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

Meera

By Debasree Chakraborti

After this war, Dudaji received the kingdom of Merta as a reward from his father.

In the present time, there is no unity among the Rajput kings. Engaged in conflicts among themselves, the kings are now inviting Yavana (foreign Muslim) rulers. They fail to understand that by doing so, neither their motherland nor their wives and daughters will remain safe. They are handing over all their honor and dignity into the hands of these foreign rulers.

At the beginning of his reign, Rao Dudaji witnessed such an event—an event he still cannot forget. It happened in a small village named Kosana in the Merta kingdom. That day, a fair was being held there. This fair used to be organized every year, but it no longer takes place. The reason behind its discontinuation is a terrifying incident from the past. Locals used to call it the ‘Gangaur Fair.’ It was a special occasion for the worship of Gauri and Ganapati. Since both Ganesh and Gauri were worshiped together, the fair was called the Gangaur Fair.

At this fair, unmarried girls from all over Merta gathered. They came to offer prayers to the deities, hoping for a good life partner. That day too, many Hindu maidens had come to the fair. Dressed in brightly colored, glittering clothes, adorned with colorful bangles and ornaments, they looked like celestial nymphs. At the center of the fair was the main temple. Along its sides sat shopkeepers selling garments, bangles, garlands, and offerings.

Entertainers dressed in various disguises amused the visitors. Artists from different parts of Rajputana had arrived to perform music and dance. Even courtesans had a separate tent, where they entertained people with their singing and dancing. Colored powders floated in the air. In short, the fair was a vibrant fusion of Rajputana’s art, culture, and religious devotion.

While everyone was immersed in joy, and the sound of conch shells echoed from within the temple, a sudden disaster struck.

Manju Khan, with his massive army, attacked the fair. His forces surrounded the fair from all sides and then launched a brutal assault—just like a pack of wolves descending upon helpless fawns.

They attacked in such a way that there was no path left for anyone to escape. At the center of the fair, where the temple stood and the young maidens were offering their prayers, the Yavana soldiers turned that very temple into the focal point of their assault. Manju Khan’s cavalry charged through the crowd, beheading the fairgoers as they made their way toward the main temple. Rivers of blood flowed across the fairgrounds. His soldiers then began abducting the young maidens, lifting them onto their horses and fleeing.

The Rajput youths present at the fair fought valiantly to protect the maidens and attained martyrdom in doing so.

Nearly several hundred young girls were taken captive and dragged toward Ajmer.

At that moment, a wounded and bloodied soldier rode at full speed to Rao Dudaji to deliver the horrific news. Without wasting a moment, Dudaji dispatched his troops to intercept Manju Khan’s forces. The sound of war drums echoed in all directions. Rao Dudaji himself led the army into battle, for the honor of the daughters of his kingdom was at stake. He could not allow the pride and dignity of the Hindus to be trampled under the feet of these foreign invaders.

In no time, the Merta army, armed with shields, swords, arrows, bows, and spears, prepared for battle. With the speed of the wind, the soldiers charged toward Manju Khan’s army. At that time, the throne of Jodhpur was held by Satlal Dev. When the news of Rajput maidens being abducted by the Yavana forces reached him, he too joined Rao Dudaji with his army. Regardless of personal rivalry or jealousy, this was a matter of Rajput pride and honor. The combined forces of the two kings swiftly surrounded Manju Khan’s army from all sides.

When the Rajput maidens realized that a great army had come to rescue them, they began fighting back with their bare hands from horseback. Eventually, they leapt off the horses and gathered on one side of the plain.

With the Rajput maidens moved to safety, the united armies of Merta and Jodhpur launched a fierce assault on Manju Khan’s forces, decapitating them one after another. That day, the desert plains were soaked with the blood of Manju Khan’s army. The blood of the enemy mixed with the soil of the land…

The Rajput maidens had played Holi with revenge in their hair. But since these girls had been abducted by the Yavanas (foreign invaders), no family would accept them in the future as the goddess of their household. So, that day, by order of the King of Merta, his young soldiers married those maidens.

It wasn’t that long ago. The kings of all the kingdoms in Rajputana are aware of this incident. Then why are they still fostering enmity among themselves and inviting the Yavana rulers?

He now wants the wars to end—and wars will end only when the Rajput kings stand united. The sword should be raised only to resist the enemy.

