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

Meera

By Debasree Chakraborti

Meera said, “The carpet I’m sitting on—it’s completely handmade with intricate threadwork and sometimes decorated with patches of colorful fabric. Who makes these?”

One of the village women replied, “Every woman in our village knows this craft. You won’t find this kind of work in the neighboring villages.”

Another added, “Those villages have their own unique styles of craftsmanship, which we can’t replicate either. Because each village in Rajputana is distinct in its artistry.”

Meera said, “This very artistry will bring Goddess Lakshmi into your homes. You all make your own ghagra-cholis, carpets—everything by hand. I don’t even know what the name of this piece I’m sitting on is, but I’ve heard that the floors of the Sultan’s palace in Delhi are adorned with similar ornate cloth, which they call carpets. So I’ll call this a carpet too—our very own Rajputana carpet. You all will make these yourselves. My guards will come and collect them from you in due time. We will purchase these items of daily use for every member of the royal palace from you, and whatever is left, we’ll sell to traders coming from other regions. Many merchants pass through Merta. Just as we collect goods from their regions, from now on, they too will collect our regional handicrafts. And if they don’t, then they will not be allowed to pass through Merta.

Jaimal bhaiya, it will be your responsibility to oversee this.”

Jaimal said, “Meera, this is such joyful news. It will promote Merta’s handicrafts and, in turn, boost our economy.”

One girl said, “But there will be a problem here too, Princess. Because if we become economically self-reliant, the people around us won’t accept it. That’s when conflict may arise.”

Meera replied, “There will be no problem. In this harsh terrain, agriculture doesn’t yield well, and labor work doesn’t pay much either. So the only path to earning is through art. The daughters of our brave land are highly skilled in handicrafts and pottery. When you bring Goddess Lakshmi into your homes through your craft, no one will dare to oppose you.”

They will not oppose it—because everything will have to be done from within the four walls of their homes. You will bring change while remaining behind the veil. Moreover, there is always the threat of foreign invasion. So now, the boys of our household must undergo military training and be prepared to repel foreign enemies.

Therefore, whether it is women steering the economy or men guarding the country, both are essential to the nation’s strength.

And all of this will be done under Rao Dudaji’s instructions, so there is no question of defying it.

But Meera didn’t stop there. She entrusted Jaimal with the responsibility of convincing the village men. Having been by Meera’s side for so long, Jaimal had memorized her words by heart. He conveyed those very words to the men. Tribal communities were far more progressive, where men and women could sit together and have discussions. Meera had already held such meetings in those societies. But the Kshatriya society of that time was extremely conservative, so the task of persuading the men was handed over to Jaimal.

Jaimal had never held much importance within his own family. Despite being immensely talented, he felt that his family had never properly recognized or utilized his abilities. He had never been entrusted with any significant responsibility. Only Meera had understood him, recognized his qualities and character. That is why he loved his sister so deeply. He followed her words to the letter.

Day and night, with ten soldiers accompanying him, he traveled to different villages of Merta, inspiring the local men. He then established military training centers in each village. After Jaimal’s initiative, men began enlisting in the army in large numbers. As a result, Merta’s military force became exceptionally strong.

Many of these village men had remained unemployed for a long time. With no money in hand, they used to inflict unspeakable abuse on their wives. Now, with the men away from home, the women focused on both managing their households and engaging in handicraft work. This led to their economic empowerment, and gradually, the brilliance of Merta’s handicrafts began spreading across the entire Aryavarta (ancient India).

Ramabai had once told Meera that unless women are freed from blind superstition, no real progress is possible for them.

One day, Rao Dudaji was seated in the Chaturbhuj temple, engaged in a religious discussion with Pandit Gadadhar. Just then, a messenger arrived, climbed up to the temple courtyard, bowed before Dudaji, and said, “Victory to Ranaji! Victory!”

