Meera

By Debasree Chakraborti

Meera once again closed her eyes and began to sing:

“Hari, remove Janaki’s sorrow. Protect Draupadi’s honor, you who gave her endless cloth. For the sake of your devotees, O Lord, you take form yourself. You killed Hiranyakashipu without hesitation. You saved the drowning elephant from the river. Your maidservant Meera surrenders to you, O Giridhar, who relieves suffering everywhere in the world.”

After Uday Singh became Rana, he sent messengers many times to bring Meera back, but she never returned. The reason was her extremely bitter past experiences. She had loved Vikramjit like her own son, and during his time of hardship, she had gone back to Chittor to protect him. But in return, she came back with a heart full of insults and humiliation. No more—enough was enough. Let everyone face the fruits of their own deeds; why should Meera bear the burden of others’ karma? When she was younger, she did all this many times, but now she was older and wiser. Experience had wounded her deeply and made her mature. With the blood from her wounds, she wrote her songs of devotion, and these bhajans became her very life. She would not look back anymore. The time had come for her to be free.

Pratap said: He had kept the grief of his brother’s death very carefully buried deep in his heart, and that perhaps made him much more mature. And for whom should Meera send help now? Uday Singh? He was as much a coward as his elder brother Vikramjit. How could the son of Rana Sanga turn out to be such a coward? It truly amazes me. Whenever Chittor was attacked, Uday Singh would run away. When Sher Shah attacked Chittor, Uday Singh opened the royal treasury before him and said, “Loot whatever you want and leave.” He did the same even during Akbar’s time. And how much could the Rajput chiefs do? Uday Singh had not even made Rana Pratap his heir at first. Rana Pratap had to struggle greatly to claim his rightful inheritance. After Rana Sanga, if there was any truly heroic son in this family, it was Rana Pratap. All in between were unworthy

Because of Singh’s cowardice, Mewar became divided into two parts—Chittor and the plains came under Akbar, while the hill regions remained under Uday Singh. Yet Meerabai had once sent a group of tribal communities from Mewar to help Uday Singh. But Uday Singh did not grant them settlement in Udaipur. Later, these same people helped Rana Pratap in his wars against Akbar.

Between evening and night, the two of them were gazing at the sea. There was a tone of sorrow in Sandhya’s voice. She said, “I truly feel so much pain for Meerabai. Even after handling so many things single-handedly, she could not protect everything. And somehow it seems to me that all the responsibility was hers alone. No one else had any responsibility. If things turned out well, others took the credit, but if anything went wrong, Meerabai was blamed. Pratap, just think about it—our society has always placed women below men. But look at Meerabai. How, five hundred years ago, she alone shaped the politics of Rajasthan and even of India. We must not forget the time she lived in.”

Pratap replied, “That is exactly why Swami Vivekananda said that what fifty men cannot do, one woman can. But there’s another aspect—we must remember that Meerabai was not truly alone. She was connected to a vast network. Across India, the Bhakti movement was being organized. Even in Vrindavan and Dwarka, Meerabai did not find peace, because there she realized the greedy mentality of the temple priests and the heads of ashrams. She saw that those who claimed to be true Vaishnavas were more interested in outward display than genuine devotion. Instead of striving for God through solitude and meditation, they were more eager to gather crowds. This meant everything was superficial, with no real depth.”

Meerabai never believed in beating the drum to attract attention. She always used to say, “Only those who truly like my words and songs should come. Those who do not, need not come at all.” Through this, while her circle of admirers grew, her number of enemies also steadily increased. Meerabai spent most of her life surrounded by jealousy and hostility, yet she responded to even her bitterest enemies with affection and love.

She had tried to forget, but the same thing happened again. Failure forced her to withdraw from everything. In such moments, she often remembered her spiritual master, Ravidas. Ravidas used to say, “The true Guru is the one to whom you can surrender yourself completely. He alone is the Sadguru.” Though Ravidas was by caste a chamar, he was a man of true spiritual wisdom. As the saying goes, “There is no one higher than the Guru; therefore the Guru must be worshipped with utmost reverence. For the disease of worldly existence, there is no better healer than the Sadguru, just as there is no better physician.”

Meerabai often thought, “I will remain under the shelter of that supreme Guru.” With this thought, she would engage herself in devotion through song, singing:

“The glance of my Beloved is like a dagger of love.

When it strikes, I lose all sense and reason.

My body and mind are filled with love, intoxicated by devotion.”

While singing, Meerabai would often slip into deep meditative trance, leaving people astonished. How could a widowed princess of a royal family live the life of a homeless ascetic? Only by looking at Meerabai could one understand this truth.

In Vrindavan, many people recognized her, but in Dwarka, hardly anyone knew her. Even there, however, as a woman ascetic, she began to grow popular, something the prominent Gosains and scholars could not accept. They had large ashrams, vast networks of publicity, and yet fewer people came to them. But Meerabai, a destitute wandering ascetic, was drawing great crowds of devotees. This was intolerable. They began to say, “Meerabai cannot be allowed to stay in Dwarka for long. A woman’s greatest ornament is her honor. If that honor is destroyed, she will either think of suicide or run away. And if she chooses neither, then there are other ways to remove her.”

In Dwarka, Meerabai suffered several attacks over time. She used to hold gatherings where she explained the philosophy of Vaishnavism, and many people would attend these assemblies. One evening, outside the temple, she began a discussion gathering. There she was asked: “What is the main source of Mirabai’s bhajans?”

That evening, when she came to the gathering, Meerabai saw a huge crowd. She noticed many new faces among them. Whenever new people came to her assemblies, her heart trembled, for her past experiences had not been good. Lifting both her hands, she signaled everyone to sit and said: “The main source of my songs is devotion. To center one’s thoughts on devotion, and to live life through devotion—this is my inspiration

I compose my bhajans out of devotion, and if, by listening to them, anyone begins to think of freeing themselves from worldly bondage, if they surrender at the feet of Shri Krishna—then that itself is my liberation. The further I progress successfully on this path, the more I shall feel myself freed from the maze of birth and death. For I am trying to lift myself from this mud-soaked road of life and reach a green field, where beneath the blue sky I may behold Him directly and open myself fully.

A new face in the gathering stood up and asked Meerabai, “So, your Shri Krishna is the sky, is that right?”

Meerabai smiled and replied, “My Shri Krishna is you, all of you. To put it more clearly, He is my country. Everything that exists within a land, in its entirety, is Giridharji. And I am His handmaiden.”

The assembly broke into commotion. Some shouted, “Enough of your words! We know very well the crooked lanes of your so-called path of devotion. A widow who sings and dances in the streets—do we need anyone to tell us what kind of character that is?”

Meerabai closed her eyes, and tears streamed down her face. She began to sing:

“Make Meera a true servant of the Lord.

Release me from false illusions and snares.

Even if I make countless mistakes,

Let the boat of wisdom carry me across.”

Pratap remained silent for a while, gazing at the sea. How long he kept staring, neither he nor Sandhya knew. After a long time, Pratap said, “Sandhya, do you see this vast ocean? This ocean is Meerabai. Look at its immense, turbulent waves—see how they express their wildness. If this mighty ocean is Meera’s life, then what treasures lie hidden within it, none of us truly know. Such is her life.”

Towards the end, Meerabai’s health in Dwarka began to decline. At times she would faint, foam would come from her mouth. But never before, prior to coming to Dwarka, had such ailments been seen in her. Her body had grown extremely frail. For days she could not even step outside her ashram room.

About Meerabai

During my research, I learned that Meerabai used to be carried and seated on the stone platform (chatal) of the Ranchhodji Temple. There, leaning against the wall, she would gaze upon the Lord. In time, through the care of Champa and Chameli, she gradually recovered. But what could have been the cause of such illness? Was it only due to mental unrest that she fainted so often—or was poison involved? I have often thought that perhaps someone, out of enmity, had mixed something into her food, which left Meera sick for a long period. Unknowingly, she had turned into the enemy of many. On one side lay the filthy politics of Chittor and Merta, and on the other, the politics of the Vaishnav sects in Vrindavan and Dwarka. Caught between the two, Meerabai became strangely altered. After the loss of one loved one after another, in the final stage of her life, no one remained at her side except her devotees. But even that community of devotees gradually began to withdraw from her, driven away by conspiracies. Through such plotting, she was isolated from everything and left in loneliness.

It was during these days that one evening Meerabai was watching the sandhyarati at the Ranchhodji Temple. People came from far and wide to hear her sing, and perhaps it was for them alone that she was still alive.

Even after the evening ritual ended, Meerabai would sit in the temple for a while. That day too she remained seated. At that moment, three shadows appeared on the temple platform. Meera, absorbed in gazing at Ranchhodji, did not pay much attention. After all, countless people came and went in this temple every day. But then she heard a very familiar voice calling her: “Bai Sa!”

“Bai Sa”—that was how the people of Chittor addressed her. But who was calling her by that name now? Meerabai looked and saw three ascetics standing before her. Yet their faces were so harsh, they hardly looked like ascetics at all. Who were they?

Meerabai asked, “Who are you? I cannot quite recognize you.”

The visitors replied, “Rana Uday Singh has sent us. He has come to know that you are not safe in Dwarka. After Banbir was driven out of Chittor, he has taken refuge in Maharashtra. From there, he has been keeping contact with certain Vaishnav saints and is conspiring to have you removed.”

Meerabai knew well why Banbir wanted to eliminate her. For a long time, her two invisible hands had been secretly protecting Uday. If she were removed, Uday would become greatly weakened.

Champa and Chameli said to Meera, “Bai Sa, please go with them, let us return to Mewar.” But Meera felt they were in disguise. So she said, “But what proof do you have that you are not Banbir’s men? Show me the proof.”

They told Meerabai, “Whether you believe us or not is your choice, but you must come with us.”

Sandhya, after long research on Meerabai, I came to know two different accounts. First, that on that night Meera set out with the visitors on the road to Mewar. Later, Uday Singh kept her in a safe place. The second account is that the people who came that night were actually from the enemy side—they killed Meerabai, hid her body, and spread the story that before the temple of Ranchhodji was closed, she had gone inside saying she would spend the whole night in communion with God. But in the morning, when the temple was opened, she was nowhere to be found.

Here a few questions remain. At the final stage of her life, Meerabai was extremely unwell. With such a frail body, it was impossible for her to travel a long distance. Another point is that in both Vrindavan and Dwarka, the male tantric Gosain sects had turned into her enemies. They would never have allowed Meerabai to spend the night inside Ranchhodji’s temple—not even to enter the sanctum. For, in all the descriptions of her, she is always seen seated on the outer platform of the temple. I am not speaking of Chittor, but of Dwarka and Vrindavan.

Sandhya said, “There is another point, Pratap. The disappearance of Shri Chaitanya Mahaprabhu also took place inside the sanctum of the Jagannath Temple in Puri. Meerabai’s disappearance happened inside the sanctum of Dwarka’s Ranchhodji Temple. Many researchers believe Chaitanya’s disappearance was actually a murder. In Meerabai’s case, I feel the same. Because, Pratap, you yourself have said that in both Dwarka and Vrindavan Meerabai was insulted many times, and poison had been mixed into her food. We find the same in the case of Chaitanya—many attempts were made on his life before his disappearance.”

Pratap replied, “You are absolutely right. And then, look at the timing of Meerabai’s disappearance. It happened at such an hour when there were hardly any people in the temple precincts. Even today, there are none at that time. So, five hundred…”

Five hundred years ago, the temple premises used to be deserted. Because of her long illness, Meerabai at that time could barely stand on her own. Champa and Chameli’s task was to hold her and help her back to her ashram room. But after Meerabai’s disappearance, Champa and Chameli also astonishingly vanished without a trace. Meerabai was a saint; she could have merged into Ranchhodji, but what about Champa and Chameli? How could they vanish? There could be two reasons. First, they may have been eyewitnesses to Meerabai’s murder, and so they too were killed—just as Swarup and Gadadhar had been silenced at the time of Mahaprabhu. Another possibility is that Champa and Chameli themselves were allied with the conspirators, and so, taking advantage of the moment, they disappeared. Otherwise, who could have poisoned Meerabai’s food? Champa and Chameli were her constant companions, her shadows. No one else had the right to enter Meera’s chamber.

Whatever happened that day was carried out in extreme secrecy, at a time when there were no visitors in the temple. In those days the number of people was anyway very few. After the evening arati, no one remained in the temple. By then, with dusk falling, everything around would sink into sleep. So what exactly happened at that time could only have been known to a handful of people.

Sandhya said, “It is clear that Meerabai had many enemies. All her life, unknowingly, she created enemies in the very act of protecting her own people.”

Pratap said, “Yes, even those very close to her, people she trusted deeply, were secretly in contact with her enemies. The Bhakti movement that spread across India at that time, if you look at it superficially, seems simple. But it was not so simple. Individual pawns were carefully nurtured, used for work, and when their value was over, they were removed with equal care. The same thing happened with Meerabai.”

Sandhya asked, “Have you heard about the story regarding Jagat Gosain?”

Pratap replied, “Nonsense, I don’t believe such baseless stories. Look, even in this age, people do not view a woman’s success kindly. Every attempt is made to obstruct the journey of a successful woman. Now imagine how brutally it must have been done five hundred years ago—at a time when women were…”

She had been kept behind the veil, but in that age Meerabai stepped out from it and established herself as a fierce, protesting woman. So, would there not have been attempts to eliminate her? While living in Mewar, attempts were made on her life. Later, in Merta and Vrindavan too, she never felt secure—that is why she went to Dwarka. Yet even there, she was not safe. The reason was the politics and jealousy of a patriarchal society.

Nothing more is known about this Gadadhar Pandit. Where did this man come from to Merta, and where did he disappear to from Chittor? That too is unknown. But there existed a strange network spread across India. Do you know what I think? The heads of this network were people like Advaita Acharya in Bengal, who had created Vishwaroop and Mahaprabhu. This Gadadhar Pandit was in charge of Rajasthan. Someone must have sent him to Rao Dudaji of Merta. Otherwise, think—why would Rao Dudaji suddenly develop such a strange desire to dedicate his granddaughter at Krishna’s feet? Moreover, in the medieval social structure, the way he gave his granddaughter such freedom in upbringing was never possible in that era. We may say that Rao Dudaji was a very modern man, but within that framework of society, such actions would not have been possible without the backing of some greater power.

