Maharani Didda: Witch Queen of Kashmir

By Debasree Chakraborti

The news of Maharaja Kshemagupta’s death spread across the entire kingdom like a storm. In view of the Maharaja’s illness, no one considered bringing his body back to Srinagar, for it was feared that the people of the regions through which the Maharaja would have been carried might become infected by the disease. For this reason, it was decided that he would be cremated on the banks of the Vitasta at Hunkpur in Varahakshetra. Queen Chandralekha was asked to prepare herself for sati. Chandralekha placed her complete faith in her father, Phalguna; she believed that he would never allow her to become sati and that he would arrive in time to save his daughter. Therefore, despite her ailing body, she calmly began preparing herself for the rite.

When the news of the Maharaja’s death reached the royal palace in Srinagar, the Queen Mother was sitting with her grandson Abhimanyu in her lap. She had endured many storms and upheavals in her life; so although the news of her son’s death struck her heart with a terrible shock, she composed herself by thinking of the situation that lay ahead. She lifted her grandson in both arms and kissed him on the forehead. Abhimanyu felt deeply comforted in his grandmother’s embrace.

The Queen Mother was gazing steadily at him; drops of tears from her eyes were falling onto the face of the infant Abhimanyu, yet Abhimanyu was smiling and waving his little hands in delight. He had no ability to comprehend how tragic a misfortune the loss of a father is in a child’s life. Looking at him, the Queen Mother said, “The reins of Kashmir’s governance will now have to be taken into your own hands.”

At that moment, Naravahana entered Didda’s apartments. Didda was then in the same chamber with the Queen Mother. She had mentally prepared herself for such a day, but she was still pondering what her next step should be.

The Queen Mother said, “I believe that becoming sati is entirely a woman’s own choice. If she wishes, she may do so; if she does not, she need not.”

Bhalaga also entered the chamber along with Naravahana. On seeing Naravahana, Bhalaga asked with great urgency, “Will Didda have to commit sati?”

Before Naravahana could reply, the Queen Mother said, “I believe that becoming sati is entirely a woman’s own choice. If she wishes, she may do so; if she does not, she need not.”

“I did not become sati, thinking of the upbringing and care of my son. Nor will Didda. She is the Queen Mother, and the Crown Prince is still a nursing infant. If the mother were to die prematurely, the child’s life would be ruined. Therefore, Didda will under no circumstances become sati.”

Naravahana added, “Moreover, before his death, the Maharaja entrusted the responsibility of his kingdom to Maharani Didda. Hence, there is no question at all of Maharani Didda becoming sati.”

At that moment, Didda spoke, “It is not right to take such a decision within the four walls of the palace. I place my decision about becoming sati in the hands of the people. If they wish, I shall become sati; otherwise, I shall not.”

Rising to her feet with her grandson in her arms, the Queen Mother stepped toward Didda and said, “Do not take any decision in a moment of emotion. You must think of your child above all else.”

Placing her hand on Abhimanyu’s head, Didda said, “As long as you are here, I have no concern about my child’s future.”

Naravahana protested, “But the responsibility of governing Kashmir will have to be taken up by you alone.”

Didda said with firmness, “Let the people take that decision. I leave both my existence and my non-existence in their hands.”

Sensing imminent danger, Naravahana stepped out of the palace. He had very little time at his disposal; within this brief interval he needed to spread Didda’s decision among the people.

While everyone else was deeply anxious about Didda’s decision, Bhalaga, however, supported it with complete calm. No one knew Didda better than he did. Bhalaga understood what decisions Didda would take at different moments and the reasons behind them. Perhaps for this very reason, he silently gave his assent and began preparing Didda.

Those in the kingdom who were supporters of Naravahana quickly spread the news among the populace that Maharani Didda was going to commit sati. On hearing this, the citizens set out toward Hushkpur of Varahakshetra, for they did not wish to lose their queen at any cost. Didda was dressed in red garments; elderly women came and adorned her like a bride, applying vermilion to the parting of her hair one by one. She was then placed upon a grand chariot and taken along the road to Hushkpur. Lining both sides of the road, the citizens stood with folded hands, tears streaming from their eyes, imploring their queen not to become sati. Such behavior of the people filled Didda with strength; she realized that she was walking on the absolutely right path.