At Dudaji’s instruction, Pandit Gadadhar offered the messenger some of Chaturbhujji’s prasad. The messenger had arrived late at night. At that hour, only Gadadhar Pandit and Dudaji remained in the temple. The messenger had ridden a long distance on horseback and was utterly exhausted. After eating the sacred offerings and drinking some almond sherbet, he seemed to regain his strength. Once he had caught his breath, he said to Dudaji, “Ranaji, women’s councils are being formed in every village of Merta.”

Dudaji was surprised. “Women’s councils? What kind of councils are these? I’ve never heard of such a thing before!”

The messenger replied, “Ranaji, through these councils, violence against women is being resisted. Each of these councils has a leader who runs everything. Women who have been abused are given shelter and guided on how to become economically self-reliant.”

“I also heard that many women across the villages of Merta are rising up against the practice of sati. In many villages, women were forced to become sati, but before doing so, they registered strong protests.”

Rao Dudaji felt great inner joy, though he already knew what catalyst was at work behind all of this. Still, he wanted to hear it spoken from the messenger’s mouth.

There was a moment of silence between the two. Then the messenger said, “Ranaji, this may sound like arrogance coming from someone so lowly, and I know it’s audacious of me to speak like this in your presence—but I am just a messenger. I must report the news I have gathered.”

Dudaji smiled gently and said, “Messenger, speak without fear. I will not punish you in any way.”

Again, there was a moment of deep silence. Then the messenger said, “Ranaji, all these movements and councils have apparently been initiated under the instruction of Princess Meerabai. Many people now fear that sati might be completely abolished from the heart of Rajputana. But what I don’t understand is—there has been no strong public outcry against it anywhere.”

“Why there is no resistance—that’s what I can’t seem to understand.”

Rao Dudaji said to the messenger, “You are extremely tired, you need rest now.”

After bowing to Rao Dudaji and taking his leave, the messenger departed. Dudaji then walked to the back of the Chaturbhuj temple. Looking toward the lake, he saw the reflection of the full moon shining on the water. Under that moonlight, everything around was glowing—radiantly glowing. In his mind, Dudaji thought, the darkness is fading. Prosperity is reaching people’s homes. That is why they are not able to oppose this massive change. Because if their spines break again, they will be crushed into the earth. Softly, the name “Meera” escaped his lips.

Gradually, these women’s councils came to be known as Meera Mandals. The festival of Janmashtami—the birth celebration of Meera’s beloved Giridharji—was approaching. A grand celebration was traditionally held at the Chaturbhuj temple on Janmashtami. People would travel from far and wide to witness the festivities, and Meera would perform music and dance with an open heart in front of everyone.

That year, just before Janmashtami, Ratan Singh himself came to Merta. Rao Dudaji was sitting with his elder son, Biramdevji, discussing preparations for the festival. That was when Ratan Singh arrived. He bowed to his father and elder brother.

His sudden arrival at such an hour took them both by surprise. Father and son looked at Ratan with puzzled expressions. After sitting silently for a while with his head bowed, Ratan Singh said, “Dadu, this Janmashtami, I want to take Meera back to Kurki.”

Hearing this, Biramdevji became furious. He said, “Ratan, after your wife’s death, you never remarried. There are no other women in Kurki palace except the maidservants. Meera won’t be able to live in such an environment. Besides, the Janmashtami celebration is right around the corner. People from distant places will be coming to the Chaturbhuj temple. They all come to listen to Meera’s devotional songs.”

Ratan Singh was silent for a moment and then quietly said, “You are right, Bhai Sa…”

“Kurki truly lies in darkness,” Ratan continued, “because while Dadu’s kingdom of Merta basks in the light of a full moon, Kurki remains shrouded in the darkness of a new moon night.

Kurki, too, needs Meera. The people there long for her presence. They want to hear her devotional songs, listen to her words—they want to see her with their own eyes.”

