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

Meera

By Debasree Chakraborti

As Ratan Singh reached the main gate of the palace and removed the cloth from his face, the guards immediately recognized him and opened the gate. In the palace courtyard, a grand ritual was underway at the temple of Chaturbhujji. The aroma of food prepared in ghee wafted in from the temple kitchen. Ratan Singh instantly understood that today Chaturbhujji would be offered his favorite delicacies.

Seeing Ratan Singh in the palace, his relatives became overjoyed. He moved toward his father’s quarters while exchanging words with everyone along the way. Upon reaching there, he saw his father, Rao Dudaji, looking out of the window.

Ratan Singh approached and said, “Father.”

Then he bowed down to touch his father’s feet.

Ratan Singh said, “Father, there are tears in your eyes.”

Rao Dudaji replied, “Ratan, these are tears of joy. Come, let me show you something. Come.”

As Ratan Singh stood beside his father, Rao Dudaji pointed into the distance and said, “Look at the scale of the cooking arrangements. From today, for the next one month, this kitchen will feed many hungry people and soothe the fire in their bellies.”

“Ratan, you don’t know how much hope I have. But everything depends on you. The child is still very small. From now on, we must ensure a completely different environment and upbringing.”

Ratan Singh said to his father, “Ever since she conceived, your daughter-in-law has been devoutly worshipping Lord Krishna. She has been fasting day after day. I’ve tried many times to explain to her that such austerity might affect the child. But she never listened. That’s not all—during her pregnancy, she has personally painted pictures of Krishna and Radha and decorated the entire palace with them. Every wall of our bedroom now bears images of Lord Krishna.”

Rao Dudaji said, “That is indeed delightful news, Ratan. I never imagined that you both would value my wishes so deeply.”

Ratan Singh said, “Father, that’s not all—she has wrapped our newborn daughter in saffron-colored cloth, and has had Krishna-shaped toys and flutes made for her to play with, so that from birth itself, a deep love for Lord Krishna awakens within her.”

Tears rolled down Rao Dudaji’s cheeks. He said, “Ratan, when my granddaughter turns four, I want to bring her to live with me. I want to raise her in my own way. I know this is a very difficult request for any parent, but God will bless you with more children in the future. But I want your firstborn.”

Ratan Singh held his father’s hands tightly and said, “Father, please don’t say it like that. We are mentally prepared to fulfill our promise. Your daughter-in-law also wholeheartedly wishes the same. She herself told me that rather than spending her life in the dark confines of the inner palace like an ordinary Rajput woman, it is far better to do something meaningful for the country and its people. How many get such an opportunity? Our daughter is blessed, for her grandfather has plans to establish her in an extraordinary way. This is truly the result of her good deeds from a previous life.”

After a pause, Ratan Singh continued, “Since her pregnancy, your daughter-in-law has been reciting the Gita daily so that its influence shapes the child in the womb.”

Rao Dudaji said, “Ratan, you’ve told me everything, but you haven’t said what she looks like!”

Ratan Singh said, “Father, never before in my life have I seen such a beautiful baby girl. Her voice is like a conch shell, her skin the color of a lotus, a head full of black hair, a sharp nose, and two eyes deep like a serene lake. Her body and complexion are as soft and delicate as a lotus flower.”

The dreamy canvas of dusk darkened. Traveling through winding shadowed paths, it reached Ratan Singh’s palace in the village of Kurki. A grand festival was being celebrated there. Rao Dudaji, carrying his granddaughter wrapped in saffron cloth, was walking toward the temple of Lord Krishna. Alongside him walked Gadadhar Pandit, who had come from Merta. Together they proceeded toward the temple. Just then, the sound of a conch shell echoed from inside the temple. Rao Dudaji gently touched his granddaughter’s feet to Lord Krishna’s and said, “I shall name my granddaughter Meera. My Merta is often compared to the Nandankanan of Rajputana. Merta and Meera are one and the same — in the future, Rajputana will be known to the world through Meera’s name. This girl, by the merit of her deeds, will one day be elevated to the status of a divine goddess of heaven.”

At the announcement of Meera’s name, the sound of conch shells echoed all around. Everyone began chanting her name with praise and reverence.

As dusk fell, consciousness seemed to shift — the sound of women weeping grew louder while the conch sounds faded.

Now, it was possible to see the maid Ramaa and Meera’s mother, Bir Kuwari. Both were weeping bitterly. Other maids were rushing about the palace, the jingling of their anklets resounding through the corridors. A shadow of mourning seemed to have fallen across the entire palace.

Just then, Ratan Singh came running into Bir Kuwari’s quarters.

He arrived to find his wife unconscious, while Ramaa Bai was pouring water on her forehead.

Ratan Singh asked Ramaa Bai, “Have you searched every part of the palace properly?”

Crying, Ramaa Bai replied, “Ranaji, we left no place unchecked, we’ve searched everywhere. Meera is nowhere to be found.”

Another maid said, “Ranaji, we think Meera may have fallen into the well.”