Before Didda’s arrival, Kshemagupta’s funeral pyre had already been prepared at Hushkpur. As Abhimanyu was extremely young, it was not possible for him to perform his father’s last rites; therefore, a distant kinsman was present to offer the mukhāgni to Kshemagupta. The Queen Mother and Bhalaga remained in the royal palace with Abhimanyu. Since the Maharaja had died of a contagious disease, taking a childlike Abhimanyu to such a place could expose him to the illness; considering all this, they stayed back in the palace with the young prince. Bhalaga found the Queen Mother’s conduct in this matter rather surprising, and out of curiosity he once asked her whether she would not even see her son one last time?

In reply, the Queen Mother had said that she had never truly received the respect due to her from this son. He had spent his life in unrestrained debauchery and had never shown the slightest inclination to inquire after his mother. Only after Didda’s arrival had he shown her some measure of respect and spent time with her. Therefore, she felt no real attachment to her son; in her heart she had erased him long ago. At one point, overwhelmed by sorrow, she had even gone away to Varanasi. Now Abhimanyu alone was everything in her life, and she wished to spend the last days of her life with him. Bhalaga understood the state of the Queen Mother’s mind and, with all the strength of his own heart, began to pray for Didda’s victory.

Prime Minister Phalguna had arrived much earlier to attend the Maharaja’s last rites. He saw his daughter Chandralekha watching him as she circumambulated the corpse with folded hands. Even then, Chandralekha believed that her father would do something to save her from becoming sati.

But Prime Minister Phalguna knew that if his daughter became sati, his name would be glorified everywhere and the path to the throne of Kashmir would become free of obstacles for him. When the circumambulation ended, two lamps were placed in Chandralekha’s hands and she was seated upon the funeral pyre. Her heart pounding, Chandralekha looked toward her father—surely now he would rescue her from this dreadful situation. But nothing of the sort happened. A kinsman of Kshemagupta stepped forward and set the pyre alight. The flames slowly began to rise upward; amid the terrifying heat and smoke, Chandralekha’s breath began to fail, yet her father did not come to save her. By then, Chandralekha realized that there was no one in this world more selfish than her father. For the sake of power, he had sacrificed his only daughter. Gradually, the fire consumed Chandralekha’s entire body.

After this, it was Didda’s turn; by then she had already arrived there. As Didda was about to circumambulate the burning pyre, a movement arose among the people. In one voice they cried out, “Maharani Didda is our protecting mother, she is the living embodiment of Mother Bhavani. After the Maharaja, the throne of Kashmir belongs to her.”

They continued to cry out, “If you leave us, we shall be left orphaned. No, Queen Mother, you cannot go like this.” Another group shouted, “If you leave, what will become of our Crown Prince? He is still a nursing infant.”

Hearing such words from the people, Prime Minister Phalguna stepped forward and said, “I will raise the Crown Prince. If the Queen Mother does not become sati, Kashmir will face misfortune.” Then Naravahana and a few of his associates came forward and said, “But before his death, the Maharaja entrusted the responsibility of the people of Kashmir to Maharani Didda.” Naravahana produced a letter and showed it, saying, “Look, the Maharaja has clearly written this here.”

As Didda was about to circumambulate the burning pyre, a movement arose among the people. In one voice they cried out, “Maharani Didda is our protecting mother, she is the living embodiment of Mother Bhavani. After the Maharaja, the throne of Kashmir belongs to her.”

After seeing the letter, Prime Minister Phalguna said, “This is not the Maharaja’s handwriting. A false conspiracy is being hatched to place the younger queen, Didda, upon the throne.” Before the Prime Minister could finish his statement, the agitated crowd began chanting victory slogans in praise of Maharani Didda. Some among the people chased after Prime Minister Phalguna. Startled and disoriented, he ran in all directions in panic.