When Biramdevji was about to protest, Rao Dudaji raised his hand to stop him and said, “Ratan, I understand the depth of your feelings. It’s true—one part of my kingdom enjoys Meera’s company, while another is deprived of it. But Meera is not anyone’s personal property—she belongs to all. Chaturbhujji has sent her to this world with a special purpose. We cannot confine her within narrow boundaries.”

Biramdevji said, “But Dadu, here in Merta, Meera has her aunt, who loves her even more than her own son Jaimal. She always takes care of Meera. But in Kurki, there is no one—how will she live there?”

Rao Dudaji replied, “I’ve received messages from various parts of Rajputana. People from faraway places want to hear Meera’s teachings, her message. We cannot deprive them for our own selfish reasons. Meera does not belong to us alone. Ratan, you may take her with you. And Biramdev, stop worrying about Meera’s comfort. In life, she will have to walk many difficult paths alone—paths where no one will be by her side.”

Kurki village was celebrating Janmashtami with joy and excitement. But to say it was only about Janmashtami would be an understatement—after many years, their princess was returning to the village. The sky and air were filled with colors from vibrant powders of celebration. Meera and Ramabai were riding on the back of a camel, heading toward the Kurki fort. The terrain was dry and desolate, with scattered clusters of small huts across the barren landscape. In the midst of the yellow, harsh land, there was barely a trace of greenery—just a few sparse trees, none bearing fruits or flowers, only thorny shrubs.

Unlike Merta, Kurki had no ponds, no orchards. Peeking through the veil, Meera tried to attune herself to this rugged landscape…

She began to think that this landscape deeply resembled the life of her father, Ratan Singh. Ever since the death of his wife, Ratan Singh had never remarried. He spent his days absorbed in managing his jagir (landholdings) and worshipping Giridharji. To Meera, women symbolized the flow of water—and after her mother’s death, both her father and this land had become unbearably dry and barren.

Hearing that Meera was coming, villagers had lined both sides of the road to welcome her. Everyone wanted a glimpse of their princess. But since Meera was behind a veil, they could not see her properly. Meera, sensing their silent yearning, gently pulled aside the veil, leaned forward, and folded her hands in greeting to the people. This sincere gesture and respectful greeting from the princess moved the villagers deeply on the very first day. Word of Meera’s humility and grace spread quickly from one end of Ratan Singh’s jagir to the other.

On the auspicious day of Janmashtami, the Kurki palace and the temple of Giridharji were adorned with flowers of every color. Just before evening, the palace maids lit oil lamps in every corner of the fort and along the temple courtyard. Even the fort gates had been opened to the public. Villagers from far and wide began making their way to the Kurki fort. Each of them felt incredibly fortunate—today, they would hear their princess sing, watch her dance, and receive the divine prasad of Giridharji as a blessing.

From afar, the fort glowed in the light of countless lamps. Every part of the pathway was lit with rows of earthen lamps. Meerabai was sitting in the southern chamber of the fort, adorning herself for the evening. Ramabai sat beside her. Meera loved to do her own makeup and dressing. This time, Jaimal had come with them too—he had come willingly to Kurki with his sister because, more than anything, he wanted to ensure her safety. Jaimal always felt that Meera was not safe unless he was near her. With so many people expected for Janmashtami, he had been in close discussion with the guards, reinforcing Meera’s security arrangements.

By evening, the courtyard of Giridharji’s temple was overflowing with people. At that very moment, Princess Meera stepped out from inside the temple with Ramabai at her side…

There was a direct path from inside the fort to the temple. Meera walked down that path, entered the temple, and first adorned Giridharji with ornaments and flowers. Then, taking a conch shell in her hand, she stepped out onto the temple courtyard and blew the conch. Seeing Meerabai on the temple platform holding the conch, the crowd erupted in joyous chants. Dressed in a yellow lehenga and adorned with golden jewelry, Meera looked like a celestial goddess descended from the heavens.