Once, the chief priest of the temple, Gadadhar, had told him,

“Ranaji, in your past life, you must have been a great yogi. That’s why, even though you were born as a Kshatriya in this life, you still follow the path of a yogi.”

Those words left a deep impact on Rao Dudaji’s heart.

He had no memory of his past life, but it was evident that through devotion and worship, he was constantly seeking the path of liberation—for both himself and his subjects. Every one of Dudaji’s ancestors had been a devotee of Krishna Kanhaiya. Perhaps the blessings of their devotion had flowed into his own life. Yet sometimes Dudaji felt that his own life was incomplete. That the full expression of love and devotion had not manifested in his life. And so, he was waiting for a successor—someone who could fully establish the path of love and devotion.

A bolt of lightning struck near the eastern edge of the hill behind the temple. Now, large raindrops had begun to fall. It wasn’t right to stay outside much longer in this weather. Gadadhar was still sitting inside the temple, reciting scriptures.

Rao Dudaji quickly stepped into the temple. From within, the sound of sacred verses echoed—it worked on him like a spell. Just as a snake begins to sway when it hears the tune of a snake-charmer’s flute, these sacred chants brought tears to Dudaji’s eyes. In devotion, he bowed before the stone deity and sat silently. How long he remained like that, he could never tell.

He believed that it was the knowledge and intuition earned in his past life that now guided him in this one… …has turned him into a man set apart from others. His understanding of necessity and inevitability is unique. It feels as if the divine conch, the Panchajanya, has begun to sound in the corners of his heart today. He senses that a deep longing, long hidden within him, is about to manifest into reality. The bearer of the Panchajanya seems to be arriving in his life in another form—as a messenger of ceasefire, love, and peace.

And yet, even amidst great certainty, a faint note of uncertainty lingers. Is what he is imagining truly possible?

Rao Dudaji joined both hands and sat before the idol of Lord Chaturbhuj, praying—

“O Lord, fulfill the hope of my heart. Free this world from war. If possible, grant my future heir a stream of devotion and love so pure that, through its spread and influence, peace may be established on earth. Let them unite all people and protect this great Aryan land from foreign invasions.”

From the northern side of the dark fort, a woman’s cry of labor echoed—accompanied by the jingling of anklets and bangles. The handmaidens were carrying essential items toward the midwife. Some among them whispered that they had never witnessed such a prolonged labor pain before; others said it seemed as though a powerful heir was about to be born. Then, breaking the stillness of the entire fort, came the sound of a newborn’s cry.

Rana Ratan Singh rose to his feet and walked toward the doorway. He could hear a wave of joy sweeping through the palace—the rhythmic jingling of the maidens’ anklets approaching his chambers. A maid came running and exclaimed,

“Ranaji, the Queen has given birth to a daughter as radiant as the moon. The entire palace glows in the light of her beauty.”

As per custom, Rana Ratan Singh gifted the maid a gold coin and rushed toward the Queen’s chambers.

Lala Rajput Surat Singh’s daughter, Veerkuari, lay on her bed with her newborn daughter. Through the open window on the right, the moon of Tritiya (the third night) of the waxing Vaishakha fortnight shone down…Light was falling gently on the newborn’s face. The queen looked like a dignified tigress—a proud mother nursing her child with grace and strength.

The maid, Rama, after receiving her reward, ran from the palace toward the village. From the Kurki fort, a winding path led down to the village. Along that path, torch in hand, maid Ramabai made her way forward. From a distance, the villagers could see a small point of light approaching. It felt as though they had been waiting for this very moment. A faint sound of anklets echoed toward the village, carrying a rhythm of joy.

In the midst of the harsh landscape stood a massive banyan tree. The area beneath the tree was paved with stone. That was where the villagers had gathered today—they were all awaiting the heir. These villagers often traveled far for trade, and many travelers from distant lands regularly passed through this village. Just last week, two spice traders from southern India had stayed at Mahendra’s house on their way to Sindh Province. A little while ago, Mahendra had been telling the villagers,

“Do you know what’s happening in the country?”

The villagers held Mahendra in high regard because travelers from faraway places often stayed at his haveli, and so they received news from all corners of the land through him.

Someone asked, “What has happened, Mahendra?”

Mahendra replied, “A Portuguese sailor named Vasco da Gama has arrived at the port of Calicut in the south. He says he’s come to trade.”

An elder responded, “Trading? Or something else entirely? This is how outsiders sneak into our land.”