Bowing her head in respect to the people’s demand, Didda returned to the royal palace with Naravahana. That very night, before meeting her own son, she hurried to Chandralekha’s apartments. There, in the darkness of night amid the dimly lit corridors of the palace, she heard the cries of two little girls. There were no maidservants or anyone else present anywhere in those quarters. Didda felt as though she were witnessing a scene from her own childhood. Searching through the vast palace, she finally reached a particular spot and saw two lovely infant girls standing in a corner of a room, crying.

Didda realized that after the news of Chandralekha’s death, everyone had abandoned her two daughters. On seeing Didda, the two children began to move toward her. Didda understood that they were extremely hungry and deeply frightened after being alone for so long. She rushed forward and lifted the two children into her arms; they rested their heads on Didda’s shoulders and began to sob uncontrollably.

Carrying the two children, Didda walked through the dimly lit passages of Chandralekha’s apartments toward her own quarters. Bright light was streaming from her chambers, and she could hear the joyful sounds of the infant Abhimanyu. Thus, from the dark and tainted chapter of Kshemagupta’s reign, the future of Kashmir slowly moved toward a bright and radiant chapter. (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, 

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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.

The post Maharani Didda: Witch Queen of Kashmir-19 first appeared on Sindh Courier.

• If Diddā was indeed a notorious queen of her time, why then does Kashmiri society still utter her name with such reverence? This novel unfolds the saga of that mysterious queen’s rise amid the political, social, and economic landscape of tenth-century Kashmir.

Debasree Chakraborti

On the banks of the Vitasta River stands a centuries-old, gigantic chinar tree. The local people worship this tree as Mother Bhavani. With its vast, spreading branches, the tree stands like a reflection of all of Kashmir itself — a sheltering, nurturing mother. In its branches live countless birds and reptiles, families who carry on their daily lives there. In perfect harmony — whether natural enemies or instinctive allies — they all coexist under its shade.

Beneath this mighty tree lies the temple of Mother Bhavani. The stone-built shrine is held tightly within the chinar’s branches and roots, as though the tree has embraced it in a firm, protective clasp. Inside the sanctum, a medium-sized idol of Bhavani, carved from black granite, is enshrined. Amid the tangled branches and roots penetrating the sanctum, a brass lamp burns continuously.

The local women have vowed that until their troubles are resolved, they will keep this lamp burning without interruption — meaning they will not allow the Mother to rest. The sanctum has no door, for as the tree grew, it became impossible to close off the entrance. Dry chinar leaves, blown in by the river’s fierce winds, collect inside the sanctum. Yet although the flame of the lamp flickers in the gusts, it never goes out. The villagers believe that Mother Bhavani herself is present here in living form.

It is after her that this village has been named Bhavanipur. This village of the Damars is the only one that still remains intact. The Damars are a deeply peace-loving community; they wish only to live quietly in their own way. For years, although the king’s men repeatedly plundered their harvests and wealth, they endured it silently. But during the reign of Maharaja Kshemagupta, the honour of their families came under attack. And from the time of Parvagupta onward, they began to be wronged in various ways…Attacks on them continued, but during the reign of Kshemagupta a new horror began — the daily abduction of girls from the village. When the honour of the Damar families was violated, they finally began to protest. Their method of protest was entirely peaceful, yet even so, village after village was burned to the ground.

Their leader, Brajeshwardev, narrowly escaped with his life and went into hiding. But in this time of great calamity, it was his duty to protect his community. And so, at midnight, he invited the villagers to gather in the courtyard of Mother Bhavani’s temple. Men, women, and even children of the village waited there, anxiously hoping for the arrival of their beloved leader.

Just then, a tiny light flickered on the river, like a small firefly. No one had noticed it earlier, but as it came closer, it grew brighter and brighter. An elderly man spotted it first and spoke with unease, “Could it be the king’s spy? Look — that light approaching us. Get up, all of you, and see what it is. I don’t like the look of this situation.”

A middle-aged woman added, “We are unarmed. If the king’s troops attack now, our only escape will be to jump into the river.”