Blowing the conch, Meera addressed the crowd:

“You all are my Giridharji. He resides within each one of you. So on this sacred occasion of Janmashtami, I dedicate this conch sound to you all.”

Meera then went back inside the temple, took a large tray filled with blue and yellow flower petals, and offered them at Giridharji’s feet. She then returned to the courtyard and scattered those petals over the people. After that, carrying a bell in one hand and a five-flame oil lamp (panchapradip) in the other, she performed arati to Giridharji and then turned to the crowd, lifting her hand and ringing the bell as she offered the arati to them too.

This act of devotion left the entire gathering—regardless of caste, religion, or creed—in awe. The people erupted in chants of victory and praise. For them, even being acknowledged by wealthy or high-caste individuals was rare—let alone being worshipped as divine. And here was a princess, performing arati to them as if they were God Himself, offering them flowers and blessings. It was more than they could have ever imagined. The common people began chanting Meera’s name in triumph.

Then Meera began to sing a bhajan she had written herself. Holding an ektara, she lost herself in her music, becoming completely absorbed. In that moment, she was no longer one individual—she was seeing thousands of Giridharjis in the faces of the ordinary people, and overwhelmed with emotion, she began to dance ecstatically.

“Dekhat Shyam hase Sudama ku, Dekhat Shyam hase”

(“Shyam smiles upon seeing Sudama, Shyam smiles…”)

As she sang this devotional verse, written by her own hand, Meera was overcome with emotion. After her dance concluded, she stood on the platform and bowed deeply to the people. The crowd erupted once more in joyous cheers.

Then Meera spoke, “I want this unity among us to live long. Among us, no one is small, no one is great—we are all equal. My father is your jagirdar (landlord) only because God has placed him in that role. But without you, my father’s existence is incomplete. You and my father are one—two halves of a whole.”

“The combined existence of you both,” Meera continued, “is none other than Giridharji Himself. That is why there is no such thing here as high or low. Our country is being invaded by foreign enemies. We all know the story of Maharaj Prithviraj’s defeat—how terribly he was defeated. Behind it lies a shameful tale of betrayal. And you all know what became of Ajmer after that. That is why we must stay united.”

“To the women here, I say the same: train yourselves in the use of weapons. Because when the time comes, you too will have to take up arms.”

That day, everyone who had come to Kurki Fort returned home with their hearts full of joy. Those who attended had all eaten Giridharji’s prasad to their heart’s content. Many even tied up bundles of the sacred food to take back home to their families.

Later that night, Meera and Ramabai were having a quiet conversation when Jaimal entered. Meera was surprised to see him—Jaimal almost never came to her quarters at such a late hour.

In the dim light of the room, Meera noticed a deep concern etched across her brother’s face. She said nothing and simply looked at him.

Jaimal spoke at last: “Meera, not everyone who comes to watch you dance looks at you with pure eyes. I’ve seen it. When you perform, many people stare at you with lustful, vile intentions.”

Meera knew how deeply her brother Jaimal loved her and how vigilant he always was about her safety. And she knew that he had not come this late at night just to make a joke.

After voicing his concerns, Jaimal left Meera’s chamber.

Meera then turned to Ramabai and said: “Ramabai, what my brother just said—don’t you think we should take it seriously?”

Ramabai nodded, “You’re absolutely right, Meera. Not everything Jaimal says can be dismissed. Sometimes, he says things that are truly important.”

Meera didn’t have to wait long. During her stay in Kurki, a wandering monk (sannyasi) arrived. Everyone in Meera’s family loved to serve holy men, and Rao Dudaji had especially taught Meera that serving saints and sages is a noble act…

It is said that such service earns great spiritual merit. Ratan Singh himself had always followed in the footsteps of his father. So, when the monk arrived, Ratan Singh served him to the best of his ability. But the monk expressed a special wish—he said that he wanted to receive Meera’s personal service.

