Through this award-winning novel, the author has attempted to illuminate a lesser-known chapter of Meerabai’s life
[From childhood, the author’s deep fascination with Meerabai’s songs led them to visit Meerabai’s birthplace, Kurki village, in 2012. Located 80 kilometers from Ajmer, Merta is a small settlement that the author also visited in pursuit of their novel. Even today, Meerabai’s birthplace in Kurki remains intact. Upon arriving in Kurki, the author met an elderly man, Maun Singh Rathore. The old man informed the author that there are nine forts between Jodhpur and Kurki, with the Kurki Fort being the most significant. That day, sitting in a corner of the fort, the elderly man began singing, “Kurki tera kotra nai khuti ki naak.”
The author strongly believes that before writing about any historical figure or a significant historical chapter, it is essential to visit the places associated with them. This is because, for generations, local people have preserved countless stories and legends about these historical figures or events. Within these oral traditions, the true history is often hidden, passed down through generations by the ancestors of the local people. Before writing about Meerabai, the author traveled to all the places associated with her and spent long hours conversing with the locals.
While researching Chaitanya’s disappearance, the author uncovered many mysterious aspects of Meerabai’s life. Beneath the exterior of a Vaishnav saint, a different side of Meerabai emerged—a woman with a keen political vision. This Meerabai was not only an extraordinary saint-queen with remarkable political insight but also a social reformer. From childhood, while residing inside the royal palace, she established the “Meerapanthi” community, which remains active even after 500 years. Under Meerabai’s leadership, this community played a crucial role in women’s empowerment and strongly opposed the practice of Sati. Even today, in Kurki village, many stories and legends about the Meerapanthis are passed down orally.
The author relied on information gathered from the residents of Kurki and Merta, as well as various books, to begin writing this novel. Merta was the capital of Meerabai’s grandfather, Rao Dudaji. After Meerabai’s mother passed away, Rao Dudaji brought her to Merta. The author personally witnessed the ruins of the Merta fort, which Rao Dudaji had built. A part of the fort still stands beside a vast lake, where, according to local accounts, pink lotus flowers bloomed 500 years ago, just as they do today. Standing amidst the ruins of Merta Fort, gazing at the lake, the author felt as though they were witnessing scenes from the past unfold before their eyes. The remnants of the fort can still be found scattered over a vast area.
At the heart of Merta, a palace remains preserved under the Rajasthan government’s care. Local belief suggests that Meerabai lived in this palace. In one corner of the palace, the Chaturbhuj temple still stands as a witness to 500 years of history. It is said that both Meerabai and Rao Dudaji worshipped here. Even today, the same idol of Chaturbhuj is worshipped in this temple. A statue of Meerabai has also been installed in one corner of the temple, inscribed with her birth year as 1561 Samvat (1504 AD), her marriage year as 1573 Samvat (1516 AD), and her death year as 1607 Samvat (1550 AD). A memorial dedicated to Meerabai in Merta also bears the same inscription regarding her birth and death. This suggests that she passed away at the age of just 46.
Through this novel, the author has attempted to illuminate a lesser-known chapter of Meerabai’s life. At the end of this 46-year-long journey, they have also sought to unravel some of the mysteries surrounding Meerabai’s disappearance. After 500 years, it is incredibly difficult to make definitive claims. However, through a logical approach, the author has strived to arrive at a plausible conclusion.]
Meera
By Debasree Chakraborti
The night’s darkness has not yet lifted, but the dawn’s ambiance has begun to resonate in nature. The calls of peacocks can be heard from all around. Saanjh is lying on her bed, lost in thought as she gazes at the picture. In one corner of the room, a dim light is burning, illuminating the scene slightly. With the surroundings feeling quite suffocating due to being enclosed, she has opened a window in one corner, allowing a breeze to enter the room, creating a pleasant tinkling sound on the southern chandelier. In her right hand, she holds a page from an ancient manuscript, and Saanjh begins to recite the words written on that page in her mind:
“Now, to chant the name of Hari,
All the people have become butter thieves;
Worshipping him, the renouncer.