Meerabai had been very carefully and deliberately “created.” Whatever happened after her birth was the result of someone else’s subtle command. Even her marriage—otherwise, how could the daughter of a minor jagirdar of Merta be married to the crown prince of Chittor? At that time, was there any shortage of princesses in the Rajput royal households? Rana Sanga of Chittor himself wanted to be the sovereign of all India, and he too became part of that network.

Sandhya looked at Pratap and said, “Pratap, today I feel such pain for Meerabai. From birth her life passed through endless upheavals, and she endured suffering throughout. Perhaps, had there not been such control over her, her poetic genius could have blossomed even more. But it is also true that it was because of so many wounds and torments that her poetic voice took shape. Whatever the purpose behind her being shaped this way, Meerabai enjoyed far more freedom than most women of her time. She received education and learning. From mingling with common people to dancing and singing on the temple courtyards…”

At that time, no woman would even dream of doing such things. None of us are truly happy in our lives. However Meerabai’s life may have ended, for her entire life and her deeds, humanity will remember her forever. Even today, in our times, we cannot even imagine doing what she had the opportunity to do.

Pratap held Saanjh’s hand and said, “Saanjh, today on the seashore of Dwarka, our journey with Meerabai has come to an end. In these past few days, I have grown bound to you in a strange bond. From this shore of Dwarka, I wish for the two of us to begin our journey together.”

The roar of the sea drifted toward them. Saanjh lifted her sling bag onto her shoulder and stood up, her hair and scarf blowing in the sea breeze. Standing, she said, “A friend of the road should remain on the road. In these few days of friendship, we have enriched each other. The wealth we have given one another, I hope, will enrich our future lives.”

Pratap stood up too, and holding her hand, said, “But after being together for so long, not only our minds but even our bodies have become bound to each other. How can you deny that?”

Saanjh’s face was not visible, but from her posture it seemed as though this was another Saanjh—one Pratap did not know.

After a pause, Saanjh said, “Pratap, the body is only a shell. Just like this bag you see on my shoulder. If it is lost somehow or carried away by the sea, would I stop walking my path? Would I drown myself in the sea with it? No.”

Pratap pleaded with deep anguish, “Everything was fine until now, why are you suddenly leaving like this? Does my love mean nothing to you?”

Saanjh replied, “Pratap, one should not imprison the person they love; one should set them free. You are trying to imprison your love and stain it with the dullness of daily touch. Don’t do this. The small stretch of the path that we have walked together—try to make this memory eternal. And as for me, I did not come here seeking a partner to build a household with. I came here in search of someone else…”

Tonight I am leaving for Ahmedabad with him. From there, tomorrow night I have my flight to Kolkata.

Though the darkness concealed everything, it was clear that Pratap’s eyes were filled with tears, his emotions choking his words. He said, “If I had known earlier, I would never have built such a bond with you. This means you are fickle—you place no value on relationships.”

Saanjh stood silent for a while, then said, “You question my character because of this brief friendship of a few days? Yet you have been researching Meerabai and the Meerapanthis for years. But even after all this time, you have not been able to follow Meerabai’s ideals. Through her life, Meerabai showed that no place, no time, no person—none of these are anyone’s possession. To keep moving forward through one’s work—that is the true discipline of life. A seeker must continue walking the path through everything, but nothing should bind him. Neither attachment, greed, nor desire should have any hold on him. Remember, Meerabai founded the Meerapanthi tradition with the ideal of women’s freedom at its core. That is why the Meerapanthis still follow her principles to this day. As for me, I will never bind myself in domestic ties. As long as I live, I will walk forward on Mira’s path. If, on this journey forward, someday our paths cross again, perhaps we will walk together for a while once more. So I never said our relationship is broken. Our connection will never be severed. May the tree of our bond grow in a healthy way, nourished by light and air.”

Pratap said, “Saanjh, you must go back to the hotel to collect your luggage. Come, I’ll take you to the station from there.”

Saanjh extended her hand toward him, and Pratap held it as they began walking forward. Darkness spread all around, with only the roar of the sea echoing in the air. From a distance, the sound of a single-stringed ektara carried through the night, with Meerabai’s bhajan drifting in the wind:

“Had I known this before,

That love brings such sorrow,

I would have cried out in the streets of the city—

Do not give your heart to love.”

(Concludes) 

Click here for Part-1, Part-2, Part-3, Part-4, Part-5, Part-6, Part-7, Part-8, Part-9, Part-10, Part-11, Part-12, Part-13, Part-14, Part-15, Part-16, Part-17, Part-18, Part-19, Part-20, Part-21, Part-22, Part-23, Part-24, Part-25, Part-26, Part-27, Part-28, Part-29, Part-30, Part-31, Part-32, Part-33, Part-34, Part-35, Part-36, Part-37, Part-38, Part-39

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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 Award-Winning Novel: Meera-40 first appeared on Sindh Courier.

Meera

By Debasree Chakraborti

Place: Vrindavan, Dwarka

Saanj and Pratap, after offering prayers at the temple of Ranchhodji a little while ago, are now sitting by the sea. At sunset, nature is wrapped in a saffron glow, and even the waves of the ocean have taken on an ochre hue. It feels as though groups of monks are rushing in from the shore of the vast ocean. The sight is truly magnificent. After a while, a few monks came and began performing the ocean’s aarti. Behind them, a few others stood ringing cymbals and bells.

Saanj asked Pratap, “Pratap, tell me something — after returning to Vrindavan from Mewar, what happened to Meera?”

Meera was not well after arriving in Vrindavan. Various rumors began to spread about her. The sixteen years following Meera’s renunciation of Mewar completely changed the course of India’s history. Sher Shah captured Chittor. His authority over Delhi was firmly established. Humayun’s condition became dire. During this time, Uday Singh was supported in every possible way by Veeramdevji of Medta, so that he could be protected and later revive Mewar under his leadership.

Saanj, many say that behind all this was Meera herself. She secretly protected Uday. She had a deep maternal affection for him. Though she herself was never a mother, in Uday she felt the presence of her own child. Uday was her son in every sense; she never saw him merely as a younger brother-in-law. It was as though she had carried the misfortune of Mewar with her back to Vrindavan. She had left Vrindavan with the thought of spending her last years in Mewar, but her sudden return gave rise to gossip.

The slanderers began spreading rumors that Meera Bai was responsible for the death of Rana Vikramjit of Chittor. Her sudden departure to Chittor, and then, on the very day she set out from there, Vikramjit’s unnatural death — these coincidences raised many suspicions in the minds of the critics. Meanwhile, Banbir did not remain in Chittor for long…

He (Banbir) could not hold on to power; he was dethroned, and Uday Singh became the Rana. Once Uday Singh became Rana, he began to receive support from Medta and other powerful Rajput chiefs.

But Meera’s life turned into a dreadful dark dungeon. Even though she immersed herself completely in spirituality, hostility would not leave her. As a woman, her immense popularity was something even the Goswami community of Vrindavan could not accept. Saanj, you would be astonished to know that during her stay in Vrindavan, there were several attempts made to kill Meera Bai.

Once, she had gone with Champa and Chameli to bathe in the Yamuna. While Champa and Chameli sat at the ghat, Meera Bai was bathing in the river. Suddenly, Meera Bai cried out in distress, “Champa! Chameli! Save me, Kaliya Naag is pulling at my feet!” Now, we all know that the serpent Kaliya does not exist. So we can assume that some hidden enemy, skilled in diving, had come underwater to drown Meera in the Yamuna and murder her. On that occasion, Champa and Chameli saved her, but had she died that day, her death would most likely have been attributed to Kaliya Naag.

Toward the end, hardly anyone came to meet her in earnest. That is why she wrote: people no longer truly love one another. Narrowness has crept into human hearts. Out of self-interest, everyone has lost faith in each other. Yet, it is through small human love that one finds the way to the vast and the infinite. If one cannot love people, how will one love God? The greatest fulfillment lies not in receiving, but in giving oneself. In offering oneself lies the true strength that leads to the ultimate truth. But nowadays, no one wants to hear such words; everyone mocks them.

Still, there was one faith she continued to nurture within her heart. She would say: “The one you seek to know dwells within you, he is part of your very consciousness. Because he resides within you, you search for him outside. What is needed is yearning — a love that renounces all. Only then will he respond.”

But in the end, Meera could no longer remain in Vrindavan. By then, Kabir and Nanak had passed away. In Puri, Chaitanya Mahaprabhu had departed from this world. His…

Earlier, Chaitanya’s elder brother, Vishvarupa, had already departed. After Shri Chaitanya’s passing, one after another the Vaishnava monks began to disappear. A few years after Chaitanya’s departure, even Nityananda merged into Shyamsundar. It was mysteriously shown that one after another, the monks were merging into deities. At that time, Meera Bai sought refuge in Dwarka.

Do you know what I feel, Saanj? I think Meera Bai must have realized in some way that she was not safe in Vrindavan. Perhaps for the sake of survival, she took shelter in Dwarka. From speaking with the followers of the Meerapanth, I learned that Meera would not accept food prepared by anyone else; she ate only the food she prepared herself.

Saanj replied, “Then perhaps she had found proof that poison was being mixed into her food. That’s why she refused to accept anything not prepared by her own hands. Don’t you see? Before Mahaprabhu’s departure, the terrible madness that took hold of him — I believe even he was poisoned through his food. Otherwise, such an intelligent, rational, and balanced man would never have met such an end.”

Pratap sat staring at the sea. The crimson glow of the sinking sun reflected in the waters. His voice now carried a profound depth.

He said, “Saanj, what we see from the outside — within it there is another world, the real world. The danger comes when that hidden world is exposed outwardly. Then comes not only disgrace but often death. The same happened in the case of Meera Bai. She was driven out of Vrindavan with slander. They accused her of mingling with courtesans.

When she sat meditating beneath the Bansivat on the banks of the Yamuna, it was said that a courtesan used to watch her with deep devotion. When that courtesan was seen repeatedly in Meera’s circle of discussion, she was attacked within the assembly itself:

‘Aren’t you ashamed? As a saintly woman, how can you give a courtesan a place in your circle of devotees?’

In reply, Meera said: ‘No one is born a courtesan. It is society that has given her this identity. No one chooses to become a courtesan — it is society that makes her one. Before pointing fingers at her, we must first point fingers at ourselves.’”

We must point the finger at ourselves as well. Are we not, in some way, courtesans too? The body is not everything. In the struggle for survival in this world, do we not also barter away our inner soul? The body is but the chariot, while the soul is the charioteer. To dishonor that charioteer is the gravest sin. The woman you call a courtesan is, in truth, seeking a path of ascent from hell. She is striving to raise her soul to a higher plane. That is why she has come into the company of saints.

Hearing Meera’s words, everyone began chanting sadhu, sadhu in approval. At that moment, questions arose from different corners of the assembly: “Tell us something today about courtesans — their origin and their social position in ancient India.”

Meera replied: “Courtesans existed even in ancient India. To satisfy the demands of a patriarchal society, courtesans were created by society itself. In fact, they can be traced back to the Rigveda, India’s oldest scripture. As old as Vedic society is, so is the antiquity of prostitution. From the time society began accepting male ownership over women, prostitution began. From that point on, whenever a woman, outside the limits set by her family, offered her body to a man in exchange for wealth or material gain, she was branded as a courtesan or harlot.

The entire institution of courtesans revolved around female beauty and youth. According to the Vedic scriptures, the pursuit of Dharma, Artha, and Kama formed the Trivarga, the threefold goal of life. Ancient Indian literature connected desire (Kama) with both Dharma (righteousness) and Artha (wealth). The scriptures prescribed that Kama was complementary to Dharma and Artha.

In ancient India, with state funding and patronage, certain girls were trained from childhood in the sixty-four arts (Chausath Kalas) to become refined companions of men. Under state benevolence, these women, skilled in the arts of desire, entered adulthood with their bodies as their capital, stepping into a livelihood based on material gain.

It is impossible to trace exactly when women first began offering their bodies in exchange for value, but it can be said that once marriage and the family became established in society, and women lost their independence, courtesans were created to fulfill male needs. In the Vedic age, courtesans even had scriptural sanction. In the Chandogya Upanishad, the boy Satyakama Jabala, who had no knowledge of his father’s identity, was initiated into brahmacharya by Rishi Gautama. When Satyakama asked his mother, Jabala, about his father’s lineage…”

She (Jabala) could not give him what he wanted — the name of his father. She simply spoke the truth. Clearly, she did not hide anything. In the Vedic age, within the religious and social environment of that time, no one questioned Satyakama’s lack of paternal identity. Then why should it be questioned today? Jabala was never cast aside as a courtesan. If they were acknowledged back then, why not today?

Just as courtesans enjoyed royal patronage, they also paid regular taxes to the king. In return, the state granted them protection. There were also various punishments prescribed in case of any crime committed against a courtesan. Both the Arthashastra and the Smriti Shastras contain detailed regulations about this. In a caste-divided society where women held little value, courtesans were given legitimacy for their livelihood because of men’s needs. Patriarchy protected courtesans for its own interest.

One devotee asked: “Well then, how ancient is the existence of devadasis in temples? Was this practice present in religious places in ancient times as well?”

Meera paused for a moment and then replied: “It is difficult to say exactly when the devadasi system originated. However, the Arthashastra of Kautilya does mention them. Their duty was to perform dances in front of the deity during rituals and aartis. That was their primary role. Their secondary role was to satisfy the desires of the temple priests.

The devadasis were essentially courtesans of the temple. They received their sustenance from the temple authorities. And not just the priests — often, wealthy pilgrims who came to the temple seeking spiritual merit also had to be pleased by them.

Now arises the question: where did these devadasis come from? Many times, due to poverty, or in the case of illegitimate daughters, parents would either donate their child to the temple or abandon her in the temple premises. With royal approval and the support of temple priests, these girls were trained in music, dance, and the arts of pleasure, thus becoming devadasis.

Sometimes, a wealthy man could even purchase a devadasi from the temple. In that case, she was spared from being shared by many. Practices like these still exist today. Although the devadasis were given a place in the temple, society never gave them a place of honor.”

At this point, Meera stretched out both her hands toward that helpless woman and called her close.

No one had ever called her in such a way before, so at first she was stunned. Her body, her hands, her feet — everything seemed rooted to the ground.