Ratan Singh, believing the monk’s request to be divine will, sent his daughter Meera to attend to the monk. During her time in Merta, Meera had already learned the ways of serving ascetics from Rao Dudaji. So, she began serving this monk with the same devotion and discipline.

One day, the monk said to her, “Meera, I wish to receive your service in private. Please ask your maid to leave.”

At that moment, Meera recalled her brother Jaimal’s warning. Without wasting another second, she stood up from the monk’s feet and said firmly, “You will never find me alone anywhere, because Giridharji is present everywhere. It is impossible to deceive His eyes.”

Hearing this resolute reply, the monk immediately asked Meera for forgiveness and left Kurki at once. That day, both Meera and Ramabai deeply realized the truth in Jaimal’s concern.

Meera could not stay in Kurki for long, because her entire existence was emotionally tied to Merta. However, before leaving, she planted the seeds of self-reliance among the women of Kurki. She organized and mobilized women against sati (widow burning) and other forms of female oppression, creating several groups that later came to be known as “Meera-panthī”—followers of Meera’s path.

As spring arrived amid the harsh terrain of Merta, the palace gardens bloomed with flowers and fruits. From the flower-laden branches, the calls of the koel (cuckoo bird) echoed. Meera’s songs cast a transcendental aura over the landscape of Merta. A deep peace and serenity settled into the hearts of the people. Even in the midst of their daily chores, they would rush to the temple just to listen to Meera sing.

To them, Meera was like a daughter of their own household. But it astonished everyone that someone so young could embody such deep affection and empathy. Villagers would come to her not just for spiritual solace, but to seek solutions to their personal problems as well.

Meera was often found at the temple of Chaturbhujji (Lord Vishnu)…

Sitting on the chatal (stone platform) of the temple, Meera listens intently to the people of Merta. Now, the villagers live without major difficulties, but whenever someone faces financial hardship, the news inevitably reaches Meera. She raises both her hands in blessing and provides them with help.

By now, a devoted group of followers has formed around Meera. Even while living inside the palace, she has gradually expanded her influence and compassion in such a way that Rao Dudaji’s heart fills with joy. The power and capability that his sons lacked—he saw clearly in Meera.

As on every day, Meera was sitting on the temple platform singing: “Meera dāsi janam janam—kī āngsu āng lagābo, mam chittasu chitt lagābo.”

(“Meera is a servant for lifetimes—let my limbs merge with yours, let my mind merge with yours.”)

The people of Merta were listening with rapt attention. Dressed in a blue ghagra and a green odhni, Meera looked like a celestial goddess descended from the heavens. Though she was a princess, Meera lived a life of simplicity—she wore no gold, diamonds, or precious jewels, only ornaments made of colorful flowers. This pure and serene beauty of hers enchanted everyone.

Despite her royal lineage, Meera spoke with such natural warmth and humility—no one else spoke to them so lovingly or respectfully.

When the song ended, Meera opened her eyes and looked at the villagers. In the front row sat a very beautiful young girl, nearly of marriageable age. Meera looked at her and smiled gently.

She asked, “What is your name?”

Surprised, the girl looked around and then said, “Me?”

Meera nodded affectionately.

The girl answered, “My name is Komal.”

Meera asked, “Komal, who came with you?”

Sitting beside Komal was a middle-aged man, who now stood up and replied, “She is my daughter, Komal.”

Meera gestured kindly with her hand and said, “Please sit.” Then she added,

“Your daughter is of marriageable age. It’s time to start planning her wedding.”

The villagers listened to Meera in awe. For a girl of her age to speak and behave with such maturity left everyone amazed.

Komal’s father said, “There’s been no rain for the past few years, and because of that, our crops have failed…”

“We can barely manage food for ourselves—how can I arrange my daughter’s marriage?” said Komal’s father helplessly.

Meera said, “Charandas… Charandas!”

A man named Charandas stepped forward and bowed with folded hands.