Whoever steals away the enchanting flute,
Is taken by the Gopi;
Tied in knots of millions of strings,
Along with the charming beloved.
By the grace of Jashomati, the butter-maker,
Whoever graces her feet,
Is the young Shyam, the charming boy;
Chaitanya is his name.
Wearing the yellow robe in divine grace,
What a beautiful form!
Gaur Krishna’s devotee, Meera,
With her tongue, sings for Krishna.”
That is, she has now become absorbed in the love of Hari’s name. Everywhere in the world, he is the butter thief, yet here, he has embodied the appearance of a renouncer. Now, having left the enchanting flute and the Gopis behind, he has covered his head and donned a kaupina (loincloth). The young Shyam, who was bound by the feet of his mother Yashomati for stealing butter, has taken on the name Chaitanya as the charming new Gauranga. To display the essence of the yellow robe, he has tied a kaupina around his waist. Meera, the devotee of Gaur Krishna, is always chanting the name of Krishna with her tongue.
Each of these words reveals many unknown truths. Saanjh, a girl from Kolkata, came all the way from the eastern part of India to seek the meaning of each word. What connection could there possibly be between Gauranga in Nabadwip, Bengal, and some distant queen in the western region, that she would compose such an impressive verse? The only interpretation is that a communication was established between these two brilliant points, the straight line between them being extremely long, containing a deep mystery within it. This is why, before coming here, she had rushed from Jaipur to the village of Kuurki in search of answers.
Saanjh’s eyes seemed to be enveloped in sleep. With her eyes closed, she envisioned a vast desert landscape, a small settlement of Kuurki veiled in white smoke amidst the arid land. In such a scorching environment, gradually, the blanket of night’s darkness enveloped the entire village. On the northern hillside of the village stood a large fort, its lights extinguished in every room; only one room in the south emitted a light. The villagers were eagerly awaiting some special moment. In this settlement, the wife of Ratan Singh, of the Mertiya branch of the Rathore dynasty, the Veer Kuwari, was writhing in the pains of childbirth. Today, none of the fires in the village had been lit. Everyone was waiting to invite their expected heir. In the northern room of the palace, Rani Ji sat anxiously, awaiting a critical news. A sense of unease flowed through her mind. She had previously given birth to a son, but he could not be saved, so it was natural for her to feel a cloud of worry gathering in her heart. Rani Ji could not sit still in one place. Would she be able to preserve her lineage, or would Kuurki, like many other settlements, be lost to the relentless storm of the desert?
In every stone of the Kuurki fort lies a poignant story of establishing self-respect, a respect that had to be earned through personal effort. Rao Ranmall’s son, Jodha, was the founder of Jodhpur city. His youngest son, Dudaji, is the father of Ratan Singh. Through various trials and battles, including sibling rivalry and attacks from surrounding enemies, Dudaji and his sons had to establish their own existence.
But at such a moment, when a terrible wound has been inflicted in the western part of India due to long foreign invasions, fire is burning across the entire subcontinent. On one side, the Lodi Empire in Delhi is going through a dreadful day; in Bengal, Husain Shah reigns, a ruler whom even the Sultan of Delhi respects. Meanwhile, Jaunpur has lost its independence and has faded into darkness. The King of Odisha, Pratapaditya, is battered by enemy attacks, and the Sultan of Malwa, Ghiyath al-Din, along with his two sons, is entangled in a struggle for the throne. Distant Sindh and Multan are beset by political turmoil. From Kandahar, Shah Beg is roaring at the main gate of Sindh. In such a scenario, if no future heir is left for their family, small communities like theirs will be lost forever in the political whirlpool.
