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

Meera

By Debasree Chakraborti

That very night, this letter was carried by a messenger on the road to Agra. But, alas, history is always distorted. What happened that day too was later twisted in the records of history. Inside the very fort of Chittor was the Sultan’s spy. Through him, the news of Karmetbai’s letter to Humayun reached the Sultan. That same night, the Sultan himself wrote a letter and sent it by messenger to Humayun.

In that letter he wrote: “Emperor, though Queen Karmetbai may call you her brother, she is a kafir. You must by no means lend aid to a kafir. If you do so, your place will be in hell.”

Receiving Bahadur Shah’s letter, Humayun did indeed send many gifts to his rakhi sister Karmetbai, but he did not send soldiers.

Yet Queen Dhanbai seemed to have understood beforehand that Humayun would not send military help. That is why she did not wait for the Mughal army. With the cry of “Victory to Mother Bhavani!” she hurled herself into battle with heroic valor. Under the leadership of a woman, the Rajput chiefs engaged in fierce combat. After the defeat at Khanua, the Rajput chiefs had managed to store some quantity of gunpowder. But they did not know how to use it. Thus, in the war against the Sultan of Gujarat, they could not make use of gunpowder. Nor did they have any modern weapons in their hands. With nothing but their old arms, they relied solely on their courage and valor, fighting with all their might… They fought on. In the history of India, this battle was of immense significance—for it was led by a widowed Rajput queen. Think about it: in the medieval age, what a monumental decision it was for a Rajput woman to assume such leadership.

Saanjh said, “In truth, women have always been independent in spirit. The medieval age was no exception. The manhood of Chittor revealed itself through these women, for at that time there was no Rana on the throne of Chittor.”

Pratap said, “Another factor might have been the influence of Meerabai. Perhaps it was by seeing her that the women of Chittor awakened to their inner strength.”

Saanjh replied, “You are right. Meerabai had indeed shown them that path. Well then, Pratap, what happened afterward?”

Afterward, though Queen Dhanbai and her army fought with heroic valor, she fell on the battlefield. When a messenger rode from the battleground to the fort of Chittor and brought news of the queen’s death, Queen Karmetbai ordered the guards to prepare the jauhar pyre with wood and to instruct the women of Chittor to ready themselves for jauhar.

Thus, after many years, Chittor once more prepared for a vast jauhar. But the guards returned and informed the queen that there was not enough wood, and so jauhar could not be performed. Queen Karmetbai then told them that instead of heaps of wood, there were heaps of gunpowder. This time, Chittor would perform jauhar with gunpowder.

The news spread through Chittor like wildfire. Meerabai had once forbidden the women of Chittor from committing jauhar, yet she had also said that in such moments of dire peril, women might choose to perform it. Following Meera’s guidance, that very day, countless women of Chittor and Kumbhalgarh joined the battle alongside Queen Dhanbai with fearless valor. The tribal women of Kumbhalgarh too descended into the battlefield, bows and arrows in hand.

But the death of Queen Dhanbai meant the fall of Chittor. In such circumstances, the women knew well what fate awaited them as captives of war. Compared to that horrific life, the jauhar was far more honorable, far more bearable.

When the women of Chittor learned that Queen Karmetbai had commanded a jauhar pyre to be built upon mounds of gunpowder, they prepared themselves with fierce determination to ascend that pyre. Was it not another form of martyrdom in battle? During the time of battle with Emperor Babur, their… Many of their men had once become martyrs at the mouth of gunpowder. Now, thinking that their own day had come, the women too became resolute. Their Bai Sa, Meerabai, had taught them that they must stand shoulder to shoulder with men in defending the motherland.

That day, the women of Chittor dressed as brides. After bathing, they put on fresh clothes, and carrying trays with lamps, coconuts, grains of rice, durva grass, and red alta, they went to the temples of Brahma, Vishnu, and Maheshwar. For it was there, after offering worship, that Queen Padmini had once performed the rite of jauhar. But they would not leave even their children for the hungry demons. Before entering the jauhar pit, the mothers of Chittor consigned their children, in groups, into the waters of Suraj Kund.

This sacrifice, to them, was a sacrifice of honor. The mothers of Chittor did not know how to lose, nor did they know how to bow before anyone. After worship, they imprinted their handprints upon the temple walls. Then they began to circumambulate the jauhar altar, scattering grains of rice and durva within it.

When the circumambulation ended, Queen Karmetbai ascended the pyre first. Taking a lamp in her own hand, she set fire to it herself. At once, a terrifying explosion resounded, and in that eruption thousands of women were burned, mangled, obliterated—leaving behind not even a trace. In this way, under the leadership of Queen Karmavati, also known as Karmetbai, thousands of women gave their lives. Their sacrifice was for the honor of Chittor.