Bir Kuwari was regaining consciousness, but upon hearing that Meera might have fallen into the well, she fainted again. Ramaa Bai, crying, said, “The queen was seated in prayer and had told me to keep an eye on Meera. But I got busy tidying up Meera’s room and couldn’t watch her properly. I was just speaking with her, and in the blink of an eye, she was gone. I didn’t even realize. It’s all my fault. Now I too will end my life in the well.”

Ratan Singh, in a very calm voice, said, “Ramaa Bai, be calm. First, tell me clearly — did any of you actually see Meera fall into the well?”

A murmur spread among the maidservants. Ratan Singh realized that the idea of Meera falling into the stepwell was purely speculation—no one had actually seen it happen with their own eyes.

Ratan Singh then asked, “Have you all looked carefully inside Shri Krishna’s temple?”

Ramabai replied, “Ranisa herself was sitting inside the temple performing puja. If Meera had been there, she would have surely noticed.”

Ratan Singh smiled slightly and said, “Your Ranisa sits in deep meditation before Shri Krishna with her eyes closed. In such a state, she wouldn’t be able to sense anyone else’s presence in the temple. Besides, Meera can’t stay without her mother even for a moment. I believe she is still somewhere inside the temple.”

Ramabai said, “Ranisa came out of the temple herself after the puja. If Meera had been inside, she would have seen her.”

Ratan Singh said, “Even before Meera was born, we had dedicated her to Shri Krishna. One who is offered to the Lord can never come to harm—the Lord Himself protects her. Go and check the temple again, thoroughly.”

Ratan Singh himself entered the temple and looked around but found nothing. Then he went behind the idol of Shri Krishna and saw Meera sleeping there.

Human dreams are strange things, often difficult to interpret. The sleeping twilight consciousness crossed the dark landscape of Kurki village through a long maze and entered another window—one filled with light. It was a sunny day. Inside a room, the idol of Giridhar Gopal was adorned with flowers as the Maharani performed puja—one hand ringing a bell, the other holding a puja tray, offering aarti. Beside her, dressed in a yellow lehenga and a sky-blue veil, sat the little princess. An unusual smile graced the princess’s lips, and tears shimmered in her eyes.

Seeing such deep devotion in the eyes of such a small child would astonish anyone. After the puja, the little princess followed her mother to another wing of the palace. After performing the ritual, Ranima moved through the palace, spreading the sanctity of the auspicious mangal aarti.

A divine glow surrounded her. Just then, the little princess heard wedding music playing far away, echoing through the mountain pass below the fort. A wedding procession was making its way. She stopped and stood still, watching the groom’s entourage. She didn’t even notice when her mother had walked far ahead. At that moment, a loving voice called out, “Meera, Meera, what happened? Why have you stopped?”

The girl raised her right hand and pointed toward the procession. “Mother, look! The wedding procession is going.”

Her mother, Veerkuwari, came and lovingly embraced her daughter. “Yes, my dear, one day a wedding procession will come for you too.”

Meera looked on in wonder, thinking—when will a wedding procession come for me? And if there is a procession, surely there must be a groom. But where does my groom live?

All day long, Meera kept thinking about her groom. As dusk settled over the fort and darkness filled the air, Queen Veerkuwari lit the evening lamp and began her worship of Giridhar Gopal. Meera sat beside her. Ranima could see that her daughter’s face seemed especially downcast today. While cleaning the throne of Gopal, Veerkuwari looked at her daughter and asked, “What’s wrong, dear? You look so sad today!”

Little Meera didn’t know what to say. Her mother sensed that something deep was troubling her. Drawing her daughter close to her chest, Veerkuwari asked gently, “What is it, Meera? Are you shy even with your mother?”

Meera was an extremely shy and quiet child. Her face, cupped in her mother’s palms, looked like a freshly bloomed lotus. Slowly, she looked up at her mother and asked, “Mother, who is my groom?”

Meera’s eyes were like two deep lakes—soft, dreamy, full of devotion. Even as her mother, Veerkuwari had never been able to grasp the true depth of those eyes. After gazing into them for a while, she turned to the idol of Giridhar Gopal and said, “Meera, the one you see here—Giridhar—is your husband.”

In the dark of night, as the palace slept, little Meera lay in her bed covered with a soft blue silk sheet. From a distance, her bed looked like it was surrounded by peacocks, for its frame was adorned with peacock feathers. Little Meera To protect her daughter from evil spirits and ensure she never feels afraid, the mother had arranged various protective rituals and safeguards.

The mother’s influence ran deep within the little girl. Her mother had said that Giridhar Gopal was her husband—what greater fortune could there be? The one she had always known as God since birth—Kanhaji—was her husband. One night, in her sleep, Meera had a strange dream. She saw that her wedding with Kanhaji had taken place in the grand palace of the celestial realms, attended by all the gods. During the wedding, both of them were smeared with turmeric together in ritual celebration.

This dream startled Meera awake. She sat up in bed, breathing heavily. Meera was always very calm and quiet, and that made her mother constantly worried. Her mother, too, woke up from her sleep. She sat up, embraced Meera, and said gently, “Don’t be afraid, Meera. I’m right here with you.”