From the northern side of the dark fort, the anguished cries of women can be heard, accompanied by the sounds of anklets and bangles. The maidservants are bringing essential supplies to the midwife. Other maidservants are discussing how they have never witnessed such long labor pains; some believe that a powerful heir might be forthcoming this time. Just then, shattering the silence of the entire fort, the cries of a newborn baby echoed through.
Rana Ratan Singh stood up and moved toward the door; he could hear a melody of joy flowing throughout the palace, as the sounds of the maidservants’ anklets approached. A maid rushed in and said, “Rana Ji, a daughter has been born, like the moon!” Today, the entire palace is illuminated by the beauty of the girl.
As per tradition, Rana Ratan Singh gave a gold coin to the maid and hurried toward the queen’s palace.
Veer Kuwari, the daughter of the Rajput Suratan Singh, lay with her newborn, as the light of the third day’s moon of the waxing month of Baisakh streamed through the open window onto the baby’s face. The queen appeared like a dignified tigress, nursing her child with the pride of a mother.
The maid, Rama, ran towards the village after receiving her reward. A winding road leads from the Kuurki fort to the village. On this path, the maid, Rama Bai, is proceeding with a torch in hand. The villagers can see a speck of light approaching from a distance. It seems they have been waiting for this moment. The gentle sound of anklets brings an air of joy to the village as it nears. In the midst of the barren landscape stands a large banyan tree, its base brick-lined, and here, the villagers have gathered to await their heir.
The people of this village travel far for trade, and people from distant lands frequently visit it. Last week, two spice traders from South India took refuge in the house of Mahendra while on their way to the Sindh province. Just a while ago, Mahendra was telling the villagers, “Do you know the state of the country?”
The villagers listened to Mahendra with respect, as anyone coming from afar and taking shelter in their havelis brings them news from all over the country. Mahendra continued, “Do you know what has happened?”
An elderly villager asked, “What has happened?”
Mahendra said, “A Portuguese navigator named Vasco da Gama has arrived at the port of Calicut in the south. He is said to be planning to do business there.”
The elder replied, “Business or something else? This is how enemies are infiltrating the country from outside.” Another villager remarked, “A merchant from Multan arrived last week; he told us that the vizier of that state has poisoned Sultan Firoz.”
Upon hearing this, a buzzing conversation began among the crowd. One of the villagers said, “It seems there is no fear for our Rajputana because Rana Sang of Mewar is reportedly planning to unite the Rajputs to seize the throne of Delhi. Therefore, we must stay united now.”
An elder interjected, “Is there any unity among our rulers? How can we stay united? The entire Rajputana has turned into a hot cauldron!”
At that moment, a flash of lightning lit up the sky. Dark clouds were gathering on the distant hills; it had been many years since clouds had summoned rain to this village—what a blessed moment it was. Just then, the maid, Ramabai, rushed into the village along the winding path from the fort and arrived under the banyan tree. Overjoyed, she raised her pouch of coins and exclaimed, “Look, Rana ji has rewarded me with a gold coin! Do you know why?”
The village pathways were now silent, filled only with the sound of rustling winds and the rumbling of the clouds. Everyone was looking at the maid. She continued, “Mother Lakshmi has come to our village! The entire palace is shimmering with her beauty.” However, the villagers didn’t seem to share her joy. Their thoughts revolved around the fact that an heir must be a male; how could a woman manage their kingdom in such times?
As questions marked the faces of all, suddenly, a downpour of rain began to descend upon the village, quenching its long thirst and heralding the beginning of a new historic chapter. From amidst the rough shrubs surrounding them, a troupe of peacocks approached, spreading their tails and beginning to dance throughout the village. While watching this splendid scene, Ramabai felt that human dreams are incredibly diverse, sometimes impossible to comprehend.