Saanjh asked, “And what happened to the throne of Chittor afterward?”

Pratap replied, “After this terrible event, the chiefs of Chittor made a treaty with Bahadur Shah, and he left Chittor, having turned Vikramjit into a mere puppet king. But when Vikramjit returned to Chittor, he found himself utterly alone. In this city of ashes, among the few remaining sparks of life, he became a criminal in the eyes of all. Everyone held him responsible for Chittor’s dreadful fate. Not just the courtiers—even the common guards began to defy him. Within the stone walls of the Chittor fort, Vikramjit descended into madness. And in such circumstances, Banbir began to imagine himself as the next Rana…Banbir began. Now, if only he could remove Vikramjit from his path, the throne would forever fall into his hands. But he would not remove Vikramjit so crudely. A reckless move would damage his image. No—Vikramjit must first be made into a criminal, only then could he be cast down from the throne of Chittor. For this, it was necessary to bring Meerabai back.

Banbir went to Vikramjit and said, “You, as Rana, have been behaving like a madman—have you thought of what people will say?”

Vikramjit, tearing at his hair, replied, “Me? Rana? Who thinks of me as Rana? If I command a guard, he does not even turn to look at me. If I summon a courtier, he does not come. What sort of Rana am I?”

Banbir said, “It is still possible to change the situation.”

Vikramjit’s eyes glimmered, as though a light of hope had been kindled. He asked, “Still possible? How?”

There was a strange desperation in his voice, as though he had found a straw to cling to in order to fight one last battle for survival.

Banbir said, “If you listen carefully to me, it is possible. I can even bring a man back from the jaws of death. Bring Meerabai back. The people of Chittor love her. In such dark times, if you can give them back their Bai Sa, then you will regain your honor, your dignity—everything.”

Vikramjit’s voice sank in despair. He said, “But Meerabai left in disgrace. Would she ever want to return to Chittor?”

Banbir replied, “Hmm, she will. Because her lust for power will bring her back. As your guardian, she will never give up the chance to rule over Chittor.”

Meanwhile, a messenger from Gadadhar Pandit came to Meerabai and delivered the news of Chittor’s defeat. Since Meera’s departure from Chittor, no one knew where Gadadhar Pandit had gone. Yet he secretly continued to keep in touch with her. Even Meera herself did not know where he was, or in what condition. But on hearing of Chittor’s plight, she was shattered. The account of Queen Karmetbai and Dhanbai’s sacrifice…Hearing this, tears welled up in her eyes. The thought of the sacrifice of thousands of women and children shook her heart. She had spent days in discussion with them, had shown them the path of self-reliance—now, feeling the horror of their deaths, Meera was shaken to the core. She could not even tell how her days and nights passed.

In the darkness of night, she dreamt of Chittor’s future generations sinking into the waters of Suraj Kund. From the dying lips of children, the cry of “Victory to Mother Bhavani” transformed into “Bai Sa”, echoing across the waters. Meera awoke with a start. She began to feel deeply guilty. In Chittor’s darkest hour, she had thought of her own peace and had abandoned them.

Yet Meerabai had promised the people of Chittor that wherever she might be, she would help them. But she had not done so. She had failed to keep her word. Her days were spent in self-reproach. She thought most often of Vikramjit—how must he be, in such a situation? Vikram was naive, a man led by the will of others. In such a state, Banbir might even kill him and seize the throne of Mewar for himself.

The bonds of the world cannot be severed so easily. Meerabai could not free herself from those ties of attachment. Her heart rushed back toward Chittor.

She did not have to wait long. In that dreadful time for Chittor, one day, Vikramjit sent men from Mewar to Brindavan to bring her back. And when Meera began preparing to return to Mewar, Champa and Chameli asked her, “Why are you returning at Vikramjit’s invitation, when he insulted you so grievously?”

Meera replied, “Today Vikramjit is very lonely, and loneliness changes a person greatly. Moreover, there is no one else now to bear the burden of ruling Mewar. So I must return.”

Returning to Mewar, Meera first took refuge in the temple of Giridharji. The desolate fort seemed to swallow her whole. That was why she clung to Giridharji’s temple. For Mewar was now a land of sacrifice, Mewar had become a great cremation ground. And like an ascetic of the cremation grounds, Meera held fast to the temple of Giridharji. Today, Mewar was bereft of its women. Closing her eyes, resting her head against the temple wall, she could hear the cries of thousands of women. She could see, after a long siege, the main gates of the Mewar fort thrown open. Thousands of soldiers, wearing saffron turbans, marched out of the fortress, and at their head was Queen Dhanabai, sword in hand, charging at Sultan Bahadur Shah’s army with the cry of “Victory to Mother Bhavani!”

