt. It was during this period that one morning Mira sent Gadadhar Pandit to Kumbhalgarh. On that journey, Gadadhar Pandit had to travel from Kumbhalgarh to various distant tribal villages across the vast regions of Rajasthan.

Bhabnamasi’s storytelling style was unlike anyone else’s — Sanjha felt as though she could see everything unfolding before her eyes. Bhabnamasi said, a month after that monk from Bengal had left, two more monks came to meet Mira. They had brought news from Afghan merchants in Kabul that Zahir-ud-din Muhammad Babur was preparing to invade India was underway. Meera Bai was startled upon hearing this, because Rana Sanga, along with the other rulers of Rajputana, was already deeply engaged in a fierce war. If Babur were to attack at such a time, Rajputana’s independence could in no way be preserved. Meera had herself heard several times that Rana Sanga had sent envoys to invite Babur to depose the Sultan of Delhi, Ibrahim Lodi. But she could in no way support Bapu Sa’s policy. For if Babur defeated Ibrahim Lodi, the Mughals’ claim to the throne of Delhi would be firmly established. Rana Sanga’s dream would then remain forever unfulfilled. Under no circumstances could Babur be allowed to enter India.

Gadadhar Pandit was not in Mewar at this time, so Meera had to act on her own. Somehow, she must send word to Bapu Sa and, through a messenger, spread news across the northwestern regions of India to make Babur believe that attacking India at this moment was unsafe.

While Meera Bai was in private conversation with the two monks, Banvir suddenly appeared before her. In the courtyard of the Kumbh Shyam temple, the flickering light and shadow of the evening lamps made Banvir’s face look menacing. Two guards accompanied him. The guards entered the temple and seized the two monks. Meera protested sharply, saying,

“Beware! I tell you to release them. No member of Rana Sanga’s family has ever committed such a terrible act, nor will they in the future—certainly not during Meera’s lifetime.”

The guards of Chittor Fort held Meera Bai in great respect, and at her command they released the monks.

Then Banvir said, “Do you know that spies from foreign kingdoms are entering Chittor disguised as monks? And you are giving them shelter! If any calamity befalls Chittor afterward, you will be held responsible. Will you take that responsibility?”

Meera stood her ground firmly and said, “The entire responsibility for Chittor’s security lies with Rana Sanga’s family, not with any outsider. Leave at once—or it will not be good for you.”

Before leaving, Banvir warned, “You will have to bear the consequences of this.” After this incident, Meera had no difficulty realizing that inside the fort The conspirators inside the fort had grown extremely powerful—otherwise, Banbir would never have dared to show such audacity as he had that day. That night, Meera took the prasada of Kumbh Shyamji and went to the palace of Queen Kunwarbai.

Although the queen had never liked Meera, seeing her daughter-in-law after so long brought tears to her eyes. She embraced Meera and began to weep.

Feeding the prasada to the queen, Meera sat beside her and recounted the evening’s events. She said, “Ma-sa, a terrible conspiracy has begun within this fort. The conspirators want to cut Chittor off from the rest of the world, which is why they are forbidding outsiders from entering.”

Queen Kunwarbai replied, “Meera, I have received news from my messenger that it is at Maldev’s invitation that the Sultans of Malwa and Gujarat have attacked Mewar. In this dire situation, you must write a letter to Ranaji, otherwise we will not be able to save Mewar.”

Meera said, “Ma-sa, it is impossible to send a letter to Bapu-sa now. Anyone leaving the fort is being thoroughly searched, and if we try to send a message, we will surely be caught.”

She continued, “Ma-sa, the fort is now divided into two factions—on one side, the Rathores of Jodhpur pushing for Ratan Singh to be crowned Rana; on the other, Budi and his allied states supporting Vikramjit as Rana. This will not only harm Chittor but all of Rajputana. Babur is advancing to invade India. The weaker we become, the easier it will be for him to attack.

I have received news through my messenger that Maldev has secretly contacted King Babur, and that at Babur’s instructions, Maldev has invited the Sultans of Malwa and Gujarat to attack Mewar. If Ranaji is kept occupied with war on this side, Babur will find it easy to seize Aryavarta. With Babur’s help, Ratan will be made Rana.”