A young girl, trying to soothe the infant in her arms, stepped forward and said, “It will start snowing any day now. In this terrible cold, if we jump into the water with the children, they’ll all die. What do we do?”

While speculations rippled through the villagers, the boat reached the shore. A man stepped out, holding a torch. All eyes turned toward him. Torch in hand, he climbed from the riverbank and walked up to the temple courtyard, where he finally sat down. He held out the torch, and another man took it from him and fixed it into the torch holder carved between the temple pillars.

Only then did the villagers realize that the man was none other than their revered leader, Brajeshwardev.

A middle-aged village woman offered him a small vessel of drink. He drank from it, let out a long sigh, and said, “We have very little time. The king’s spies are spread all around us. We must. The first thing we must do,” Brajeshwardev said, “is to send our mothers, sisters, and children safely out of the valley. In the land of Rishi Kashyapa, unrighteousness has taken over. There is no escape from this wicked ruler.”

An elderly man spoke up, “How can we move so many people out of the valley overnight? And besides, who will protect these women if no men accompany them?”

Brajeshwardev replied, “We cannot send everyone in a single night. I have been hiding in the fishermen’s village — the village of the Dheevars who live along the banks of the Vitasta. They have several boats. They have agreed to help us. Using those boats, we will gradually send our mothers, sisters, and children to safety outside the valley. And no, they will not travel alone. There will be one male member in each boat. Each of them must carry something for self-defense. All our kitchens have knives, cleavers, and tools for cutting vegetables, fish, and meat — those will be enough.”

An elderly woman interjected, “But why have the Dheevars agreed to help us? They must have some personal gain in this!”

Brajeshwardev nodded. “Yes, Mother, they do have a reason. King Kshemagupta and his father Parvagupta are their sworn enemies.”

The old woman asked in astonishment, “Enemies?”

“Yes, Mother, enemies indeed. The Dheevar community had once received great kindness from Maharaja Yashaskardev. He had a compassionate heart. He had granted them tax-free land and several special privileges related to their livelihood. In the final days of his life, when the Maharaja renounced his royal duties and awaited voluntary death at the Yashaskara Swami temple, that temple stood right beside the fishermen’s village, on the riverbank.

“In the darkness of night, they would guard the Maharaja in shifts, out of their own devotion. For once he renounced the throne, everyone was waiting for his death — yet he simply did not die. One such night, three fishermen were guarding the temple from three sides. Suddenly, they saw a man emerging from inside the shrine. Since the front of the temple was empty at the time, they had not noticed when he had entered.

“It was a full-moon night. When one of the fishermen, carrying a torch, came around from behind the temple toward the front, he saw that Startled by the torchlight, the man turned around — and at once the fisherman recognized Parvagupta. For even during the king’s lifetime, Parvagupta’s influence had spread everywhere. He interfered in every royal matter. Within a short time, he had become a very familiar face. So even in the darkness of that night, no one had any trouble recognizing him.

After this incident, the king was found dead. Everyone realized that Parvagupta was the king’s murderer. From that moment onward, the fishermen waited for the downfall of this sinful lineage. Later, during the difficult times of the Damars, I entered their lives — and because we shared a common enemy, they chose to stand beside us.

While Brajeshwardev was still deep in discussion with the villagers, the boundary of Bhavanipur suddenly lit up in flames. Every village had been burned in the same manner. First, the outer border was set on fire, and then the attack came from the river’s direction. There had been a royal spy among the Damars themselves. It was he who had informed the prime minister three days earlier of the exact time and day when Brajeshwardev would arrive in the village.

For days, Phalguna’s forces had searched tirelessly to capture Brajeshwardev, but they had failed. The real reason was that he had taken shelter in the fishermen’s settlement — something he had not told anyone. In truth, there had been no means of communication, and because of that, he had remained safe for so long. But with his people being attacked every single day, hiding in safety with eyes closed would be nothing but the height of selfishness.

So he sent a representative from the fishermen’s village, disguised, to a flower seller in this village — a man who regularly crossed the Vitasta by boat to fetch flowers from the gardens on the opposite bank. At the same time, the fisherman too would be out on his own boat catching fish, and thus the two had become acquainted. When Brajeshwardev spoke of Bhavanipur, the fisherman mentioned his connection with the flower seller and assured him that news could be passed through this trusted acquaintance.