She could not decide what to do. Then Meera Bai rose from her seat, went to her, lifted her by both arms, embraced her, and stood holding her for a while. After that, she turned toward the crowd and said: “Ancient society knew that, like every other profession, prostitution too was created to serve a section of society’s needs. A little girl is never born a courtesan. It is society that makes her one for its own needs. Yet the same society gives her neither place nor honor.

Vatsyayana compared the courtesan to a commodity. To reduce a human being to a mere object reveals the poverty of society. This is the greatest stigma upon it. The most astonishing fact is that prostitution arose and spread with the sanction of the lawgivers themselves. In ancient literature, men’s visits to courtesans were encouraged. They gave many instructions on how women should preserve their chastity, but they imposed no such restrictions on men.

Society branded a woman as a courtesan for being polygamous, but men who were equally — if not more — promiscuous, were never branded the same. Indeed, the greater guilt lies with men, because a woman is forced into prostitution, whereas a man becomes promiscuous by his own choice.”

Around this question of Meera’s, Vrindavan grew agitated. How could a woman speak such things!

“Look, Saanj, we must remember the time,” Pratap continued. “Five hundred years ago, for Meera Bai to argue in this way and attempt to establish courtesans within society was an act of immense courage. But light and darkness always coexist. Meera’s followers also began to grow in number.

Yet through long years of social hostility and pressure, Meera Bai grew profoundly lonely. She became strangely detached, lost within herself. The circles of Vaishnava philosophy continued, but Meera Bai drifted further and further into her inner absorption. Even while speaking, that divine trance could be felt in her.

As she spoke for long hours about the Vrindavan Lila of Shri Krishna, she would fall into ecstasy. Sometimes, while in the middle of speaking, she would suddenly drift inward, retreat to a corner of the ashram, and sink into meditation. In that meditation, Vrindavan’s…

In her meditations, Kunjbihari would appear before her. Seeing her Kunjbihari, Meera would sing to herself:

“Aaj ho dekhyo Giridhari, sundar badan, Madan ki shobha, chitvan aniyaari.”

(“Today I beheld Giridhari, with a beautiful face, more radiant than Cupid, whose glance is beyond compare.”)

But even here, little by little, she became isolated. Meera decided she would no longer remain in Vrindavan, for slander and neglect seemed never to leave her side. For how many years can one endure such scorn? At a certain point in life, such things no longer appeal to the heart. Meera Bai, along with Champa and Chameli, resolved to leave Vrindavan.

On the night before their departure, Champa asked Meera, “Bai Sa, so many people say so many things against you, yet you never protest. And they will not see your leaving Vrindavan kindly either. They will spread rumors that you fled out of fear.”

That night, Meera’s face was hidden in the darkness, but her voice carried a strange detachment. She said, “They behaved badly with me — that is their deed, and they will face its consequence. Who am I to punish them? If I were to behave badly with them in return, what difference would remain between them and me? I no longer find any joy in such things. I do not wish to stir in the mud of the world. Wherever I see mire, from there I will go far away.”

In the darkness, no one’s face could be seen. Either Champa or Chameli said, “Bai Sa, wherever you go, their people will follow. How long will you keep running away like this?”

Again, there was silence for a long while. Then Meera said quietly, “Until death comes… until then.”

Pratap continued, “After this, Meera Bai left Vrindavan and arrived in Dwarka. There she lived like an ordinary renunciate, taking shelter in the temple of Ranchhodji.”

Saanj asked, “Tell me, is there any history behind such a strange name as Ranchhodji?”

Pratap replied, “It truly is a curious name. Yes, there is a history behind it…”

I don’t know for sure, but there is a story. Let me tell you that story. After Shri Krishna killed Kansa and took over Mathura, Kansa’s wife went to her father Jarasandha and told him of her grief. Hearing of his daughter’s sorrow, Jarasandha attacked Mathura. Then Shri Krishna, taking his family with him, retreated to Dwarka. Since he abandoned the battlefield, one of the Lord’s names became Ranchhodji—“He who fled the battle.”

The original idol of this temple is now in Dakor, in Kheda near Ahmedabad. It is said that the Lord appeared in a dream to one of His devotees and instructed him to bring Ranchhodji from Dwarka to Dakor. The Lord also told him that if the priests refused to part with the idol, then he should give them as much gold as the idol weighed, and they would hand it over. Following this divine command, that devotee brought Ranchhodji to Dakor. If you go there, you will find that the hymns dedicated to Ranchhodji often recount this story.

But let us leave the matter of Ranchhodji aside now, and I will begin telling you about Meera Bai’s Dwarka years. Every morning and evening, Meera Bai would sit on the platform of Ranchhodji’s temple and sing devotional songs. One day, immersed in her singing, she sang:

“Dwarika ko baas ho mohi, Dwarika ko baas.

Shankh chakra hu, gada padma hu, te mite jam traas.

Sakal teerath Gomati me, karat sada nivaas.

Shankh jhalari jhanjhan baje, sada mukh ki raas.

Tajyo deloi bes patigrih, tajye sampatti raaji.

Dasi Meera maran aayi, tum hai ayo sab laaji.”

(The meaning: “May I dwell in Dwarka, the abode of the Lord with conch, discus, mace, and lotus, where all fear of Yama is destroyed. All the holy pilgrimages abide in the Gomati river. The conch and cymbals resound, and the eternal rasa lila plays upon His lips. I have abandoned husband, home, and wealth. Servant Meera comes at death’s door, O Lord, only You can uphold my honor.”)

The devotees coming to the temple passed her by. Here, Meera Bai was only an ordinary yogini. The princess of Chittor had no treasure other than devotion. Yet, even in her simplicity, she was extraordinary. When the song ended, she set her ektara aside and leaned back against the wall. Just then, Champa and Chameli came and said, “Bai Sa, Anant Mishra has arrived from Chittor.”

Meera Bai gave no reply and simply rested her back against the wall. At the mere mention of Chittor, the old wounds in her heart began to bleed again. That which is past, she no longer wished to cling to. She no longer wanted to look back. The clear, beautiful gift that God had given her…

He had once dragged her life into the mire, and she no longer wished to look back at that swamp. Chittor! The very name was entangled with dirty politics, family feuds, and violence. If someone had come from Chittor, it could only mean they had come to take her back there. But Chittor was now a land of ashes. Defeated by Akbar, Udai Singh had fled. Through the messenger of her trusted scholar Gadadhar Pandit, Meera had received the news: even though the Rajput chiefs fought valiantly, they could not save Chittor in the end. When the chief commander fell in battle, the women within the fortress began to prepare for jauhar (self-immolation). It is said that at first Emperor Akbar did not realize that Chittor had been defeated, but seeing fire and smoke rising from the fort, he understood that jauhar had begun—meaning Chittor had fallen.

This invitation from Udai Singh was nothing new. At the time of his coronation, he had already sent Meera Bai a letter:

“Bai Sa, today none of the great elders of Chittor remain alive. From childhood until now, you have protected me. The Rajput chiefs themselves told me that I grew up in your arms, on your lap. They say you even considered me as your own Giridharji. Then why have you gone so far away now? Without you my coronation is incomplete. I wish to see you by my side when I am crowned.”

To this, Meera Bai had replied:

“Udai, wherever I may be, I always pray for your well-being. But today I have distanced myself from the foul intrigues of the worldly court. When I lived in Chittor, all who were there were worthy of my reverence. I received much love and respect from them. But now I have reached the noonday of my life, and at this age it does not please me to suffer humiliation at the hands of my juniors. I am sending you flowers offered to Giridharji and the prasada of Ranchhodji—He will be the one to protect you.”

Later, when Akbar attacked Chittor, Udai Singh once again sent an emissary to invite Meera. But she rejected that summons as well.

Evening fell. This Gadadhar Pandit was a most extraordinary figure, a man of mystery, whose…

On that point I did not find any direct information, but even if Meera Bai herself was not directly involved in the politics of Chittor, the men of Gadadhar Pandit had gathered the Rajput chiefs together to aid Udai Singh. Gadadhar’s people summoned all the sardars, urging the generals and soldiers to fulfill their duty and rousing them with patriotism. A message had been sent to Chander’s envoy Shalusprapati Sahidas, to the Kailbapatis, to the lord of Bagor Sang, and to the feudatories of other clans. Among them were the Chauhans of Koteria and Vaidla, the Paramaras of Brijalli, Sankorpati Prithviraj, and Jitabata Lunakarn. All of them, it was said, would support Udai Singh in the war against Akbar.

Hearing this, Meera Bai felt reassured—for truly, this was a war of independence, and defeat here would mean the end of the Hindu people. During that time, she continued to keep herself informed of Chittor’s affairs through the messengers.

Sanjh said, “Truly, it is impossible to fully understand the character of Meera Bai—how many different forms exist within one being. At times I am amazed. In different places she seems to embody entirely different states of mind. From the outside, she looks like an ascetic woman, but inside she carries another form altogether. Truly, she cannot be understood.”

Pratap said, “Look at her network—from Dwarka she continued to influence the politics of Chittor and all of Rajasthan. Just as our Chaitanya Mahaprabhu influenced the politics of Odisha and Bengal, so did she.”

Sanjh replied, “Then this means that the Bhakti movement and its saints were deeply tied to politics.”

Pratap answered, “Of course it was so. Otherwise, how else could she, under the guise of a spiritual woman, have directed the politics of Rajasthan? Think about it. But let us leave that aside for now and return to the matter of Meera Bai and Udai Singh. Sanjh, here I want to make a brief comparison between Akbar and Udai Singh. They were roughly of the same age. But although Udai Singh was the son of Chittor’s proud line—descended from Rawal, Samar Singh, Veer Hamvir, and Sangram Singh—he was not, like Akbar, a shrewd, hard-working, and farsighted ruler. That is why Udai Singh was defeated in this war.”

But the history of this war was extremely dreadful. In the battle between Akbar and Udai Singh, Meera Bai lost one of her most precious treasures—something that left a deep impact on her life.

When Emperor Akbar was preparing to attack Mewar with sixty thousand soldiers, one night a rider galloped into the fort of Merta. In the darkness, between the flickering torchlight and the shadows on the fortress walls, the silhouette of a horseman appeared. The pounding of hooves echoed through the stillness of the fort.

Jaimal was in the northern palace of the fort. At night he usually preferred to rest quietly in his own way. But that night he was pacing restlessly from one end of the chamber to the other. Just then, an intruder appeared with the guards. On the wall, the restless shadows of two figures in conversation flickered. Out of the darkness came the sound of a vast army on the move, and gradually the dark canvas transformed into the image of a brightly lit day.

This great army was marching toward Chittor, led by Merta’s Rana Jaimal. When the army reached the outskirts of Ajmer, arrows suddenly rained down from all directions. Jaimal realized that they had been ambushed by the looting Rawat tribes of the Aravallis. But in such a situation, they could not afford to waste strength fighting bandits—for the defense of the motherland was their foremost duty. Moreover, Jaimal had been entrusted with this immense responsibility by someone he could not disobey.

All his life he had received affection and love from that person, yet he had never been able to give anything in return. Now, at last, he had the chance to repay that bond of Bhai Dooj. So, no matter what, he would fulfill this duty.

With Jaimal in this army were his brother-in-law Patt and his dear friend Pratap. At this moment, friend Pratap asked Jaimal: “Āṭe yā baṭe?” (Will you stand or will you retreat?). Then Jaimal shouted back, “Baṭe!” (We will stand!).

Receiving the signal from Jaimal, the soldiers left behind their wealth and possessions and marched forward. The Rawat bandits, delighted with the loot, were nonetheless troubled by a nagging question: What exactly did that word “baṭe” mean, and why had these men abandoned their riches instead of fighting? This question robbed the Rawat chief of his sleep that night.

Then he decided that he must find the answer. The Rawat chief, along with his companions, went to Nathdwara. At that time, Jaimal was offering worship to Shri Nathji in Nathdwara. When the Rawat chief met him, he asked, “Why did you leave without fighting? And what does ‘Āṭe yā Baṭe’ mean?”

Jaimal replied, “We will not waste our strength fighting you. We must march forward to protect Chittor from the Mughals.”

Hearing this, tears welled up in the Rawat chief’s eyes. He placed his turban at Jaimal’s feet and asked his own forces to join Jaimal’s army.

In response, Jaimal said, “You must give up looting and instead try to block Akbar’s army.”

Thus, Jaimal reached Chittor with his troops.

Saanjh added, “This Jaimal was indeed a very brave warrior.”

Smiling, Saanjh said further, “Of course—and you see, Jaimal had been rebellious and courageous since his childhood. From the very nature of a child one can often understand what he will grow into in the future.”

Pratap said, “When Jaimal reached Chittor, he began to safely escort the people of Chittor outside the fort. At that very time came the news that Emperor Akbar had surrounded the fort of Chittor with his army. Udai Singh was powerless to act, so he left everything to Jaimal.”

Saanjh said, “There was a reason behind this—and that reason was Meera Bai. Udai Singh himself was greatly dependent on Meera Bai, and he knew that Meera Bai had sent Jaimal for his protection.”

On Jaimal’s command, the nine gates of the Chittor fort were shut. Eight thousand Rajput soldiers remained inside the fortress. The war continued for five long months. The Mughals tried to tunnel beneath the walls of the fort to enter, while the Rajputs filled in those tunnels. When the Mughals blew up the walls with gunpowder, the Rajputs rebuilt them. The situation became so dire that even earth itself was in short supply. The Rajputs had to buy a bucket of soil from Mughal soldiers at the price of a gold mohur.

At this time Emperor Akbar sent a proposal to Jaimal, offering that he…

If Chittor were handed over to the emperor, then he would appoint Jaimal as the Rana of Chittor along with Merta. But Jaimal replied that as long as he lived, Akbar would never be able to conquer Chittor.

Yet what a tragedy—one night while Jaimal was standing and overseeing the repair of the fort walls, Emperor Akbar himself aimed and fired a cannonball at him. The shot struck Jaimal’s leg, which gradually became infected. Meanwhile, the stored provisions also began to run out.

In such dire circumstances, a harsh decision was made inside the fort. They resolved to perform jauhar and saka, for no other path remained open before them.

The jauhar kund was purified with Ganga water, sandalwood was laid inside it, and then it was set aflame. After this, several thousand Rajput women touched their husbands’ feet, offered their respects, took a last glance, circumambulated the jauhar kund, and leapt into the flames.