Queen Kunwarbai asked, “But Meera, how will that harm us?”

“It will,” Meera’s eyes blazed as she said, “because it will diminish our independence.”

Queen Kunwarbai broke into tears. “What will happen now, Meera? This is such a terrible danger!

Meera rose and stood before the jharokha.

“Mother-sa, rest assured—just as these hands of Meera can offer worship to Giridharji, they can also lift a sword in defense of our motherland.”

Rani Kuwar Bai said, “Meera, come sit beside me. Let me tell you something about your Bapu-sa. The throne of Mewar has never been without thorns. Your Bapu-sa, too, had to face many obstacles. He had two brothers— the eldest was Prithviraj, the middle one was Jaimal, and the youngest was your Bapu-sa. In childhood, your Bapu-sa was sent to a guru for education. Seeing him, the guru said that he would one day become the Rana of Chittor and establish his power across the whole of Aryavarta.

But the eldest brother, Prithviraj, declared that as long as he lived, his younger brother would never become Rana. Thus began strife within the family. Your Bapu-sa, however, knew that he was not born to waste his strength on such petty disputes. He had come to uphold the glory and honor of his land.

With this in mind, one day he escaped from Chittor Fort and took refuge with Ajmer’s Karmachand Panwar. Karmachand Panwar was a seer, and upon seeing your Bapu-sa, he said: ‘Sangram Singh, your banner will fly far and wide. Wherever it flies, the enemy will be annihilated.’

During his stay in Ajmer, he mastered various arts of warfare. Through many trials by fire, Rana Sanga was being forged into a diamond. His brilliance gradually began to spread in all directions. My father-in-law had, in his lifetime, already declared your Bapu-sa to be his successor, but after his death, no one was willing to accept that decision. That is why so many troubles arose.

Only after the deaths of his two elder brothers did he ascend the throne. Thereafter, he firmly established his power over almost the whole of Rajputana, as well as northern Gujarat and Gwalior. Once on the throne, he appointed Karmachand Panwar as the chief sardar of Ajmer, and then took a vow to unite all the Hindu kings of Rajputana.”

“I see,” said Meera. “Now I understand the main reason for our conflict with Gujarat.”

Rani Kuwarbai said, “The truth is, your Bapu Sa had attacked the province of Idar. At that time, the ruler of Idar, Rana Banmal, had a very close relationship with the Sultan of Gujarat, Mehmud Shah. Mehmud Shah offered shelter to Rana Banmal. Afterwards, your Bapu Sa seized Idar and appointed one of his most trusted men as the chief there.

Meanwhile, Malwa was then ruled by Nasir Shah Khilji, whose Wazir was Medini Rai. But Medini Rai, weary of Nasir Shah Khilji’s tyranny, invited Rana Sanga to attack Malwa. Delighted, Rana Sanga installed Medini Rai as the chief of Gagron and Chanderi. After that, he captured vast territories in the north-western region and gradually advanced towards Delhi.

Meera, in my youth, I was married to your Bapu Sa and entered the Chittor Fort as his wife. Our marriage was a political one—in fact, all marriages in this royal family were political. Perhaps that’s why there was no place for emotions or feelings in such unions. But your marriage to Bhojraj was completely different. Perhaps that’s why, even as Bhoj’s mother, I used to look upon your relationship with jealousy. I have no hesitation in admitting today that, at that time, I felt that since I had been denied such happiness in my life, I would not allow you to have it either.

Yes, I was wrong—and it is for this sin that I lost my own son. But you know, young girls brought into these fortresses are turned into mental invalids. Under this unbearable pressure, we all become mentally broken. Think of Dhanbai, Karmetbai—they were forced to marry old men. They too were victims of political sacrifices.

To strengthen Mewar, your Bapu Sa relied on marital alliances. While this safeguarded Chittor, it also sowed the seeds of violence and resentment within the fort walls.

Meera, your Bapu Sa says that you alone are worth a hundred warriors when it comes to defending Mewar. Now, Meera, it is your turn to make your Bapu Sa’s dream a reality. (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, Part-24, Part-25, Part-26, 

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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.