Tears streamed down Meera’s eyes. She regretted, “Ah, if only I had been in Chittor at that time, I too would have taken up a sword and fought beside Dhanabai against the Sultan’s soldiers.”

At that very moment, she felt the searing heat of the jauhar. The year was 1535, the 8th of March—Queen Karmetabai, along with several thousand Rajput women, leapt into the blazing funeral pyre. Meera could see countless familiar women folding their hands in prayer before plunging into the raging flames. She felt the burning heat of their bodies coursing through her own being.

Chittor now seemed like a vast cremation ground. Coming there, Meerabai sat for a long time beside the jauhar kund. She stared fixedly into the pit, listening to the cries of the thousands of Rajput women who had sacrificed themselves. Then, gazing into the depths of the pit, she began to reflect upon Chittor’s future.

Afterward, Meerabai went to the banks of the Suraj Kund. From its waters seemed to rise the stench of rotten blood and flesh. She could not remain there long. The villages within the fort lay deserted. These places had become havens for scavenging beasts and birds that fed upon the dead. In the darkness of night, strange cries of wild creatures echoed through the air.

At night, Meera grew afraid. She tried to steady the beat of her own heart by listening to the sounds of the guards keeping watch. Then, placing her head at Giridharji’s feet, she would fall asleep. But Champa and Chameli could not sleep at all; ever since coming to Chittor, they had been suffering from sleeplessness. They whispered among themselves, “What kind of Chittor has Bai Sa brought us to? This is not the Chittor we know.” In such a cremation ground, their hearts trembled; even the very food here revolted them.

They prepared small meals for themselves and for Bai Sa. Yet whenever they lifted the food to their mouths, it seemed to carry the stench of decaying flesh. How long could one live like this? Life in Chittor became unbearable for them. But Meerabai, with all her heart and soul— Meerabai longed for the revival of Chittor. One day she summoned the Prime Minister and began planning the future of Chittor. If people from the surrounding regions could be resettled in the villages within the fort, if the Suraj Kund along with the entire fortress could be repaired, if the damages could be restored and everything rebuilt anew—on all these matters they held long discussions. In her heart, Meerabai wished to prepare Chittor for the reign of Udai.

At that time, Udai Singh was in the Kumbhalgarh fort. Meerabai regularly inquired after him. Many times she thought of bringing Udai to stay with her. But in this environment, it was in no way safe for him. Even in Chittor, messengers of Gadadhar Pandit would arrive, carrying news to Meera through Champa and Chameli. When the tribal people of Kumbhalgarh heard of her arrival, they too came one day. Sitting under the shade of the Ata garden, Meera spent long hours in conversation with them.

The tribals assured her that as long as they lived, no harm would come to Udai. Day and night, like sentinels, they kept watch over the hills and forests, safeguarding the future of Mewar. Even amidst the dangers posed by wild beasts in the dark nights of Kumbhalgarh, they carried on this task.

Meera’s arrival in Chittor was like a breath of life to a lifeless body. Slowly, a pulse began to stir again. From all sides, the chants of victory in Meerabai’s name rose once more.

But Vikramjit could never accept the rise of any woman. Meera’s presence in Chittor aroused deep jealousy in him. To this fire of envy, Banbir added fuel. He said to Vikramjit, “Didn’t I tell you that Meerabai would return to Chittor, driven by the lust for power? Now you see, my words have come true!”

Agitated, Vikramjit asked, “What has she done? Tell me!”

Banbir replied, “You are the Rana, yet you know nothing. I shudder to think what a terrible state you would be in without me. She has summoned the Prime Minister and proposed taking the reins of power into her own hands. The royal officials, upon hearing this, have given their consent. Now think—what will become of you?” Vikramjit, agitated, said, “But it was you who asked me to bring her back!”

Banbir replied, “Yes, I did. But who could have known she would take such a form? Now you must drive Meerabai away with your own hands. You are the Rana of Chittor. The insult Meerabai has dealt you—this is the time to take revenge.”

Vikramjit said, “That’s true. I am the Rana of Chittor—everyone must understand that. This time I shall teach Meerabai such a lesson that even the royal officials will tremble. They will forget to oppose me.”

Like an enraged bull, Vikramjit stormed out of his palace. Banbir stood watching him. As Vikramjit went farther away, he seemed to shrink into a mere speck. Now, there was no one left. Banbir saw before him the empty throne of Chittor.

It was midday then. Meerabai, along with Champa and Chameli, was resting inside the temple of Giridharji. Just then someone came and banged on the temple door.