Another person added, “A merchant from Multan visited last week and said that the wazir of that state had allegedly poisoned Sultan Firoz.”

Hearing all this, a murmur spread among the people. One of the villagers said, “It seems we in Rajputana have little to fear. I’ve heard that Rana Sanga of Mewar is now uniting the Rajputs to claim the throne of Delhi. So now, more than ever, we must stay united.”

An elderly man said,

“Is there any unity among our kings? Tell me, how will we ever come together? All of Rajputana feels like a boiling cauldron.”

At that moment, lightning flashed across the sky. Clouds had gathered over the distant hills—for the first time in many years, dark clouds loomed over the village. It was an auspicious moment.

Just then, descending the winding path from the fort, the maid Ramabai entered the village and rushed under the banyan tree. Overjoyed, she opened her pouch of gold coins and proudly showed them to everyone, exclaiming,

“Look! Ranaji has rewarded me with gold coins. Do you know why?”

The village roads were now silent, with only the howling wind and thunder echoing through the air. Everyone stared intently at the maid.

She announced, “Goddess Lakshmi has arrived in our village! Her beauty has lit up the entire palace.”

But her words failed to spark joy among the villagers. Because, for them, an heir meant a son. How could a girl possibly lead the kingdom during such trying times?

As questions loomed in the eyes of the people, rain suddenly began to pour across the village—relieving the land of its long drought, and marking the beginning of a new historical chapter. From behind the dry bushes, a flock of peacocks emerged and began to dance, spreading their feathers across the village in celebration. Ramabai, with wide eyes, took in the majestic sight—becoming a witness to that divine moment.

Holding his newborn daughter in his arms, Ratan Singh was reminded of that special day a year ago. His father, Rao Dudaji, had been gravely ill and bedridden. An inexplicable spiritual aura had enveloped him. That day, his palace was bathed in a strange play of light and shadow. Rao Dudaji, dressed in white upon a bed of white silk, looked like a saint. His face radiated messages of renunciation and peace.

Sensing his approaching death, Rao Dudaji had divided his kingdom between his two sons. Then he summoned his younger son, Ratan Singh, to his chamber. For he knew that it was only Ratan Singh who could fulfill the desire left incomplete in his heart.

Perhaps it was the awareness of his approaching death that made him want to spend a few priceless moments with his son Ratan.

Ratan sat down beside his father’s bed. He had never seen his father this closely before. Today, he looked like a sage.

Rao Dudaji said to his son, “Son, human life is like a bubble in water. Life is fleeting. In youth, one cannot grasp the true meaning of life, and so instead of seeking that truth, he follows other paths. This leads him astray from his real purpose. Then, after death, he is forced to return, to fulfill the desires that remained unfulfilled. In this way, he keeps getting lost in the maze of life and must return again and again. After birth, he wastes his precious time, and only when death approaches does he cry out in despair. It is then that he realizes how he has wasted his life. But by then, there is no path left.”

Rao Dudaji spoke with labored breath, “Ratan, I have reached the edge of life.”

Ratan Singh used to call his father Dadu. In an emotional voice, he said, “Dadu, please don’t say such things. You still have many years left to live.”

Dudaji replied,

“No, Ratan, my time has come. This body is made of earth, and after long use, it is now old and worn. The time has come for it to return to the soil.

My son, I have seen a rare potential within you. The task I could not complete during my journey through life—you must complete it. You must do something so profound that future generations may live protected under the principles you leave behind.”

Ratan Singh could not fully grasp what Dudaji was trying to say.

He said, “Dadu, what are you trying to say? I don’t understand any of it.”

Dudaji said, “Ratan, of my two sons, you are the only one I have seen sit in the temple of Chaturbhujji in deep meditation. It is in your devotion that I have felt that potential.”

Ratan Singh thought to himself: A Rajput’s main goal in life is to achieve victory on the battlefield. All this devotion and worship—that’s the duty of queens and women. What boundless potential did Dadu see in my devotion?

Rao Dudaji said, “Ratan, you still haven’t answered my question!”

Ratan Singh replied, “Dadu, I’m surprised myself. I don’t know why, but I feel deeply drawn to the idol of Shri Krishna. Every morning during the ritual prayers, I feel compelled to go to the temple and offer my devotion. I know this isn’t the dharma of a Kshatriya. Dadu, I’ll try my best to ensure this doesn’t continue in the future.”