Afterward, the eight thousand soldiers kept vigil through the night. At dawn, they bathed, dressed in white kurta-pajamas, tied saffron-colored scarves with coconuts around their waists, and marked their foreheads with tilak made from the ashes of the jauhar kund. Then they began worshipping the Mother Goddess. For in truth, after jauhar, the Rajput army became like famished tigers.

Meanwhile, in the dark of night, when the Mughal army saw the flames rising from Chittor fort, they realized that jauhar had begun. The next morning, the final battle commenced.

At sunrise, one by one, the gates of Chittor fort opened, and from them emerged the brave warriors. Since Jaimal’s leg was wounded, he could not mount a horse, so he was carried on the shoulders of the valiant Patta Rathore to the battlefield. Jaimal and Kalla then fought with all their strength, wielding arms and legs alike in fierce combat. The Mughal soldiers were torn apart in the onslaught of the Rajputs. The waters of the Gomati River turned red with blood.

In this battle, a total of forty-eight thousand soldiers perished. Among them were eight thousand Rajput warriors, but before dying, they took forty thousand Mughal soldiers with them.

Emperor Akbar had always known how to honor the brave. He had heard tales of Chaturbhujji, but upon witnessing the valor of Jaimal and Patta with his own eyes, he saw before him the living embodiment of that legendary figure. Akbar, being one who respected heroes, had statues of Jaimal and Patta made from the likeness of those warriors of Chittorgarh, and with great procession, he took them to Agra. Along the way, thousands of people showered offerings upon those statues.

They showered flowers. Then, upon reaching Agra, those two statues were installed on either side of the Agra Fort. Even today, in the households of Rajputana, idols of Jaimal and Patta are worshipped.

Sanjh asked, “What happened to Meera Bai after Jaimal’s death? Since she loved him deeply, his death must surely have affected her!”

Pratap replied, “Women of Kshatriya families are always mentally very strong. Knowing well that Jaimal might die in battle, Meera Bai herself had sent him to defend Chittor. Jaimal embraced the death of a warrior while fighting. After his death, however, Meera Bai’s life did not come to a standstill. But she completely withdrew herself from political affairs. She never again extended any support to Uday Singh. A deep psychological reason might have worked behind this. Perhaps Meera realized that she had already given everything to Mewar. It is true that she had dedicated most of her life for the welfare of Chittor. Everything has its limits, and her giving of herself for Mewar had reached its final boundary. That is why she stepped aside. Perhaps Meera was seeking complete entry into the spiritual world, searching for a path of liberation from worldly life. For if we look closely at her entire life, we see that Meera Bai never lived for herself. Her whole existence was dedicated to the well-being of others. From the moment of her birth, she had been offered at the feet of Krishna; but by the final stage of her life, her outlook had changed to a great extent. That is perhaps why she suddenly vanished. I will speak of that disappearance later. But first, listen to how she reacted when Uday Singh sent his emissary to her! At that time, to Meera, Chittor and fire were synonymous. Why should she return to that all-consuming inferno again? As these thoughts crossed her mind, she closed her eyes, heaved a long sigh, and said, ‘Let me live a little now. I no longer enjoy worldly dealings. I no longer like them! Tell them to go away. Tell them Bai Sa is dead.’” (Continues)

Click here for Part-1, Part-2, Part-3, Part-4, Part-5, Part-6, Part-7, Part-8, Part-9, Part-10, Part-11, Part-12, Part-13, Part-14, Part-15, Part-16, Part-17, Part-18, Part-19, Part-20, Part-21, Part-22, Part-23, Part-24, Part-25, Part-26, Part-27, Part-28, Part-29, Part-30, Part-31, Part-32, Part-33, Part-34, Part-35, Part-36, Part-37, Part-38, 

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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 Award-Winning Novel: Meera-39 first appeared on Sindh Courier.

Meera

By Debasree Chakraborti

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As Vikramjit was thinking of Banbir, Banbir arrived.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Click here for Part-1, Part-2, Part-3, Part-4, Part-5, Part-6, Part-7, Part-8, Part-9, Part-10, Part-11, Part-12, Part-13, Part-14, Part-15, Part-16, Part-17, Part-18, Part-19, Part-20, Part-21, Part-22, Part-23, Part-24, Part-25, Part-26, Part-27, Part-28, Part-29, Part-30, Part-31, Part-32, Part-33, Part-34, Part-35, Part-36, Part-37, 

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Debasree Chakraborti is a renowned novel writer of Bengali language. Based in Kolkata, West Bengal, India, she has done Master’s in Modern History from the Kolkata University, and authored some thirty books, mostly the novels, with historical perspective and themes. Her novel is ‘Maharaja Dahir’ that covers the history of Sindh from 662, the year of first attack on Sindh by the Arab armies till date, was published last year and translated by Nasir Aijaz into Sindhi language.

The post Award-Winning Novel: Meera-38 first appeared on Sindh Courier.

Meera

By Debasree Chakraborti

Place: Vrindavan

Twilight sees Champa and Chameli walking with Meera on the road to Vrindavan. Before bidding a final farewell to Merta, Meera bowed for the last time before the deity of Chaturbhujji, then touched every tree, flower, and butterfly in the garden with tender affection, giving them her parting embrace. Twilight also witnesses how Merta’s peacocks, butterflies, and cuckoos follow behind Meera as she journeys toward Vrindavan.

Pratap said, “In the Bhakti movement of India, the simultaneous rise of so many saints within a hundred years was not an easy matter. Behind this lay a profound social and political context that acted as a catalyst. Before the rise of Meera Bai, for a long time foreign rulers had exploited India, and this had a devastating effect on Hinduism. Hindus were being forced into conversion. On the other hand, under the burden of superstition within Hinduism, people of lower castes were compelled to convert. In such a situation, these saints arose to protect Hindu dharma. At this time, a group of Vaishnava scholars such as Raghunandan compiled special portions from ancient scriptures in an effort to preserve Hinduism. But ordinary people lacked the ability to grasp the core meanings of these scriptures. That is why saints like these emerged — to present the refined essence of Hinduism to the masses.

But Saanjh, these saints did not begin their movements in the same manner everywhere. Their methods varied from place to place. Guru Nanak, for example, preached devotion to the formless God in his own way. On the other hand, Shri Chaitanya Mahaprabhu sought to erase all divisions among people of every class by spreading the chanting of the Hare Krishna name across India, and he established his representatives in Vrindavan. When Shri Chaitanya was devoted to uniting India in Krishna’s name, Meera Bai in Rajputana was spreading Krishna’s name into almost every household, before finally arriving in Vrindavan. From the text Bhaktamal, I had learned that Meera converted many into Vaishnavism — Jains, Shaivas, Shaktas, Muslims, and even non-Aryans.

Do you know, Saanjh, from this period onwards a strange transformation occurred in the iconography of Vishnu. Instead of the four-armed Vishnu, the image of flute-playing Krishna began to spread. Shamsuddin Iltutmish destroyed all the temples in Ajmer and established the Adhai Din ka Jhopra. From then gradually, Vaishnavism became firmly established in Rajputana. But enough of that, let me return to Meera.

In Vrindavan, Meera had to undergo a kind of trial. When she expressed the desire to meet Jiva Goswami, he refused, saying that he never met with women.

When this news reached Meera, she replied, “I had thought that in Vrindavan there is only one man — Purushottam Shri Krishna — and all others are his attendants, his companions in divine play. You will not meet me because I am a woman? Then what are you?”

Hearing Meera’s reasoning, Goswamiji later did agree to meet her. Gradually, she became deeply absorbed in Vrindavan. In the ashram of the devotee Sanatan she began her new life. Here she served Giridharji all day and sang to herself. After coming to Vrindavan, her spiritual life advanced greatly. For after her marriage she had grown weary of the vile political conflicts of the royal household. In Vrindavan, besides composing her own hymns, she also began to study Vaishnava philosophy.

Here a profound transformation came over her mind. She often wondered why she had become entangled in so many arguments during her years at Chittor and Merta. For a Vaishnava, arguing is as sinful as any other vice. In Vrindavan, she felt that she had not truly molded herself into a genuine Vaishnava. Sage Narada had said, one should never argue. The Vedas too declare: “Naisha tarkena matirapaneya achintyo khalu ye bhaga nastam tarken yo jayet.” Vasudev Sarvabhauma had said:

“Why should one engage in argument with the jackals of logic?

How then can the mouth utter the holy name of Krishna?”

In Vrindavan, through association with saints and daily scriptural discussions, Meera’s thoughts began to change. She remembered Jiva Goswami. At first, she had been captivated by his vast scholarship and longed to engage in scriptural debate with him. But he initially refused, saying that discussion with women might disrupt his spiritual practice.

To this, Meera had replied, “Why do you think yourself a man? In Vrindavan there is only one true man — the flute-bearing Krishna, lover of Radha. If you consider yourself a man, then Bansidhari Krishna must leave Vrindavan. Would you wish that?”

Jiva Goswami had no answer to this. He agreed to engage in discussion with her. From their conversations, Meera realized his learning was vast as the ocean, yet he never argued. He sought scientific explanations behind both worldly and spiritual activities. Yet his elder brother, Rupa Goswami, though a conqueror of scholars, was as tranquil as the ocean’s depths, never arguing nor associating with logicians. This is why, when Jiva Goswami once engaged in debate with an arrogant scholar, he was rebuked by Rupa Goswami — a story much told in Vrindavan, which Meera had heard even before meeting him.

After arriving here, Meera was torn by inner conflict. She often thought that all this time she had treated reason as the path to liberation, giving less importance to devotion. In Vrindavan she discovered a new way. Very early in the morning, when she went to bathe in the Yamuna, she saw Sanatan absorbed in worship in the temple, far ahead of her in the path of devotion. Meera hastened toward the Yamuna. The first rays of dawn were just falling upon the river. Emerging from her bath, her entire body glowed with a saffron aura. Before her stood the Bansivat tree. Without delay, Meera went and sat beneath it. From the time of her arrival, she would sit daily under Bansivat, meditate, and then sing. That day was no different. After meditation she began to sing:

“Play the flute, Giridhar Lal, play the flute.

Take the seven notes and let the murali resound.

On the banks of Kalindi, I hear its sweet call.

All my pitchers, all my chores I abandon,

Summoned by the flute to the kadamba groves.

Even when restrained, the flute’s call forever reaches me.

O Lord, you have stolen away my treasure of love,

All my wealth of the mind. Tell me now, when will you set me free?”

When her song ended, Meera looked up and saw the devotees sitting before her, listening with rapt attention, their faces glowing with deep devotion. Clad in wet garments after her bath, absorbed in meditation, Meera looked like a saintess from afar. Just as bees rush toward the lotus, devotees were drawn to the power of her song and her form. At their request, she began to hold daily gatherings on Vaishnava philosophy.

One evening, Meera convened such a discussion in the ashram courtyard. By then her fame had spread far and wide. Crowds of people came to hear her expound on Vaishnava teachings. Her words carried such depth that the listeners lost awareness of their physical selves, swept away in a current of spiritual ecstasy.

Pratap said, “Saanjh, on the day I speak of, Meera was explaining the essence of Vaishnavism. She said:

‘The human mind is not composed of the same elements in everyone. There are variations. Each person has both noble and ignoble tendencies, but in different proportions. If lust, anger, violence, and hatred dominate, such a person is said to have pashu-bhava (animal nature). If compassion, kindness, devotion, and gratitude prevail, such a person is said to have deva-bhava (divine nature). The lowest state of mind is animal-like, the ordinary state is human, and the highest is divine.

The evolution of these states is intertwined with the history of life’s evolution itself. Differences in temperament are largely innate, though circumstances also influence them.

For the welfare of the world, whosoever, in whatever place, form, or language, tramples animal nature and establishes justice and compassion — that person is a true Vaishnava. Whoever, stern yet sweet in tone, declares that even if heaven itself were to shatter, the reign of justice must prevail — that person is a true Vaishnava. Vaishnavism is the religion of justice and peace. All are equal, none is the master of another, all are each other’s helpers, and every living being is worthy of compassion. No one may injure another for selfish gain. This dharma sees the mighty and the mosquito with the same eyes. It admits no indulgence, no luxury, no hierarchy. This dharma raises humans from the animal state to the human state, and from the human to the divine. Through the name and worship of Krishna, animal impulses vanish from the mind, and the craving to consume other beings disappears. This is the essence of Vaishnavism. Whoever is filled with hatred, arrogance, lust, or greed is no Vaishnava. Religion without inner substance is nothing but a shell.

Whoever directly experiences the loving hladini shakti, who rises or strives to rise from bestiality to divinity through love — that one is a true Vaishnava. The core teaching of Vaishnavism is to become humbler than a blade of grass, more patient than a tree, to forget one’s selfhood, and to dedicate one’s life for the sake of others. Vaishnavism is the religion of those endowed with divine nature.’

Before ending her discourse, Meera said, ‘I shall conclude with the words of Saint Kabir, who said:

“My long-cherished hope — when will that blessed day come,

When all human hearts will smile in supreme love?

When, in the name of the Creator, in this mortal world,

The banner of love and victory shall fly?”’”

Brothers will embrace each other in joy, forgetting all divisions.

Everyone’s heart will long to dedicate themselves to the welfare of others.

All will perceive the immortal beauty within one another.

The ruler, the king, and God Himself—only the scepter of rule will be pure love; the goal of all will be radiant knowledge and fragrant devotion.

The day this happens, that day the chief purpose of Vaishnavism will be fulfilled. That is why it is written in the Rigveda:

“Bhadram no apibataya manah” — meaning, we must guide our minds along the path of righteousness.

Because of the charm of Mirabai’s style of speech, the number of devotees grew day by day. People from villages around Vrindavan also rushed to catch a glimpse of her. Mira—on one side, a princess, daughter of a king, on the other, the bride of the royal family of Mewar—yet how simple her way of life! Looking at Mira, no one could guess she was a queen. Renouncing all pleasures and worldly desires, she lived like an ascetic. Another great attraction of Mirabai was her beauty. Her radiant beauty seemed to light up everything around her. Humans are worshippers of beauty, and Mira attracted people with her glow.