Looking into her mother’s eyes, Meera softly began to sing:

“Mai mahane supne mein parṇ gaya Jagdish,

Ang ang haldi mai kari ji sudh bhijyo gāt.

Mai mahane supne mein parṇ gaya Deenanath.

Chappan kot jahan padhare dulha Shri Bhagwan.

Supne mein toran baandhiya ji, supne mein aayijan,

Meera ke Giridhar milya ji, purab janam ko bhāg.

Supne mein mahane parṇ gaya ji, ho gaya achal suhāg.”

(Mother, I was married in a dream to the Lord of the Universe.

He smeared turmeric on each part of my body with love.

In my dream, I was wed to the Lord of the humble.

To a palace of 56 crores He came as the groom—Lord Bhagwan.

In the dream, the wedding canopy was raised, the rituals performed.

I was united with my Giridhar. It was the fortune of a past life.

In the dream, I was married—and that bond is now eternal.)

Hearing her daughter’s description, the mother was overcome with a deep wave of devotion. Tears streamed down her face. Veerkuwari thought to herself that it was surely her own devotion to Giridhar that had brought such a blessed child into her life. What Meera just described could only have happened through divine blessing—nothing else could explain it.

Both Rana Ratan Singh and Rani Veerkuwari were deeply devoted to the divine and to the learned sages. Saints and ascetics from far and wide came to seek refuge in their palace. From a young age, Meera had seen her father engage in profound discussions with these sages on various spiritual matters Meera – 37

Meera had often heard her mother say that without the presence of these holy men, their family would not be protected. One day, a saint arrived at their palace. Meera had seen many ascetics in her life, but never had she seen one so beautiful. The saint had brought with him an idol of Giridhar Gopal.

The idol looked almost alive. The shy Meera stood at a distance, gazing silently at it. She was not one to speak up easily. Veerkuwari always kept a close watch on her daughter’s behavior and movements. Sensing her daughter’s longing, she went to Ranaji and told him everything.

Ranaji said to the saint, “Prabhuji, my daughter is deeply fond of this Giridhar. If you could give it to her, I am willing to pay any price.”

The saint looked toward the doorway, where the little girl was still standing. Over the past few days he had spent at the palace, he had seen this child gazing at the idol in this same way—long and deep. Sometimes she disappeared, but only for a short while. Then she would return.

Never before had he seen such intense devotion in such a young child. The saint gestured with his head and eyes for the girl to come into the room. The little girl walked in, her tiny footsteps tapping softly, and stood before him.

She continued to stare at the idol. Such depth in those eyes at such a tender age. Within that gaze lay a soul of extraordinary conviction. The saint gently placed the idol into Meera’s hands and asked, “What is your name?”

It was evident from her glowing face how overjoyed she was to receive her Giridhar. Her face radiated the soft light of a full moon. She beamed with happiness and replied, “Meera.”

The saint smiled and said, “Ah, such a beautiful name! Do you know what it means?”

In a melodic tone, Meera replied by singing,

“Meratiya ghar janma liyo hai, Meera naam kahayo.”

(I was born in the house of Merta, and thus my name is Meera.)

Rana Ratan Singh added, “It means—since she was born in Merta, her name is Meera.”

The saint looked into Meera’s eyes for a long time and said, “In Sanskrit, the word Meera means ‘Great Ocean.’ Observing the depth of her devotion and love for Ranchhodji (Krishna), it feels like her name is truly justified.”

“Ranaji, you need not worry anymore. People may speak with words, but they Meera – 38

People can say whatever they want according to their wishes. But you must not be disheartened, Ranaji. Because today, in this little girl, I witnessed a spark—a reflection of something so powerful that, even if not directly, it will one day influence the politics of the entire nation from its very core. You will remember my words when that day comes. And one more thing, Ranaji— I will maintain a constant connection with your daughter. My appointed emissaries will continue to visit her and train her for the future.

Ranaji was stunned by the saint’s words. What is he saying? he wondered in disbelief.

Meanwhile, Meera remained transfixed, gazing at her beloved Giridharji. The saint said to her gently, “Meera, will you sing a song for me about your Giridharji?”

The shy little girl sat down before the saint with innocent simplicity. She placed Giridharji in her lap and began to sing:

“Mere to Giridhar Gopal, dusaro na koi,

Jāte shir mor mukut, mere pati soi.

Bhāvai mai bhakti kāj, jagat dekh mohi,

Dāsī Meera Giridhar Prabhu, tāro tāro jene.”

Ratan Singh said, “Prabhu, this means: I have no one but Giridhar Gopal. The one who wears a crown adorned with peacock feathers—He alone is my husband.

I have come for devotion; devotion is my only work. The whole world looks at me in wonder. O Giridhar, Meera is your humble servant—please guide and uplift her.”

The saint added, “Ranaji, prepare your daughter for the future of India. Through her devotion and inner brilliance, this girl will one day shape the political destiny of the entire nation.” (Continues) 

Click here for Part-1, Part-2, Part-3

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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.