Meera instructed him, “Charandas, gather all the details about Komal’s family and find a suitable groom for her. I want Komal to be married within a month.”

When Komal’s father rushed forward to touch Meera’s feet in gratitude, Meera stopped him and said,

“Please don’t do this. I have done nothing. It is Giridharji who does everything—I am merely a medium.”

In this way, Meera continued a long conversation with the villagers until the evening aarti began. Then the worship of Chaturbhujji started. The priest, Gadadhar Pandit, performed the rituals with great devotion. During this time, Meera sat silently in a corner of the sanctum.

Not only the people of Merta, but also people from neighboring regions came to see Meera. After the aarti, Meera took the five-wick lamp in her own hands and descended into the crowd. In the courtyard of the fort stood a huge tulsi (holy basil) tree. She placed the lamp on the stone platform around the tree and returned to the temple.

Before going inside, she stood before the crowd and said, “Each one of you must take Thakurji’s prasad before you leave. And to those who have come from far away, I request you—please don’t go back so late at night. Stay in the temple guest house tonight. Leave tomorrow after partaking in Thakurji’s prasad.”

After the evening aarti, the temple courtyard became unusually quiet. Dudaji and Meera sat side by side, listening to Gadadhar Pandit’s discourse on the Puranas.

At one point, Gadadhar Pandit paused and said, “Whenever the world has been engulfed in sin, Lord Shri Krishna has descended to Earth. Meera, today our land is burning from all sides. At any moment, our nation may again face a foreign invasion. Will our women once more have to observe jauhar vrata (mass self-immolation to protect their honor)? I am deeply concerned today. Faraway in Bengal, Sri Chaitanya has taken refuge in Utkal (present-day Odisha). He has travelled across India in an effort to unite the native kings. Those rulers who…

“They are taking refuge in Mathura after being attacked. But in such a time, there is no unity among our Rajput kings. This western region of the country will be the first to be attacked. Then what will happen?” said Gadadhar Pandit, his face tense with concern.

After a pause, Dudaji said thoughtfully, “Panditji, Meera is now of marriageable age. Marital alliances are one of the most effective ways to unite kings—through such a bond, not only two royal families, but also their allies, can be brought together.”

Gadadhar Pandit’s face was marked with deep contemplation. For a while, he stared at the wall on the right side of the temple, where Meera’s composed songs were carefully inscribed. He had personally written them on the temple walls with great care. Gadadhar Pandit firmly believed that the spiritual core of this temple was Meera herself. Without her, Merta—and especially the temple of Chaturbhujji—would remain incomplete.

Turning to Dudaji, he said, “The King of Mewar, Rana Sangha, is preparing to claim the throne of Delhi. He plans to re-establish Hindu sovereignty across Hindustan. His eldest son is Bhoj—the crown prince. Rana Sangha is searching for a worthy bride for his son, someone capable of sitting beside Rana Bhoj on the throne of Delhi. True, Rajputana has no shortage of royal daughters. But a princess like Meera, who is not only politically astute but also well-versed in scripture and statecraft, is one of a kind. If you permit me, I would like to send a message to Rana Sangha through a trusted envoy.”

Dudaji did not hesitate for even a moment. He had, after all, been preparing Meera for this very day since her childhood.

Meera is a princess, and someday she would have to marry. But through her marriage, she must be positioned where her talents could influence and guide the politics of all Rajputana.

Dudaji said, “There could be no better proposal than this. I shall send a royal emissary with full honors tomorrow itself.”

But Gadadhar Pandit raised a concern, “No, Ranaji. If you send an emissary yourself, they may not accept your proposal. Compared to Mewar, Merta is much smaller. Without knowing Meera’s true capabilities, they might dismiss the proposal.”

At this, Dudaji looked deeply troubled and asked,

“Then what is the way forward?” (Continues)

Click here for Part-1, Part-2, Part-3, Part-4, Part-5, Part-6, 

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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.