At the dusk of the medieval world, Mirabai, though a woman, lived according to her own will. Whenever restraints were imposed on her, they never lasted long. That itself was no small protest. By her own life, she built a strong rebellion against the patriarchal society.

Sanjh said, “Pratap, one thing is clear—that after coming to Vrindavan, the spiritual chapter of Mira’s life began. I mean it in that sense.”

Pratap replied, “You are right. Mira’s spiritual journey, in that sense, truly began in Vrindavan. Devotees spent long hours discussing with her. They discussed Vaishnavism and philosophy. Mirabai described the essence of religion in such simple words, in a way they had never heard before. These discussions would take place beneath the Bansivat tree by the Yamuna. One day the devotees asked Mira, ‘What is Vaishnavism? When did it arise? Please tell us something about it.’”

Mirabai said, “Vaishnavism is an ancient religion. But when exactly it arose, there is no definite way of knowing today. About the marriage customs of the early Vaishnavas, nothing is known either. Nor can we clearly say how Vaishnavas worshipped during the times of the Ramayana, Mahabharata, or the Puranas. But there is no doubt that devotion is very ancient. Reading the Vedic hymns makes it clear that they are filled with devotion and reverence for the gods. I will present one annotation:

‘Dataro bhimatanam, bhaktebhyo’ — meaning, those who grant the desires of devotees, they are the gods.”

Upon the rituals of the Aranyakas and Upanishads was established the path of devotion. Therefore, Ramanuja, Madhvacharya, Baladeva and other devotional Vedantists accepted the Upanishads as their epic foundation. In the Katha Upanishad and in the four Vedas there are some discussions of devotion. Nilakantha, in his commentary on the Mahabharata, mentions the Vedic origins of devotion. However, the word “bhakti” itself is not very ancient—it is not found in the Vedas or earliest Upanishads. The word first appears at the end of the sixth chapter of the Shvetashvatara Upanishad:

“Yasya deve para bhaktir yatha deve tatha gurau,

Tasyete kathita hyarthah prakashante mahatmanah.”

Meaning, the truths spoken here are revealed only to the great soul who has supreme devotion to God and equal devotion to his guru. In this verse, the personality of God is strongly affirmed. What is referred to here as Deva is essentially what we now call Bhagavata-Vigraha (the divine form of God).

The Shvetashvatara Upanishad is later than the other ancient Upanishads, but just before the Bhagavad Gita. It seems that from this verse, the technical term “bhakti” arose. After its mention there, the word “bhakti” gained wide prominence in the Bhagavad Gita. In other parts of the Mahabharata too, especially in the Narayanīya Parva, in the words of the dying Bhishma, we find references to the technical sense of “bhakti.”

But in truth, none of this detailed knowledge is necessary. One should meditate on God from the heart, serve living beings, and move forward with goodwill. Devotion to God is the ultimate essence. One must experience that divinity within oneself, establish divine qualities within, and dedicate one’s life to serving the world.

Hearing Mirabai’s words, everyone was astonished. In Vrindavan her teachings spread from mouth to mouth. But detractors were never absent. Even there, people criticized her. Mira sang ceaselessly, danced in ecstasy—many could not accept it. They said, “What kind of devotee is this, who spends the whole day singing? She rejects caste distinctions and says everyone is equal. She mingles with everyone. She doesn’t even look like a queen.”

Champa and Chameli told Mira, “Bai Sa, people here also criticize you. They say that being a woman, you are too popular, and out of envy, they mock you. They say, ‘No one will remember your songs. Your songs are only filled with desire. Soon everyone will forget you.’”

Mira simply smiled. She said, “They judge everyone by their own outlook on life. If we do the same, what difference will there be between them and us? Then we too become like them, isn’t it so?” Hearing this, Champa and Chameli wept.

In Vrindavan, enemies arose openly against her. Earlier they only criticized her in her absence, but now they attacked her publicly in her gatherings. Mira recognized many of them, for they were always present, trying to humiliate her with their questions.

One day someone asked, “Tell us, who is a true Vaishnava?”

Mira paused, looked at him, and replied, “One who worships Vishnu is a Vaishnava.”

Immediately, they pressed further, “That is too short, we cannot understand. Please explain properly.”

Realizing their intent was to insult her in public, Mira calmly smiled and said, “A true Vaishnava is one who treats all beings equally, behaves with Vaishnava-like conduct, and dedicates all actions to Lord Vishnu.”

She then quoted:

“Lobham moham mada-krodha-kamadi-rahita, sukhi, Krishna-sharana, sadhu-sahishnu, sama-darshana.”

Again they insisted, “Still we don’t understand, please explain more.”

Mira replied, “One who surrenders completely at Krishna’s feet, renounces all attachments, remains joyful in heart, sees all equally, and endures suffering—that person is a Vaishnava.”

And she recited further verses describing a Vaishnava—content, self-controlled, devoted to Hari’s feet, peaceful, free from malice, humble, pure, compassionate, detached from pride and enmity.

Her answers silenced the critics.

Mira then said to all, “Those who love me, who feel enriched by my words, may attend my gatherings. Those who think my singing, dancing, and discussions offend propriety—please do not come. Everything is karma. Those who come here act by one kind of karma; those who avoid, by another. Two different kinds of minds cannot always be one. In the Bhaktamala, there is a beautiful story I wish to share…”

She then narrated the story of the thief who disguised himself as a saint, only to be transformed by divine grace when the king offered his daughter to him. The thief renounced his old ways and surrendered to God.

Mira concluded: “From this, we learn that association with saints is the only way to attain God.”

She quoted from the Bhagavata Purana, where Krishna Himself told Uddhava that not yoga, nor sankhya, nor austerities, nor sacrifices, nor rituals, nor pilgrimages—none equal the power of saintly association, which can liberate even birds, beasts, and outcasts.

That day in the gathering, Mira was praised with cries of victory. Even those who came to oppose her bowed their heads, and eventually became her devotees.

Thus, time flowed on. Meanwhile, many from Chittor visited Vrindavan and met Mirabai. On returning, they said, “Bai Sa did well to leave Chittor. Away from its dirty politics, her spiritual growth blossomed. Like a lotus unable to bloom in muddy waters, Mira bloomed only after coming to Vrindavan.”

Mirabai herself felt the same, and gradually established herself firmly in Vrindavan.

After Mira left Chittor, it seemed the city was left orphaned. From the day she had arrived, she had protected it, but after her departure…It seemed as if everything had come to an end. Everyone began to blame Vikramjit for Meera’s departure from Chittor. Moreover, due to Vikramjit’s inept rule, fires of rebellion flared up all around. In such a dreadful situation, the Rajput nobles invited Bahadur Shah, the Sultan of Gujarat, to attack Chittor in order to dethrone Vikramjit.

One deep night, torches flared along the borders of Chittor. From the fort’s ramparts, the sentries thought there had been a fire at the frontier. Messengers disguised in nearby villages tried to peer out from the bushes to see who these men were. It was clear that a foreign enemy was attacking, but where they had actually come from remained uncertain. In the darkness of night, the attacking king’s banner could not be recognized. After an entire night of trying, at dawn the torchlight revealed the flag of Bahadur Shah.

From all corners of Chittor, horsemen sped toward the fort to bring the news. Hearing of Bahadur Shah’s assault, Rana Vikramjit was seized with terror—for he had not yet forgotten the dreadful experience of being in the Sultan’s presence. After his father’s defeat and the humiliating treaty that followed, he had been forced to live a captive’s life inside the Sultan’s harem. The Sultan had forgotten that Vikramjit was but a child. That was why he had subjected him to his vile, lustful impulses. Day after day, the Sultan’s lust consumed him, robbing Vikramjit of his manhood.

This was the reason he was different from everyone else. Vikramjit knew that because of this, the people of Chittor—his own mother Karmetbai included—did not like him. How could his character have been formed otherwise? At the very age when character should have been shaped, what a terrible life he had been forced to endure—a life so shameful he dared not speak of it to anyone. And who was there to confide in? No one had ever thought of him as their own, no one had cared to know his sorrow. He had thought of Meerabai as his own, dearest of all. Yet, the loathsome image of her that he had been shown filled his heart with contempt for her.

But that impression of Meera had been planted by Banbir. Even today Vikramjit had not fully believed what Banbir said about her. Still, Banbir was the one he trusted most. It was by believing Banbir’s words that he had treated Meerabai so harshly. Vikramjit also knew that defeat at the hands of the Sultan of Gujarat was inevitable. But what if, after his defeat, the Sultan imprisoned him again? Then that vile life would begin all over again. No—never again. Having once escaped, he would never return to that life under any circumstances.

With these thoughts tormenting him, before the first light of dawn, Vikramjit abandoned Chittor and set out in disguise on the road to Bundi. As soon as news of the Rana’s flight spread like wildfire, the people of Chittor were thrown into panic. After Rana Sanga’s death, the army of Chittor had grown terribly weak. Years without warfare had dulled both their weapons and the strength of the soldiers. In Rana Sanga’s time, before every battle, he would summon the chiefs, devise a strategy of war, and only after long preparations would the march to battle begin.

But after Rana Sanga’s death, two Ranas had ascended the throne. Of them, though the people of Chittor had reluctantly accepted Ratan Singh as their ruler, Vikramjit they could never accept. Once again, the women of every household in Chittor began to prepare themselves for sati.

Meanwhile, when the news of Vikramjit’s flight reached Queen Dhanbai and Karmetbai, Queen Dhanbai said, “I have long cherished the wish to take part directly in battle, and today that wish is about to come true. Clad in battle armor, with weapons in hand, I shall fight on the battlefield myself. Commander, instruct the soldiers to make ready.”

Queen Karmetbai replied, “It is impossible for us alone to defeat the Sultan of Gujarat. We must seek the support of a greater power. I have heard that the Mughal Emperor Humayun is a most compassionate and learned man. For this, we can surely appeal to Humayun for help.”

Queen Dhanbai said, “Karmetbai, if that is possible, it would indeed be wonderful. Do one thing—write a letter to Emperor Humayun at once.”

Karmetbai said, “Yes, I have thought of a way. I believe if we follow this path, we shall surely succeed.”

Dhanbai asked, “What way have you found? Tell me clearly.”

Karmetbai replied, “There is no bond deeper than that of a brother and sister. Therefore, I shall send a rakhi to Emperor Humayun. Along with that rakhi will go a letter in which I will appeal to him for aid. Queen Dhanbai said, “There can be no better proposal than this. By tonight, a messenger will set out for Agra with your letter and the rakhi.”

That night, Karmetbai wrote a letter to Emperor Humayun:

“Respected Brother,

At the outset of this letter, I offer you my deepest respects. Today, your unfortunate sister, along with the thousands of sisters who shelter under her, stands at the threshold of death. Chittor is under attack by the Sultan of Gujarat. After the death of my late husband, the backbone of Chittor has been broken. In such a situation, I appeal to you for help. Protect us, dear brother.

Yours,

Your sister, Karmetbai.”

(Continues)

Click here for Part-1, Part-2, Part-3, Part-4, Part-5, Part-6, Part-7, Part-8, Part-9, Part-10, Part-11, Part-12, Part-13, Part-14, Part-15, Part-16, Part-17, Part-18, Part-19, Part-20, Part-21, Part-22, Part-23, Part-24, Part-25, Part-26, Part-27, Part-28, Part-29, Part-30, Part-31, Part-32, Part-33, Part-34, Part-35, Part-36, 

__________________ 

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 Award-Winning Novel: Meera-37 first appeared on Sindh Courier.

Meera

By Debasree Chakraborti

It seemed as if everything had come to an end. Everyone began to blame Vikramjit for Meera’s departure from Chittor. Moreover, due to Vikramjit’s inept rule, fires of rebellion flared up all around. In such a dreadful situation, the Rajput nobles invited Bahadur Shah, the Sultan of Gujarat, to attack Chittor in order to dethrone Vikramjit.

One deep night, torches flared along the borders of Chittor. From the fort’s ramparts, the sentries thought there had been a fire at the frontier. Messengers disguised in nearby villages tried to peer out from the bushes to see who these men were. It was clear that a foreign enemy was attacking, but where they had actually come from remained uncertain. In the darkness of night, the attacking king’s banner could not be recognized. After an entire night of trying, at dawn the torchlight revealed the flag of Bahadur Shah.

From all corners of Chittor, horsemen sped toward the fort to bring the news. Hearing of Bahadur Shah’s assault, Rana Vikramjit was seized with terror—for he had not yet forgotten the dreadful experience of being in the Sultan’s presence. After his father’s defeat and the humiliating treaty that followed, he had been forced to live a captive’s life inside the Sultan’s harem. The Sultan had forgotten that Vikramjit was but a child. That was why he had subjected him to his vile, lustful impulses. Day after day, the Sultan’s lust consumed him, robbing Vikramjit of his manhood.

This was the reason he was different from everyone else. Vikramjit knew that because of this, the people of Chittor—his own mother Karmetbai included—did not like him. How could his character have been formed otherwise? At the very age when character should have been shaped, what a terrible life he had been forced to endure—a life so shameful he dared not speak of it to anyone. And who was there to confide in? No one had ever thought of him as their own, no one had cared to know his sorrow. He had thought of Meerabai as his own, dearest of all. Yet, the loathsome image of her that he had been shown filled his heart with contempt for her.

But that impression of Meera had been planted by Banbir. Even today Vikramjit had not fully believed what Banbir said about her. Still, Banbir was the one he trusted most. It was by believing Banbir’s words that he had treated Meerabai so harshly. Vikramjit also knew that defeat at the hands of the Sultan of Gujarat was inevitable. But what if, after his defeat, the Sultan imprisoned him again? Then that vile life would begin all over again. No—never again. Having once escaped, he would never return to that life under any circumstances.

With these thoughts tormenting him, before the first light of dawn, Vikramjit abandoned Chittor and set out in disguise on the road to Bundi. As soon as news of the Rana’s flight spread like wildfire, the people of Chittor were thrown into panic. After Rana Sanga’s death, the army of Chittor had grown terribly weak. Years without warfare had dulled both their weapons and the strength of the soldiers. In Rana Sanga’s time, before every battle, he would summon the chiefs, devise a strategy of war, and only after long preparations would the march to battle begin.

But after Rana Sanga’s death, two Ranas had ascended the throne. Of them, though the people of Chittor had reluctantly accepted Ratan Singh as their ruler, Vikramjit they could never accept. Once again, the women of every household in Chittor began to prepare themselves for sati.