But no sooner had the message reached the village than it also reached the prime minister’s ears. From the direction of the river, something like a burning spear shot through the air and struck the chinar tree. Within moments the living tree burst into flames. The fire spread rapidly through the branches, and the creatures living in the tree — birds, reptiles, and others — began to fall to the ground, shrieking in agony as they burned. A massive spear, coated with large quantities of flammable material and set ablaze, had been hurled at the tree.

To the Kashmiris, the chinar is not merely a tree — it is a symbol of Mother Bhavani. The prime minister’s forces struck directly at the heart of the villagers’ sacred devotion. They had received information that rebels were gathering in the courtyard of Mother Bhavani’s temple.

Within moments, a roaring sound rose from the river. It was late at night, and in the darkness the villagers could not at first understand what was happening. The attack was completely sudden. Soldiers entered the village and fell upon the defenseless people. Whoever they saw, they beheaded on the spot. Small children were cut in half and killed.

A mother, clutching her nursing infant to her chest, ran desperately toward the river. Soldiers surrounded her from all sides. They tore the baby from her arms despite her pleas. She fell at their feet and begged, “Do whatever you want with me, but do not harm my child. He is innocent.” The infant too cried out loudly, as though sensing the danger.

One of the soldiers said, “They say the bodies of Damar women are very delicious. Tonight we will all taste you, one after another. After that, your child will be freed.”

To save her child’s life — dearer to her than her own — the woman submitted to the brutality inflicted upon her. As she lay half-unconscious, her vision blurred, she heard her baby crying — the sound came from the direction of the river.

She looked there and saw her child being carried by a soldier, upside-down, legs held upward and head downward, as he walked toward the river. A moment later she heard a single splash — and the infant’s cries ceased.

The young woman somehow managed to rise. Staggering, she walked to the riverbank. Turning once to look at Mother Bhavani’s temple, she then leapt into the water. The soldiers had been ordered that Brajeshwardev must be killed by Prime Minister Phalguna himself. The towering physique of the Damar leader — his long hair, beard, and eyes shaped like bilva leaves — made him unmistakable, as though Lord Mahadeva Himself stood before them. He could always be identified among the crowd.

That night, Brajeshwardev tried to fight back with a staff. For an ideal leader never abandons his people in the face of danger. He was highly skilled in wielding a staff, and he always carried one with him. Though he managed to strike down several soldiers, within moments a massive spear pierced his back — he had been attacked from behind.

Unable to withstand the blow, he fell forward onto the ground.

The spear drove into the earth beneath him. Then Prime Minister Phalguna approached from behind, grabbed Brajeshwardev by the hair, turned his face upward toward himself, and bending slightly, said:

“Brajeshwar, you must pay for your treason — with interest.”

With that, Phalguna severed Brajeshwardev’s head from his body. Realizing that death was inevitable, Brajeshwardev cried out “Victory to Mother Bhavani!” offering his final breath as the last oblation to his deity. Blood spurted from his decapitated body, splashing onto Phalguna’s face and clothes. Phalguna lifted the severed head in his left hand, wiped the blood from his own face with his right hand, licked it off his palm, and burst into a loud, triumphant laugh while staring directly into Brajeshwardev’s lifeless eyes.

At that very moment, the great chinar tree split down the middle, its two halves crashing apart, and the temple of Mother Bhavani also fractured into two. Thus the last trace of the Damars was annihilated that night. All around lay scattered body parts of the dead, and a burning village. Though the chinar tree and the temple were cleaved in two, the idol of Mother Bhavani remained unscathed, sitting like a silent witness to the brutal massacre.

With dawn, the light touched the waters of the Vitasta, turning the river crimson. Dead bodies floated on its surface — a reflection on the canvas of time of the reign of Maharaja Kshemagupta. (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.

The post Maharani Didda: Witch Queen of Kashmir-2 first appeared on Sindh Courier.