Meera opened it to find Vikramjit. At the sight of him, tears welled up in her eyes. This Vikramjit—whom she had carried in her arms and on her back, who had spent much of his childhood in Meera’s palace—yet now he had changed so greatly. His face and eyes bore a harshness. He was looking at Meera with a terrifying glare of envy. After so many days, they met again. But before either could ask after the other’s well-being, Vikramjit shouted at her furiously:

“Did you tell Prime Minister Eknath Bhatt that you wish to take the power of Chittor into your own hands?”

Meera nodded and said, “Yes, I did. I wish to take on this responsibility—for your own good.”

Vikram retorted, “Not for my good. You have always had an insatiable hunger for power!”

Meera replied, “If you knew that, then why did you bring me back?”

Vikram said, “I thought that in this land of death, your songs and devotion would breathe life again. It was because I brought you back—” The common people of Chittor will support me. But now that I’ve brought you here, I see I’ve made a mistake. Banbir was right—you are greedy for power.”

Meera laughed and said, “Then it seems you have started doing politics with me.”

Vikram replied, “It is the Rana who is meant to play politics.”

Now Meera’s voice rang with protest. She said, “When both your mothers were breathing their last, where were you hiding then? Where was your kingly duty?”

Vikramjit, enraged, went to draw his sword. But Meera said, “Stop, Vikram. Do not display your manhood upon me. Use it instead to protect Mewar. And you need not worry—I shall leave for Vrindavan tomorrow morning.”

Hearing Meera’s decision to go to Vrindavan, both Champa and Chameli became overjoyed. It seemed they had been waiting for this day all along.

The next dawn, Meera set out for Vrindavan with Champa and Chameli by her side. Vikramjit stood by the window of his chamber, watching Meera depart from Chittor. Yet in his heart, he felt no joy. He knew well that he envied this woman, but still, he could not reconcile himself with her decision to abandon Chittor. He felt terribly lonely. In this vast cremation ground, it was as though Meera had brought a current of life. But now, as he looked at Chittor, it seemed strangely helpless. It was as if Vikramjit saw the very goddess of fortune, who dwelt with Chittor, walking away barefoot alongside Meera—her faded veil brushing the paths of Chittor with a final touch of affection.

“Am I truly the Rana of this kingdom?” he thought. A deep disgust rose within him for himself. Helplessly, Vikramjit began to weep. For when a man is driven to the wall, is this not how helpless he becomes?

These days, he felt very lonely. His mother had left him for the jaws of death. His brother, Uday Singh, had also gone far from him. Only Banbir remained by his side. Truly, Banbir was his only well-wisher. He missed his mother dearly. Yet the tender touch of her love and affection—he never really experienced it in the true sense…He never did. Neither from his father nor from his mother did he ever receive it. Otherwise, why would his father, despite having so many sons, have sent him away to Bahadur Shah? And his mother—before becoming a sati, did she not even once think of Vikramjit? There were many mothers who refrained from becoming sati for the sake of their sons. But did his mother not think even once of her son Vikramjit?

Everyone had left him. The very Meera Bai whom he brought to Chittor was also leaving him, misunderstanding him. Did his emotions, his feelings, his pride, his grievances mean nothing at all? Would no one ever try to understand him? No—not everyone. Banbir understood him. Even when everyone else left, Banbir never deserted him. Vikramjit knew Banbir would never abandon him. He was his well-wisher.

As Vikramjit was thinking of Banbir, Banbir arrived.

Vikramjit said, “Banbir, today I am very lonely, give me a little shelter in your embrace. What is this, Banbir? Who are these people you have brought with you? Why are they drawing their swords? Banbir, tell them—no one must raise their sword in front of the Rana. Forbid them!”

“What is this—you all are advancing toward me? Why… why…? Aaaaaah… Meera…a…”

When she reached Vrindavan, Meera Bai received the news of Vikramjit’s death.

Hearing of Vikram’s death, Meera Bai told Champa and Chameli, “Had I known earlier, I would never have left Chittor.”

Champa and Chameli replied, “Baisa, you went to protect him, but he never gave you the chance.”

Tears welled up in Meera’s eyes. She said, “A true Vaishnava does not carry so much pride and grievance. Thinking of my own honor, I have once again thrown Chittor into peril. For Chittor’s fate today, I alone am to blame. Because no matter what I may say with my lips, I have not yet become a true Vaishnava. To be a born Vaishnava is not so easy. Because of me, Bapu Sa’s dream of Chittor has today fallen into the hands of a tyrant.” (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, Part-27, Part-28, Part-29, Part-30, Part-31, Part-32, Part-33, Part-34, Part-35, Part-36, Part-37, 

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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.