Meanwhile, when the news of Vikramjit’s flight reached Queen Dhanbai and Karmetbai, Queen Dhanbai said, “I have long cherished the wish to take part directly in battle, and today that wish is about to come true. Clad in battle armor, with weapons in hand, I shall fight on the battlefield myself. Commander, instruct the soldiers to make ready.”

Queen Karmetbai replied, “It is impossible for us alone to defeat the Sultan of Gujarat. We must seek the support of a greater power. I have heard that the Mughal Emperor Humayun is a most compassionate and learned man. For this, we can surely appeal to Humayun for help.”

Queen Dhanbai said, “Karmetbai, if that is possible, it would indeed be wonderful. Do one thing—write a letter to Emperor Humayun at once.”

Karmetbai said, “Yes, I have thought of a way. I believe if we follow this path, we shall surely succeed.”

Dhanbai asked, “What way have you found? Tell me clearly.”

Karmetbai replied, “There is no bond deeper than that of a brother and sister. Therefore, I shall send a rakhi to Emperor Humayun. Along with that rakhi will go a letter in which I will appeal to him for aid. Queen Dhanbai said, “There can be no better proposal than this. By tonight, a messenger will set out for Agra with your letter and the rakhi.”

That night, Karmetbai wrote a letter to Emperor Humayun:

“Respected Brother,

At the outset of this letter, I offer you my deepest respects. Today, your unfortunate sister, along with the thousands of sisters who shelter under her, stands at the threshold of death. Chittor is under attack by the Sultan of Gujarat. After the death of my late husband, the backbone of Chittor has been broken. In such a situation, I appeal to you for help. Protect us, dear brother.

Yours,

Your sister, Karmetbai.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As Vikramjit was thinking of Banbir, Banbir arrived.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Click here for Part-1, Part-2, Part-3, Part-4, Part-5, Part-6, Part-7, Part-8, Part-9, Part-10, Part-11, Part-12, Part-13, Part-14, Part-15, Part-16, Part-17, Part-18, Part-19, Part-20, Part-21, Part-22, Part-23, Part-24, Part-25, Part-26, Part-27, Part-28, Part-29, Part-30, Part-31, Part-32, Part-33, Part-34, Part-35, 

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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 Award-Winning Novel: Meera-36 first appeared on Sindh Courier.

Meera

By Debasree Chakraborti

Place: Chittor Fort, Merta

The news that Meera Bai was to be executed by being drowned in the Suraj Kund reached Queen Karmet Bai, who hurried to Queen Dhan Bai’s palace. Dhan Bai now wholeheartedly supported Meera. After Ratan Singh’s death, she was deeply enraged with Rao Ganga of Jodhpur and with Banvir. Queen Dhan Bai knew very well that if anyone was responsible for Ratan’s death, it was none other than Banvir. She was also not unaware that it was his conspiracies that had been claiming one queen after another as sacrifice.

Queen Dhan Bai said, “This is an insult to the queens of Mewar. Under no circumstances can we let Meera die.”

Karmet Bai replied, “That is exactly what I am saying too. Let’s see if we can somehow prevent this death.”

After thinking for a while, Karmet Bai said, “I have information that these days the royal employees are not receiving their proper wages. They are in dire financial straits. Those who are to drown Meera tomorrow in the Suraj Kund—if they receive suitable payment, then perhaps our wish can be fulfilled.”

Champa and Chameli had come along with Karmet Bai. They said, “My Queen, if you are ready to give the right amount of money, then we can try to persuade them.”

Karmet Bai said, “I am ready.”

Dhan Bai added, “We two will provide the money. You persuade them. And listen, tomorrow morning not a single woman of Mewar will remain indoors—each one of you must surround the Suraj Kund and sing the songs written by Meera. We queens too will be present there. In this way, we will register our protest.”

Just then, Udabai came to Meera Bai and said, “Bai Sa, if you accept all of Banvir’s terms, then I can speak to him and stop your execution.”

Hearing Uda’s words, Meera laughed and said, “Uda, you are still very childish. Go, keep yourself busy with your own games.”

The women of the fort began to sing songs teasing Uda. They said Uda had said—

“Thane baraj baraj me haari, bhabhi, maano baat hamaari.

Raajeros kio kha upar, saadho me mat jaari.”

Which meant: “I admit defeat in trying to stop you. Sister-in-law, listen to me. Rana is angry with you. Do not mingle so much with saints and ascetics.”

“Ratan jarit pahiro aabhushan, bhogo bhogo apaari.

Meeraji the chalo mahal me, thane sogan khaari.”

Meaning: “Adorn yourself with jewelry, enjoy the pleasures of life. By my oath, Meera ji, leave the temple and return to the palace.”

Now the women of the palace responded to Meera in song,

“Rana ne samjhao jao, Meerake prabhu Giridhar Nagar, santa haath bikaani.

Udabai man samajh jao, aapne dhaam. Rajpaat bhogo taksi, hume na taasu kaam.”

Meaning: “Go tell Rana that Meera’s Lord is Giridhar Nagar, she has surrendered herself into the hands of saints. Udabai, make peace in your heart, and return to your own home. Rule and wealth are yours to enjoy, but we have no need of such things.”

Unknowingly, Udabai had become drawn to Meera. She could not accept Banvir’s decision in any way. A terrible guilt gnawed at her heart, yet she could not figure out what to do.

Meanwhile, ever since the news of Meera’s death sentence spread, every household in the villages within Chittor Fort began observing arandhan (refusal to cook). Women sat outside their homes, beating plates and singing Meera’s songs in protest. Their defiance, like a roaring cannon, only fanned the flames of Banvir’s wrath further.

Dhan Bai and Karmet Bai rushed from their palaces to Meera’s residence. They sat by Meera’s side the entire night. Yet, amidst all of this turmoil, there was not the slightest trace of fear or dread on Meera’s face. Seeing Champa and Chameli weeping, she kept consoling them instead.

Queen Dhan Bai said, “By killing Meera, Banvir wants to put the entire blame on Vikramjit. He wants the people to hate Vikram.”

Karmet Bai replied, “I understand everything. Ever since Rana’s death, Banvir has spun a labyrinth around us, trapping us as he pleases. But there seems to be no way to escape it.”

While everyone in Meera’s palace was engrossed in conversation, Udabai appeared there. Words seemed to have left her lips; her face was filled with guilt as she stared at Meera. After watching her for a long while, Meera stretched out her arms. Uda rushed forward and buried her face in Meera’s bosom, weeping. Meera said gently, “Uda, I knew you would return to the right path. You had to come back.”

Thus, the whole night passed, and with dawn, the light spread across the land.

At daybreak the next morning, all the women of Chittor Fort gathered around the Suraj Kund, singing Meera’s songs. Queens Dhan Bai and Karmet Bai too arrived at the Suraj Kund along with Meera. The women had resolved that if anyone attempted to drown Meera, they themselves would leap into the waters of the Kund. History bore witness that the women of Chittor never thought twice before offering their lives in sacrifice.

Banvir and Vikramjit had already arrived there earlier with their supporters. As soon as Meera arrived, a strange smile appeared on Banvir’s face. He instructed his two guards, “Shubhasya Sheeghram” (“the sooner the better”).

The two guards moved towards Meera. From either side, they seized her arms and began leading her towards the Suraj Kund. A gentle smile played upon Meera’s lips; far from resisting, she calmly stepped into the waters of the Kund. The guards forced her down into the water. But—what was this? Meera floated back up.

Again and again, they tried to drown her, but each time she rose back to the surface, untouched.

Champa and Chameli came and stood behind Dhan Bai and Karmet Bai. From all sides…

Cries of victory rang out in Meera’s name. The women of Chittor entered the waters of the Suraj Kund, embraced her, and lifted her out. From every household of Chittor Fort the sound of conch shells reverberated. It was the triumph of dharma over adharma. Word spread quickly among the people—Meera Bai was no ordinary woman, she was a goddess from heaven. Such an insult to a goddess could not be tolerated even by religion itself, and Vikramjit would have to pay for this sin.

News reached Banvir that Meera would be leaving Mewar at dawn the next day.

Banvir laughed and said, “Nothing could be a better arrangement than this. Meera doesn’t need to reach Merta at all. On the road, she will die at the hands of bandits.”

He sent his agents to strike a deal with the fierce dacoits of the Aravallis.

Meanwhile, hearing of Meera’s impending departure from Chittor, crowds gathered outside her palace. They were common people from the villages inside the fort as well as royal employees. Each of them revered Meera Bai deeply. Shouting in unison, they said, “Bai Sa, you are the Rajlakshmi of Chittor. To have you as our Bai Sa is the accumulated merit of our forefathers through many lifetimes. You cannot leave us like this. If you go, what will become of us?”

From another side, the royal employees raised their voices, “Bai Sa, you are on the path of dharma. Then why should you leave? It is those who have committed adharma who must leave Mewar. We will not let you go.”

Meera Bai understood at once—a people’s rebellion was about to break out. This would be extremely dangerous for Chittor. For Udai Singh was still very young, and if Vikramjit were dethroned, it would be very easy for Banvir to seize power. The situation had to be controlled immediately.

Meera came and stood before the window of her palace and said, “First, calm yourselves. I have something to tell you.”

At the sight of her, the crowd erupted with shouts of victory: “Glory to Meera Bai Sa, glory!” Meanwhile, hearing of her death sentence, even the tribals from Kumbhalgarh had come there. When the crowd fell silent, Meera Bai spoke:

“Our personal interests must…”

We shall not give priority to ourselves here, for above all comes Chittor. Protecting Chittor is our foremost duty. There is no use in keeping me confined like this, for my work in Chittor has come to an end. And if I am held back here, I will be unable to do anything further for Chittor. To safeguard the future of Chittor, I must leave. Yet this will never sever our bond—never in any way. Wherever I may be, I shall work for your well-being, and you will continue to remain in touch with me. Before leaving, I wish to entrust the responsibility of protecting Chittor and Vikramjit into your hands. For Udai is still very young, and the throne of Chittor must wait a few more years.

To my tribal brothers and sisters of Kumbhalgarh Fort, I entrust the duty of guarding Chittor’s future. I know that as long as your lives endure, Chittor’s destiny will not be harmed. Now is the time for us to undergo our trial by fire. To save Chittor, you must now let me go.

From all around, the people raised triumphant cries in Meera Bai’s name. Meera then went back inside her palace. Champa and Chameli came, carrying their little bundles, and said, “Bai Sa, wherever you go, we shall go too. You cannot leave your Champa and Chameli behind.”

When Meera extended her arms, Champa and Chameli ran to her and embraced her tightly.

The next day, before leaving Mewar, Meera encountered her uncle Biramdev and the army of Merta, who had come to meet her. It was with them that she returned to Merta.

Thus, Banvir was defeated by his own scheme. He had informed Biramdevji in the hope of dethroning Vikramjit. Had Meera not met Biramdevji that very day, she might have had to offer her life as a sacrifice at the hands of the Aravalli bandits.

Night descended upon the land of Merta. From the shops all around…

Light drifted in from the distance. Saanjh and Pratap sat side by side on the veranda. From afar, the strains of a Rajasthani folk song floated in the air.

Saanjh’s heart was heavy. She was deeply pained for Meera Bai. She said to Pratap, “Pratap, was it true that Meera was killed?”

Pratap remained silent for a while before answering, “At that time, it is said that Shri Chaitanya, Chaitanya’s elder brother Vishwarupa, Meera Bai, and Nityananda—all of them merged into the idols of the temple deities. But think carefully with a rational mind—can that ever be possible? Then what might it be? Judge with your own wisdom.”

After Meera left Mewar, Bahadur Shah of Gujarat invaded and reduced it to ruins. The people of Mewar, lamenting in grief, cried, “Meera Bai was the Lakshmi of Mewar. Because she was driven away, Mewar has met this fate.” They began pouring out their anger against Banvir and Vikramjit.

At that time Banvir was removed from power, and Rana’s stepmother, Queen Dhan Bai, was made regent. Once she assumed power, Queen Dhan Bai said to Prime Minister Eknath Bhatt, “Prime Ministerji, bring Meera Bai back.”

The Prime Minister replied, “My Queen, we had already tried long before you gave permission. But she will not return. Never.”

Dhan Bai said, “Considering the insult with which Meera left, it is indeed right that she does not return. But if she does not come back, neither the common people of Mewar nor the people of Merta will ever stand with us. Now, the Portuguese have attacked Gujarat, so Bahadur Shah has retreated. But he could return any day. Have you thought what will become of Mewar then?”

All her life, Queen Dhan Bai had wished to become an administrator. In Chittor’s time of crisis, that wish was fulfilled. Alongside managing Chittor’s administration, she also began taking training in the art of warfare. Just as Kaikeyi of the Ramayana had once gone to battle with Dasharatha, Dhan Bai seemed to transform into the Kaikeyi of Chittor.

In time, the Queen’s prophecy came true. Bahadur Shah once again invaded Mewar and reduced it to ruins. Queen Dhan Bai then declared, “Open the royal treasury. Let Bahadur Shah take whatever he wants, but let Mewar be freed.”

Bahadur Shah plundered the royal treasury of Mewar and departed. On that day, not a single king of Rajasthan came forward to stand by Mewar. On the contrary, Banvir’s men themselves supported Bahadur Shah.

The next morning, Saanjh and Pratap went to visit the fort of Merta. What they saw there left them awestruck. It was as though living history was unfolding right before their eyes.

In their mind’s eye, Saanjh and Pratap saw Meera Bai. Inside one of the fort’s palaces, imprisoned, Meera’s uncle was saying to her:

“Meera, whatever worship and devotion you wish to do, you must do it within these four walls. All this association with saints must end now. Remember, Merta’s honor is tied to you. Therefore, under no circumstances must you mingle with the common people. That will not bring you any good.”

On Meera’s face there appeared a look of terrible helplessness. In the dirty politics of Chittor Fort, her spirit had remained unbroken. But what had happened to her here in Merta? Her willpower seemed shattered into pieces.

Saanjh could see that within the glittering brilliance of Merta Fort, there lay a deep darkness. Meera sat lost in thought, while Champa and Chameli sat before her. Champa said,

“Bai Sa, now that you have come to Merta, your hands and feet are bound. What will you do now?”