The sleepy consciousness of the evening entered Kuurki village, passing through a long maze of darkness into another illuminated realm. It was a sunlit day. Inside a room, Maharani was worshiping a statue of Giridhari Gopal adorned with flowers. Holding a bell in one hand and a plate of offerings in the other, she performed the aarti. Beside her sat the little princess, dressed in a yellow ghagra and a sky-blue dupatta. An odd smile graced the princess’s lips, and there were tears in her eyes.
Anyone witnessing such deep devotion in the eyes of such a young child would be astounded. Once the pooja was over, the princess followed her mother to another part of the palace. After the worship, the queen spread a sacred aura of auspiciousness throughout the entire palace. At that moment, the princess heard the distant sound of wedding music coming from below the fort, where a wedding procession was passing through the mountain pass. The princess froze and began to watch the wedding party, not even realizing how far her mother had gone.
Just then, a loving voice floated toward her, “Meera, Meera, what’s wrong? Why have you stopped?”
The girl raised her right hand and pointed toward the wedding procession, saying, “Mother, look, the bridegroom’s party is going by.” Mira’s mother, Bir Kuwari, came and lovingly embraced her daughter, saying, “Yes, dear, one day a bridegroom will come for you too.” Mira wondered when her bridegroom would arrive; if a procession came, then surely there would also be a groom. But where did her groom live?
All day long, Mira thought about her future husband. As evening descended and darkness covered the fort, Queen Bir Kuwari lit the evening lamps and began to worship her Giridhari Gopal, with little Mira sitting beside her. The queen noticed that her daughter’s face showed a lot of sadness today. Bir Kuwari, while cleaning Gopal’s throne, looked at her daughter and asked, “What happened, dear? You seem very upset today.” Little Mira struggled to find the words to respond. Her mother sensed that a deep crisis was brewing within her daughter.
Bir Kuwari wrapped little Mira in her arms and said, “What happened, Mira? You don’t need to be shy with me, hmm?” Mira was an extremely shy and gentle-natured girl. Her face nestled in her mother’s palms looked like a recently bloomed lotus. Slowly, she turned to her mother and asked, “Mother, who is my groom?”
Mira’s eyes resembled two deep lotus ponds. Her droopy eyes were like oceans of devotion. Bir Kuwari, as Mira’s mother, could not find the depth of this question. After gazing into her daughter’s eyes for a while, she turned to look at Giridhari Gopal and said, “Mira, the one you see as Giridhari, he is your husband.”
In the darkness of the night, little Mira lay in her bed covered with a blue silk sheet in the sleeping palace. From a distance, her bed seemed surrounded by peacocks, as the edges of the bed were adorned with peacock feathers. To ensure that little Mira wouldn’t be scared at night, her mother had arranged this decor to protect her daughter from malevolent forces.
The influence of her mother on this little girl was profound. Her mother told her that Giridhari Gopal was her husband, and what greater fortune could there be? Since birth, the one she recognized as God, Kanha Ji, was her husband. In a dreamy slumber, Mira had a strange dream; she saw…
In the palace of Chhappan Kots, Mira is getting married to Kanha Ji. During the wedding ceremony, they both are applying turmeric paste together. This dream wakes Mira from her slumber. The little girl sits up in bed, panting. Mira is extremely gentle, so her mother becomes quite worried about her. Her mother also wakes up and hugs Mira, saying, “There’s nothing to be afraid of, Meera; I’m here.”
Looking at her mother, Meera starts to sing:
“I have married in a great dream, O Jagadish.
My body is smeared with turmeric, oh, how it shines!
I have married in a great dream, O Dinanath.
Where the bridegroom is, there the Lord resides.
In the great dream, the bridegroom, the Divine, has arrived,
With grand decorations all around, in this dream,
Girdhariji met Meera, a blessing from previous lives,
In the great dream, I have married, the unbreakable love!”
Hearing her daughter’s description, a profound wave of devotion arises in her mother’s heart, and tears flow from her eyes. Bir Kuwari thinks to herself that it is because of her deep devotion to Giridhari that she has received this daughter as a blessing. The effect of the description her daughter just shared with her is possible only because it is God’s blessing; otherwise, it would have never been possible.