Dudaji said, “Ratan, you’re mistaken. It is precisely in this habit of yours that I have seen immense potential.

My son, the true goal of our lives is to attain liberation from this cycle of birth and death. Greed, hatred, and envy lead humans astray from their true purpose, and afterward, they are forced to return, again and again, to this world. Caught in this cycle, they neither find peace themselves nor allow others to live in peace.

It is the duty of a king to seek the path of liberation not only for himself but also for his subjects. If a king is obsessed with war and makes battle the sole purpose of his life, peace can never be established in his kingdom.

Ratan, I want the Rajput kings of Rajputana to stop engaging in battles fueled by hatred and jealousy among themselves. I want them to unite and bind their subjects in the thread of peace and harmony. That unity alone will prevent foreign invasions.

If the Rajput kings remain united, no enemy will dare to attack this land. And when war ceases, people will turn to the spiritual path and seek their own liberation.”

For a moment, silence fell around them. The two men—one aged, the other young—looked at each other. From outside, the sound of conch shells echoed from the temple of Chaturbhujji.

Finally, Ratan Singh said, “Dadu, at my age, it’s no longer possible for me to change myself. These devotional feelings must be nurtured from childhood. A child’s mind is like soft clay—however you shape it then, it follows that path throughout life. I was never taught any of this in my childhood. That’s why, at this stage of life, I don’t think I can transform myself.”

Rao Dudaji let out a deep sigh and said, *”Son, it is all the irony of fate. In the early phase of my life, I had to remain engaged in wars and conflict. Because of that, neither I nor anyone in my family could seek the path of liberation. We were entangled in the mire of worldly life. But you are still young. If, from this age, you follow the path of peace and unity, it will bring welfare to both you and your subjects. Yet from what you say, I understand that such a path may not be possible for you. However, there is another way.”

Ratan Singh asked in great surprise, “What is that path?”

Dudaji replied, “Ratan, you must make a promise to me. A very difficult promise.”

Ratan Singh said, “Dadu, just command me. I will do everything in my power to fulfill your wish.”

Dudaji said, “Ratan, I want you to awaken love and devotion in your first child. From the moment their awareness begins to grow, you must start fulfilling this vow.

Your child must later show the people of this kingdom the path to liberation. Your child must unite the kings of Rajputana through love and devotion. He or she must guide the entire nation on the path of spiritual love and unify them.”

Ratan Singh, after thinking for a long time that day, asked his father, “Dadu, what if my first child is not a son, but a daughter? Will your command still apply to her?”

Dudaji smiled gently and said, “Son, the soul has no gender. In fact, I would prefer my future torchbearer to be a daughter. Because daughters possess more patience, love, devotion, and inner strength than sons. So, if you have a daughter, I will be the happiest.”

Looking at his newborn daughter, Ratan Singh said, *”Even before your birth, your destiny was determined. You must walk the path of life with a great purpose. I will do my best, but the rest is in the hands of fate. As your grandfather Rao Dudaji said, we are but puppets in the hands of destiny. Your grandfather had chosen your name even before you were born.”

She has come. He named you Meera, do you know why? Because you are the living embodiment of Merta.

In the journey of time, everything is subject to change. Within this coating of time, many impossible things become possible. Rao Dudaji also recovered from his deathbed—because it was he who had to guide his dream toward fulfillment. To lead Meera, the living embodiment of Merta, toward her future path, Rao Dudaji returned from the brink of death with the resolution to prepare his granddaughter for the times to come.

Foreseeing his inevitable death, he had already divided the kingdom. He handed over the rule to his two sons and took to the path of devotion. He spent his days in religious discussions with Gadadhar Pandit and sat in the temple of Chaturbhujji. When the messenger came and informed him that his granddaughter had been born, Dudaji himself picked up a conch shell and blew it in celebration.

Then, offering flowers at the feet of Chaturbhujji, he said, “Oh Lord, oh merciful one, you have fulfilled my long-cherished desire. When you brought me back from the jaws of death, I had understood your signal. Now I have no need to look back.”

Gadadhar Pandit offered him charanamrit and said, “You haven’t had anything to eat all day. Please take this charanamrit and go to the palace to rest. I’ll send over the bhog shortly.”