Meera Bai replied in a deeply sorrowful voice, “Even before birth, shackles are placed upon our feet. From the age of the epics this has been the way, and changing it is not so easy.”

Chameli asked, “Bai Sa, from the age of the epics? We do not understand. Please explain a little more.”

Meera Bai said, “Dasharatha gave his daughter in adoption to a sage named Romapada. Shanta’s only fault was that she was born a daughter. Romapada raised her and gave her in marriage to a sage named Rishyasringa. When Dasharatha had no sons, he turned to Shanta for help. Shanta sent her husband Rishyasringa to assist her father. Because of Shanta’s efforts, Dasharatha obtained sons, but Shanta herself had no place beside them. What a humiliation! In the Mahabharata…”

Kumbhi too had the same fate. Kumbhi’s foster father, knowing full well the terrible character of Durvasa, still sent Kunti to serve him. Despite being aware of Durvasa’s whimsical nature, he placed Kunti at his disposal to appease him. Would he have done the same if she had been his own daughter? He had told Kunti: “You know, if girls of low or inferior lineage are kept within the bounds of some discipline and custom, they might still, out of restlessness, do what they should not. ‘Douskuleyā viśeṣaṇe kathaṃcit pragrahaṃ gatāḥ, bālabhāvād vikurvanti prāyaśaḥ pramādāḥ śubhe.’”

From this it becomes clear that in return for raising Kunti, he placed upon her such a great burden of responsibility. And in that role, Kunti was nothing more than a state-servant.

“My own condition is much the same,” Meera said. “I found no happiness in my in-laws’ house. After Bhojraj’s death, I have lingered among my husband’s family like a weed. Now, returning to Merta as a married woman has brought them no joy at all. Under their shelter, I live like a parasite. In Grandfather Sa’s lifetime, Merta was one thing; but the Merta of today is vastly different. Therefore, I cannot stay here much longer.”

In the corners of Merta Fort, Saanjh seemed to witness the flowing stream of history. Entering another chamber of the palace, he saw Meera speaking to her brother Jaymal: “Jaymal, I have been in Merta for a long time now. This worldly life does not please me. I wish to renounce it and spend the last days of my life in Vrindavan.”

Tears welled in Jaymal’s eyes. He said, “I know you are not happy even in Merta. I too wish that wherever you are, you live well and stay healthy. Very well then, I shall arrange for your journey to Vrindavan. For a person’s self-respect comes before all else. Without self-respect, it is impossible to live in peace anywhere.”

Saanjh felt that as the day of Meera’s departure for Vrindavan drew near, her mind grew ever more restless. It was as though she could hear the call of the Yamuna. Through the currents of the Yamuna, someone from her past life, someone very close and dear, seemed to be calling her. She had no power to resist that call. And so her heart grew unsettled.

Since coming to Merta, Meera had realized that the days of her childhood with Rao Dudaji could never return again, nor could those days with Ramabai…No. After coming to Merta, she searched a lot for Ramabai, but no one could give her any trace of her. She pleaded with her uncle and aunt to let her go to Ramabai’s village just once. But they paid no heed to Meera’s words; instead, her proposal to go to Ramabai’s village sparked a storm of criticism. After returning to her father’s home after so many years, Meera felt as if she had taken shelter in some unfamiliar household where she had no rights. Her uncle even forbade her from going to the temple of Chaturbhujji. The maidservants in the fort of Merta, too, cast sidelong glances at her. In truth, the maids from Ramabai’s time were no longer in Merta; with the passage of time, the maids had also changed. These new maids, too, indulged in gossip about Meera, saying that she had committed a sin by returning to Merta from her in-laws’ house. They even held discussions about Meera’s character.

One day Champa and Chameli overheard these conversations among the maids and protested. One maid said that a merchant had once come from Chittor to Merta, and he had claimed that he saw Meera Bai committing indecencies with a hermit at the temple of Giridharji, and that was why the Rana had driven her away. Hearing this, Champa and Chameli protested sharply, saying, “What do you understand of Bai Sa’s worth? Even her own family considers her as filth—can’t you then realize what state poor widow Bai Sa must have faced in her in-laws’ house? She was driven out by attaching a vile slander to her name. Because in her presence they could not harm Chittor.”

Then another maid said, “Everyone knows what your Bai Sa is like, no need to keep weeping for her, understand?”

In reply, Champa said, “You don’t have to worry about Bai Sa anymore. In just a few days, she will take us with her to Vrindavan.”

When the maids heard about Meera going to Vrindavan, they scoffed, “Yes, yes, go on then, bid farewell, go to Vrindavan and play your Rasleela there.”

When Meera’s proposal of going to Vrindavan reached the family of Veermadevji, they raised no objection. They too wished that Meera would set out for Vrindavan as soon as possible. Thus, the day of her departure drew near. On the morning of her departure, Meera bathed…

After finishing the worship of Giridharji, she got ready to set out. Champa and Chameli too were prepared to go. Just then Meera’s aunt came and said, “For a widow, devotion and religious duties are the only rightful path. Family life is not meant for a widow.”

Meera knew there was no use in speaking much with ignorant people, so she simply bowed to her aunt and kept moving forward. That day, outside the fort, she entered the temple of Chaturbhujji for the last time. She had nothing to offer at the feet of Chaturbhujji, except the devotion and reverence of a prisoner—what else could she give? Since returning to Merta, Meera had not shed a single tear, but upon entering the temple of Chaturbhujji, she could no longer control her emotions. All those priceless memories of time spent with her grandfather rose before her eyes.

By the efforts of Gadadhar Pandit, Meera’s bhajans had been inscribed on the walls of this temple. People from far and wide used to come rushing to listen to her devotional songs. It was in this very temple that she had been tied in the sacred seven rounds of marriage with Bhojraj. How could she forget those days, her Merta, so dear to her heart? How close this Merta was to her, and yet today it felt so distant. Here, she had no right to live with her head held high.

From behind, Veermadevji said, “The road is not safe. There are dangers of every kind on the way. Set out while it is still daytime—you must reach your next destination before evening, from where you will have to resume your journey again at dawn.”

Meera understood everything, yet she remained silent. If there were such dangers on the road, then why was her uncle allowing her to go? Could she not continue her worship and devotion while staying in Merta itself? Thinking such thoughts, Meera kept walking ahead.

Jaimall came from behind, took hold of Meera’s hand, and said, “Meera, you will not go anywhere. By right, I am the next Rana of Merta. So I am telling you, I myself will build a temple of Giridharji for you. That temple will be outside this fort, where you can sit, talk with common people, and carry on your worship and devotion.”

Tears welled up in Meera Bai’s eyes, her throat choked with emotion. She said, “I know that after Grandfather Sa, if anyone in Merta loves me with their life, it is none other than you. But you could never go against your father’s…”

You must not oppose your father. Your father is still the ruler of Merta; there will always be complaints from the subjects against him. But the moment you oppose your father, that opposition will spread among the people. If a rebellion arises, the kingdom will suffer. And always remember one more thing—always keep in touch with the common people. Because if there is a foreign invasion, it is these very people who will protect you.

Tears welled up in Jaymal’s eyes, his voice filled with emotion. He said, “As a brother, I could never do anything for you. Today I feel like a sinner.”

Meera said, “Do not be sad. The time will come when I will seek your help. Then you must help me. For now, preserve your strength.”

Meera did not linger any longer; she moved ahead with Champa and Chameli. (Continue)

Click here for Part-1, Part-2, Part-3, Part-4, Part-5, Part-6, Part-7, Part-8, Part-9, Part-10, Part-11, Part-12, Part-13, Part-14, Part-15, Part-16, Part-17, Part-18, Part-19, Part-20, Part-21, Part-22, Part-23, Part-24, Part-25, Part-26, Part-27, Part-28, Part-29, Part-30, Part-31, Part-32, Part-33, Part-34, 

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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 Award-Winning Novel: Meera-35 first appeared on Sindh Courier.

Meera

By Debasree Chakraborti

Place: Merta, Chittor

From the balcony of their hotel room, Pratap and Saanjh could see the Merta Fort. Both of them stood there, gazing intently at the fort.

Saanjh said, “I can’t believe my eyes. The fort I am looking at now is the very place where Meera spent such an important part of her life. I have been to Merta before, but coming here with you feels like I’m discovering it all over again. Tell me, Pratap, you were talking about Vikramjit. But you never finished that story.”

Pratap replied, “Hmm, Vikramjit is like an important pawn in the chessboard of Meera’s life. One evening, when Banbir, Vikramjit, and a few courtiers were drinking, Udabai appeared there. At that time Udabai had free access to Vikramjit’s palace. Banbir had instructed the guards and other attendants that Udabai should always be treated with the highest respect. Gradually, Udabai even began to think of herself as the Queen Mother of Mewar. Dressed in the clothes and jewelry given by Banbir, she would wield her whip in the inner chambers of Chittor Fort. This benefited Banbir the most, because with the power he gave her, Udabai became his most loyal ally.

That day, Udabai secretly pulled Banbir aside into a dark corner of the palace and whispered something to him before leaving. Hearing what she had said, Banbir turned to Vikramjit and sneered, ‘Shame, shame, Vikramjit! Meera Bai has no respect for you as Rana. She truly believes in her heart that you are unworthy of the throne—that’s why she dared to say such a thing. After all you’ve done, is this the reward you get?’

Vikramjit, completely puzzled, replied, ‘I don’t understand.’

Looking at Vikramjit’s clueless face, Banbir said, ‘Meera Bai thinks that I am plotting to remove you in order to become Rana myself. If I had wanted to be Rana, do you think I would have made you Rana in the first place?’”

Banbir finished his words and immediately burst into a display of fake tears.

Hearing this, Vikramjit flared up in uncontrollable rage. He already viewed women with suspicion and disdain. In his eyes, every beautiful woman was his rival. So he roared, drew his sword, and shouted, “Today is Meera Bai’s last day. She has no right to live anymore. Blinded by the arrogance of her beauty, she dares to act this way!”

Banbir, in his heart, laughed. His arrow had struck the exact target.

Screaming like a frenzied beast, Vikramjit charged toward Meera Bai’s palace. His wild, furious cries echoed through the fort. In Mewar Fort, everyone loved and deeply respected Meera. Seeing Vikramjit’s behavior, people began to condemn him from all sides. Murmurs rose throughout the fortress. Yet no one dared to stop him, for everyone knew too well what havoc could come when a weapon lay in the hands of a madman.

The entrance to Meera’s palace was closed. Vikramjit kicked at the doors, shouting, “Such an insult! To keep the doors barred in the face of Mewar’s Rana! Meera, your time is over—if you have any courage, come out!”

Terrified, Meera’s maid trembled at his enraged cries. Then Meera herself came forward, opened the door, and stood in front of him, casting a sharp, piercing gaze upon Vikramjit.

At that moment, Vikramjit froze. Meera’s beauty shone, but more than that, her face and eyes carried an extraordinary aura of dignity—something he had never seen in any woman before.

Meera said, “Vikramjit, aren’t you the Rana of Chittor? Is this how a Rana of Chittor behaves? Go stand in front of a mirror and look at yourself—see what you look like right now. And always remember this: you are the Rana of Chittor, the representative of all its people. The honor your forefathers earned through generations—you have reduced it to dust!”

No one had ever spoken to Vikramjit this way before. This woman was breathtakingly beautiful and dignified, yet she did not feel like a rival to him at all. For the first time, Vikramjit did not see her as competition. Instead, her words struck him silent.

Two guards were standing outside Meera’s palace. Turning to them, Meera Bai said—

“Take Vikram with you,” Meera Bai ordered the guards. “In this drunken state, he cannot go alone. Go, escort him safely back.”

As Meera commanded, the guards led Vikramjit away to his palace.

The fortress of Chittor lay shrouded in thick darkness. From different corners of the fort, faint torchlight flickered. Amid this atmosphere, a deep conspiracy was unfolding. A guard came and reported everything that had happened in Meera Bai’s palace to Banbir. Hearing the report, Banbir’s eyes turned a murky gray, hiding something deeper than the ocean itself, impossible to read from the outside.

At that moment, a shadow appeared on the wall of Banbir’s chambers. Lifting his face toward it, Banbir said, “Ah, you’ve come?” The figure was his trusted spy. In the dim light of the torch reflecting in Banbir’s hand, something gleamed.

Banbir handed the spy a ring and said, “You must go to Merta. Go to Veeramdevji and tell him you’ve been sent by Karmetabai. Tell him that Meera is in grave danger.”

The messenger hesitated and said, “But it will take time for him to arrive. What if something happens in the meantime?”

Banbir’s eyes flashed brightly. He replied, “That’s exactly what I want. By the time he arrives, they’ll see Meera already dead, and then they will turn their fury upon Vikramjit.”

Just then, another spy arrived with urgent news: the Sultan of Gujarat, Bahadur Shah, was marching with his massive army to attack Mewar.

Banbir’s face lit up with excitement. “This is what I have been waiting for!” he exclaimed.

The spy added, “There is more bad news. Prince Uday Singh has been sent away from the Mewar fort to Kumbhalgarh.”

Banbir said coldly, “Now is not the time to worry about Uday Singh. First, we must settle matters with Vikramjit.”

Meanwhile, in the shifting shadows of Chittor Fort, a different scene played out in Vikramjit’s palace. In his drunken stupor, the face of Meera Bai kept appearing before his eyes—the very woman he had despised all this time, yet now…

Face to face with her, Vikramjit now felt not hatred but respect welling up inside him. What was this strange emotion? Could such a thing even be possible? A woman with such dignity could never truly be wicked. Then… had everything he’d heard about Meera all these years been lies?

That night Vikramjit had a dream. He saw himself lying in a cradle. On one side of the cradle stood Meera Bai, and on the other, Banbir. Banbir was saying, “Vikramjit, never trust Meera Bai, she is a liar.” From the other side, Meera was saying, “Shame on you, Vikramjit! Aren’t you the Rana of Chittor? Is such behavior befitting of you?”

Vikramjit felt the cradle swaying violently until at last it snapped. He was falling from Chittor Fort into the abyss below. He tried to scream, but no sound came out. He struggled desperately to shout, and finally, with sheer terror, he woke up.

When his eyes opened, he saw Banbir’s face looming over him. The terrifying expression on Banbir’s face made him recoil in fear. Startled, Vikramjit exclaimed, “What is this? You here? I got so frightened!”