Rana Ratan Singh and Queen Bir Kuwari have immense devotion for the Vedas. Sadhus and ascetics come from far and wide to seek refuge in this palace. Since her birth, Mira has observed her father frequently discussing various topics with different holy men. She has often heard her mother say that without them, they would not be safe.
One day, a sadhu arrived at their palace. He was said to have come from the distant land of Bengal. Mira had seen many ascetics in her life, but she had never seen one as beautiful as this sadhu. The ascetic brought with him a statue of Giridhari.
This statue seemed to be alive. Shy Mira watched from a distance, gazing at the idol. She was not the type of girl to express herself openly. Bir Kuwari kept a close eye on all her daughter’s movements. She approached Rana Ji and mentioned Mira’s interest in the statue.
Rana Ji said to the ascetic, “O Lord, my daughter really likes this Giridhari. If you would give it to her, I am willing to pay any price.”
The ascetic noticed that the little girl was still standing by the door. During the time he had spent here so far, he had seen her looking at him in this way for a long time. At times, the girl would disappear, but not for long; she always returned.
He had never seen such deep devotion in such a small girl before. The sadhu called out to the little girl with a gesture of his head and eyes. Mira walked in with a light step and stood before him.
She continued to gaze at the statue. Such a profound gaze at this age—it hid within it a remarkably determined spirit. The ascetic handed the statue to Mira and asked, “What is your name?”
Seeing her beloved Giridhari, the joy on her face was unmistakable. It seemed as though the glow of a full moon radiated from her countenance. With great happiness, she replied, “Meera.”
The ascetic said, “Wow, you have such a beautiful name! What does this name mean?”
Mira replied in a melodic tune, “mertiya ghar janam liyo hain… Meera naam kahayo” (My name is Meera as I was born in the home of mertiya)
I was born in the house of the Merdiyas; that is why my name is Mira.”
Rana Ratan Singh added, “It means I was named Meera because I was born in the house of the Merdiyas.”
The ascetic gazed deeply into Mira’s eyes for a long time and then said, “In Sanskrit, the word ‘Mira’ means ‘the great ocean.’ Given her devotion and love for Ranjhchorji, it seems that this naming is truly significant.”
“Rana Ji, do not be troubled any longer. People will say whatever they wish; they have mouths to speak. But do not let it make you sad. For today, I saw a spark in this girl that, even if indirectly, will profoundly influence the politics of entire India. You will remember my words then. And one more thing, Rana Ji, I will maintain a constant connection with your daughter. My appointed representatives will come and train her for the future.”
Upon hearing the ascetic’s words, Rana Ji was taken aback. “What is the ascetic saying?”
Mira continued to look at Giridhari Ji. The ascetic then asked her, “Mira, will you sing a song for me about your Giridhari Ji?”
The shy girl simply but gracefully sat down in front of the ascetic, placing Giridhari Ji on her lap, and began to sing:
Mere to Giridhar Gopal, dusaro na koi,
Mere to Giridhar Gopal, dusaro na koi,
Jaa ke sir mor mukut, mero pati soi,
Mere to Giridhar Gopal, dusaro na koi,
Mere to Giridhar Gopal.
(Translation: My Lord is Giridhar Gopal and none else. He wears the crown decorated with the feathers of a peacock)
Rana Singh said, “O Lord, this means there is no one besides Giridhari Gopal for me. The one who wears peacock feathers on his crown is my husband. I have come here for devotion; this devotion is my only purpose. The world is enchanted. O Giridhari, Mira is your maid; O Lord, you must save her.”
The ascetic replied, “Rana Ji, prepare your daughter for the future of India. This girl, with her devotion and the light of her spirit, will govern the politics of the entire country.” (Continues)
Click here for Part-1,
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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.