That night, Rao Dudaji slept a peaceful sleep. Before falling asleep, he thought deeply. He realized that he now held no regrets about life. The stream of devotion and love that had begun flowing through his son Ratan Singh had, until now, been like a hidden current beneath the sands of the desert. But at some point in that arid land, the current began to flow with great force over the earth’s surface. Now, through his granddaughter Meera, that stream would express itself even more powerfully. No—Rao Dudaji’s belief couldn’t be false. His vast experience was guiding him rightly.

That night, he prayed to Lord Krishna: “Oh Lord, grant me just a few more years of life. I don’t ask for thirty or forty more years. No—I ask that you let me live for just another ten or twelve years.”

“In a few years, I want to sow the seeds of love, devotion, and righteous politics in my granddaughter.”

No—

Then he thought silently to himself: he would gift his granddaughter eleven villages. Meera would be the rightful owner of these villages. From the very beginning of her life, she would never have to depend on anyone for her sustenance. From the portion of his wealth he had reserved for the remainder of his own life, he donated ten villages to Meera.

He became extremely elated—but it didn’t take long for him to regain control over his emotions. Dudaji realized that he would have to wait another three to four years, because until then the child would not be able to understand anything he said.

The human mind is quite peculiar. He suddenly thought—what if Ratan Singh doesn’t keep his promise? After all, he made that promise to an old man who was on his deathbed. Now that Dudaji had recovered, what if Ratan Singh said that it was no longer possible to uphold that promise? But again, Dudaji reassured himself—no, that could not happen. For the Rathore Rajputs, honoring a vow is a sacred duty.

Ratan Singh would never betray his father. However, in that vow, it was never specified that Rao Dudaji himself would personally raise the child. So then?

Dudaji calmed his own heart. He thought—when God has brought him this far down this path, He will surely guide him to the ultimate destination. He was worrying needlessly. That night, Rao Dudaji surrendered all his concerns at the feet of Lord Krishna and went to sleep.

After that, a strange new chapter began in his life—a phase of preparing himself through meditation and yogic discipline.

Far and wide stretched only the dusty, grey desert. Occasionally, there were signs of greenery—but those were nothing more than clusters of thorny shrubs. To call it greenery would be misleading, because amidst those green thickets bloomed vibrant, multicolored flowers—distinct and striking in their presence.

As one approached the entrance to Merta, rows of ponds appeared, and along their banks stood gardens filled with diverse fruit trees. Rao Dudaji had brought various delicious fruit-bearing trees from all corners of India… He had brought all this greenery here. Because of its lush and soothing nature, Merta could easily be distinguished from the other villages of Rajasthan. The day after his daughter’s birth, Ratan Singh came to Merta to meet his father, Rao Dudaji.

Today, Merta was immersed in the joy of celebration. From afar, the sounds of Rajasthani music and traditional instruments floated through the air. Merta was adorned with multicolored flowers. At the entrance to the village, by the pond, stood the temple of Mother Jagdamba, where a grand puja had been arranged for the day. A fair had sprung up along the path to the temple, with vendors displaying a variety of goods. Local artists performed music and dance, and the villagers were in high spirits.

Ratan Singh stood under a pomegranate tree with his horse, soaking in the festive atmosphere. Just then, he noticed his elder brother Bhiramdev and his wife entering the temple, carrying a puja tray. Ratan Singh was dressed in very simple clothing—so simple, in fact, that it was impossible to recognize him. He often dressed like this, covering his face with a turban cloth, and would roam around inspecting his jagir (land grant).

At that moment, he saw a large group of beggars and people with disabilities approaching Merta from the other side of the pond. As they passed by him, Ratan Singh overheard their conversation. The newcomers were saying among themselves, “The feast that Rao Dudaji has arranged to celebrate the arrival of his granddaughter can only be compared to a feast given by Kubera himself. So many poor people will get to eat to their heart’s content today.”

Another added, “Ah, not just today—I’ve heard he will serve the poor and needy for an entire month!”

Yet another said, “Well then, we won’t have to beg for food for a whole month. May God bless Rao Dudaji and his granddaughter.”

Hearing these words, Ratan Singh’s eyes filled with tears. He felt deeply how important this moment was—the culmination of his father’s long wait.

Ratan Singh quickly made his way through the festive streets of Merta toward the palace. Today, the roads, houses—everything in Merta—was adorned with bright yellow marigolds. Adorned with flowers, people have worn their most precious clothes to take part in this festival. (Continues)

Click here for Part-1, Part-2, 

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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.