Banbir said calmly, “Why should you fear me? I am your well-wisher.” Then, with a sinister undertone, he added, “But there is indeed something to be afraid of.”

Vikramjit asked, “Why, what has happened?”

Banbir replied, “For the past few days, Meera Bai has been seen speaking with a young ascetic. Every day they spend time together at the temple of Giridharji. We have decided to catch them red-handed tomorrow.”

Hearing this, Vikramjit hesitated and said, “But from what I’ve seen of Meera Bai, I cannot believe she could ever be like that. To me she seemed only noble, like a true well-wisher.”

Banbir instantly realized that seeing Meera had sobered Vikramjit from his drunken haze. Twisting his words, Banbir said, “You saw her when you were half-dazed, that’s why you could not recognize her true nature. Just wait a few more hours—tomorrow you shall see with your own eyes.”

The next morning, before the darkness had fully lifted, Meera Bai sat on the temple courtyard of Giridharji, stringing a garland. At that moment, a tall, handsome young ascetic entered the temple. Climbing the steps, he came and stood before Meera Bai…

Meera sat down. As she continued stringing her garland, she cast a glance at the ascetic and said, “I have never seen you in Chittor before. Where have you come from?”

The ascetic replied, “I have come from Dwarka. A divine command in a dream brought me rushing to Chittor.”

Meera looked at him in surprise. “A dream command? What command was that which brought you here?”

The ascetic said, “Since you ask, I will tell you. One night, as soon as I had fallen asleep, Lord Ranchhodji appeared before me in a dream. What an exquisite vision—his divine radiance lit up the entire world, wiping away all darkness. Overwhelmed, I fell at his feet.

Meera asked, “And all this—you saw only in your dream?”

The young ascetic replied, “Yes, everything happened in my dream.”

Meera sighed deeply, kept threading her garland, and said, “I see… then what happened?”

The ascetic continued, “I placed my head upon his feet and prayed, ‘O Lord, grant me liberation now. I can no longer bear the chains of this worldly life.’ Then the Lord said to me, ‘There is only one path to your liberation, and that is through Meera Bai. If you can once touch the lotus feet of Meera Bai, bride of the royal family of Chittor, only then will you be freed.’”

After finishing his words, the ascetic paused for a while. But Meera Bai went on stringing her garland with full concentration, not paying him any attention. Then the ascetic stretched out both hands toward her and pleaded, “Do not disappoint me like this. To me, you are like a heavenly goddess. Give me your feet.”

Still absorbed in her task, Meera Bai said, “I am astonished at your audacity. Do you know what the consequence of such insolence can be?”

The young ascetic begged humbly, “I am prepared for anything. I only wish to touch them once.”

Just then, guards came rushing in from all sides, with Banbir at their head… Vikramjit.

Banbir said, “Do you see now, Vikramjit? Didn’t I tell you this has been going on for a long time? Today we caught her red-handed.”

Vikramjit looked at Meera with an accusatory gaze and said, “Looking at you, one would never guess you could stoop so low in secret.”

Meanwhile, in the midst of the quarrel, the young ascetic bolted out of Giridharji’s temple and disappeared. Yet no one tried to stop him. Hearing the commotion, Champa, Chameli, and several others rushed to the spot. Among them, an elderly woman said, “Why, that boy who just ran away—he’s the same one who begs outside the Bhavani temple. I’ve seen this young ascetic there many times.” Supporting her, a young woman added, “Yes, I too have seen him when I go to the Bhavani temple outside the fort. But what was he doing here?”

Banbir sneered, “Shame, shame! You were lecturing Vikramjit about protecting the family’s honor, and here you are, disgracing yourself with a filthy beggar! This cannot be tolerated.”

Vikramjit turned to Meera with disgust and said, “So you are truly a woman of corrupt character. For this, you must be punished. I am the Rana of Chittor. I will decide your punishment.”

Without waiting for more, Meera fled from the place and hurried back to her palace.

All day she had remained without food or water. Weak in body, she lay down on her bed. Later, Champa and Chameli returned from Giridharji’s temple with the evening offering and a sherbet.

Champa said, “Bai Sa, we understand your sorrow. The way you were insulted in front of so many people today—such humiliation is unbearable.”

Chameli added, “Bai Sa, today’s entire incident was pre-planned.”

With great effort, Meera Bai sat up from the bed, leaned against the wall, and said, “For ages upon ages, women have been humiliated. What is new in this? Look at Sita’s story. When Ravana abducted her, Sita cursed him fiercely. Yet after the victory of Lanka, when Ramchandra first saw his wife again, his words were: ‘The battle I fought and won was not for your sake.’ Sita’s humiliation did not end there. When she was brought back from the Ashok Vatika…”

When Sita was being brought back in a palanquin, Rama did not approve of it. He said that Sita should be brought back on foot, and that if everyone saw her along the way, it did not matter. “Visṛjya śibikāṁ tasmāt padbhyām eva mārgataḥ” — “Let her dismiss the palanquin and come walking.”

Sita was the daughter of a king, the bride of a royal household. To bring her back walking on foot before the eyes of all was something neither Vibhishana, Sugriva, Lakshmana, nor Hanuman regarded well. For it was not only against Aryan custom, but even in non-Aryan cultures such an act was considered deeply humiliating.

Lifting the cup of sherbet and taking a sip, Meera Bai said, “In truth, he wished to humiliate Sita. And soon his real nature was revealed when he said:

‘Prāpta-cāritra-saṁdehā mama pratimukhe sthitā,

Dīpo netrāturasyeva pratikūlāsmi me dṛḍhā.

Tad gaccha tvānujānāmi adya yatheṣṭaṁ Janakātmaje,

Eta daśa diśo bhadre kāryam asti na me tvayā.

Kaḥ pumāṁs tu kule jātaḥ striyaṁ para-gṛhāśritām,

Tejasvī punar ādadyāt suhṛd-lobhena cetasā.

Rāvaṇāṅka-parikliṣṭāṁ duṣṭāṁ duṣṭena cakṣuṣā,

Kathaṁ tvāṁ punar ādadyāṁ kulaṁ vyapadi mamahat.

Yadarthaṁ nirjitā me tvaṁ so ’hyam āsāditaṁ mayā,

Nāsti me tvayy abhiṣvaṅgo yatheṣṭaṁ gamyatām iti.’

The meaning is: ‘I have doubts about your chastity. I cannot bear to see you before my eyes. Therefore, you may go wherever you wish in these ten directions. Tell me, can any man of noble birth accept a woman like you? You have been tainted by sitting on Ravana’s lap, polluted by his wicked gaze. If I were to take you back, my lineage would be dishonored. The reason for which I rescued you has now been fulfilled. I have no further attachment to you. You may go wherever you desire.’

After this, Sita had to undergo the ordeal of fire. For ages, women have been subjected to such trials by fire. Listening to his subjects, Rama even abandoned his wife while she was pregnant. From then on, he kept no relation with her at all.”

During Sita’s pregnancy, Rama did not think of what would happen to her, nor of what would become of her children. When did he remember? At the time of the Rājasūya sacrifice—for such a sacrifice cannot be performed without one’s wife. Then Sita was sought out and again preparations were made for another fire-ordeal. But this time, Sita did not undergo the trial by fire. Instead, she took refuge in the lap of her mother, the goddess Madhavi.

So, you see, Rama humiliated Sita so deeply, yet she was later placed upon the seat of divinity. In truth, this is the rule of the world: if you can accept it, well and good; if not, there is nothing to be done.

Champa said, “Bai-sa, this cannot be allowed to go on any longer. Do something to free yourself from this situation.”

Mira Bai replied, “Since you have reminded me of Rama, I will write a letter to Tulsidas-ji tonight. My messenger will wait behind Giridharji’s temple. The letter must be delivered into his hands. He alone can save me from this danger.” (Continues)

Click here for Part-1, Part-2, Part-3, Part-4, Part-5, Part-6, Part-7, Part-8, Part-9, Part-10, Part-11, Part-12, Part-13, Part-14, Part-15, Part-16, Part-17, Part-18, Part-19, Part-20, Part-21, Part-22, Part-23, Part-24, Part-25, Part-26, Part-27, Part-28, Part-29, Part-30, Part-31, Part-32, Part-33, 

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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 Award-Winning Novel: Meera-34 first appeared on Sindh Courier.

Meera

By Debasree Chakraborti

Place: Kurki

While researching the life of Meera Bai, Saanjh and Pratap had grown very close to each other. The Rajasthani culture and the lives of its people had deeply influenced her. In the midst of this rugged land of India, Saanjh had discovered the priceless treasure hidden there. In a few days, she and Pratap would set out for Dwarka—the place where Meera spent the final chapter of her life. Before that, however, they would go to Merta.

Today, Saanjh and Pratap were on their way to Merta. The journey by bus took about seven hours. They chose not to hire a private car deliberately. Instead, they preferred to travel by bus with the local people. The scorching desert wind streamed in through the window of the bus. A group of Banjaras had boarded; since they couldn’t find seats, they sat on the floor, singing as they went along. One of them started a song:

“Chhod ke mat jao, ekali re Banjara re, Banjara re ha.

Door desh ra hai mamla.

Ab jago pyara ho.”

Both of them gazed outside at the moving landscape, and within a couple of hours, they would reach Merta.

Pratap said, “Saanjh, before we reach Merta, I want to tell you something. Because unless you know these subtle, intricate events of history, it will not be possible for you to understand the final phase of Meera’s life.”

A little while ago, the Banjaras had stopped singing and were resting. From outside, the hot, dusty wind rushed into the bus, making the atmosphere even more stifling. Saanjh kept her eyes fixed on the landscape outside, listening intently to Pratap’s words.

Pratap continued, “After Ratan Singh, Vikramjit became the Rana of Mewar. But in Vikramjit’s character there was no trace of manliness. His mannerisms…”

Everything about him was like that of a woman. The people of Chittor and even the courtiers looked upon him with disdain. The masculinity that was so evident in Rana Ratan Singh was entirely absent in this Rana. To feel respect for Vikram was out of the question—his very presence provoked laughter. Even Queen Karmetbai spent her days deeply worried about her son. The incident of Vikramjit’s accession to the throne was itself extremely mysterious.

Saanjh said, “But Vikramjit was with the Sultan of Gujarat, wasn’t he?”

Pratap replied, “Exactly. For some mysterious reason, the Sultan showed mercy and released him. With Vikram’s return to Chittor, Karmetbai too came back to the city. After her brother’s death, she had become utterly helpless. She could not bear to stay alone in her palace; she always felt someone was watching her, that she might be killed at any moment. Whenever she was alone in the palace, Karmetbai would rave in delirium, saying that being a sati would have been far better than living this life. Because, had she become a sati, she would at least have earned honor and respect—so much better than this dishonor she now lived with. Now, every morning, Karmetbai went to the temple of Giridharji. After worship, she would sit with Meera and share her joys and sorrows.

One day Karmetbai said to Meera, “I worry deeply about Vikram. I know it is impossible for him to manage affairs of state.”

Then Meera Bai said, “But Ratan Singh was managing it very well. Why then did Surajmal kill him?”

Karmetbai replied, “It was all Banvir’s conspiracy. A message had been sent to Surajmal that while out hunting, Ratan Singh planned to kill him. So, before he himself was attacked, he struck first. Now neither Bundi nor Merta stand beside Chittor. I worry greatly about what will become of Chittor.”

Meera said, “The political condition of India is not good. After the death of Emperor Babur, Humayun set his sights on Rajputana. Besides, the Sultan of Gujarat, Bahadur Shah, also has his eyes on this region. I think Bahadur Shah has made Vikram a pawn, with the intention of eventually seizing Chittor.”

They were talking, while the boy Udai was playing in the Atabagan among the huge stones…

…trying to pile them up in one place to build something. Pointing at Uday, Meera Bai said to Karmetbai, “Uday has all the qualities of a Rana. Looking at him, I’m reminded of Bapu Sa’s childhood. Don’t you think so?”

Karmetbai replied, “It’s Uday I worry about the most. Once you were able to protect him—but who will protect him now?”

Meera Bai asked, “Why? Has something happened?”

Karmetbai said, “Uday was learning swordsmanship from Chandra Singh. Within just a few days he had become very skilled. But Banvir forbade Chandra Singh from training him further. I cannot understand one thing—what does he gain by putting Mewar in danger?”

Meera replied, “If Mewar falls into danger, it is Banvir who gains. Because in that situation, he will seize the chance to become Rana.”

Karmetbai let out a deep sigh and said, “One night at midnight, news came that a messenger had arrived with a child. I was in a southern chamber of the fort. The messenger entered with the child, and in the dim light of night, I felt I had regained my lost life’s treasure. Meera, you’ll be astonished to hear this—even after so long away from me, Uday had not forgotten me. The night you spirited him away from Chittor, he could not even speak yet. But his memory was so sharp that the moment I took him in my arms, he clung to my neck. Later, when I heard that Vikramjit was returning to Chittor, I thought God was giving me back everything I had lost. What grief could I have left? But the moment I saw Vikram, I realized my ruin was complete. It would have been better if he had been killed rather than brought back this way.”

All this while, sitting on the steps of Giridharji’s temple, Udabai had been listening intently to her mother and Baisa’s conversation. Suddenly, she stood up and began walking toward the palace. Seeing Uda rise and leave, Meera asked, “Uda, what happened? Where are you going?”

Udabai turned back and cast a sharp glance at Meera, then snapped, “I am the only sister of the Rana of Mewar. Speak to me with respect, Baisa. It seems you must learn this much courtesy from a girl of my own age.”

Watching Uda walk away, Karmetbai said, “These days Uda spends most of her time…”

…at Banvir’s palace. Meera, these days I worry a lot about my Uda as well. The other day a maid came with news that Banvir had given Uda thirty gold coins.

Meera said, “What? That’s truly troubling. He gave so much gold to such a young girl? And what is Uda doing with it all?”

Karmetbai replied, “Yes, it is very worrying, Meera. I asked her, ‘Why do you go to Banvir’s palace?’

Do you know what Uda said? She said that Banvir is the only one in this palace who treats her with great respect. That is why she will not hear a single bad word spoken against him.”

Meera Bai asked, “What exactly did the maid see that day?”

Karmetbai said, “That day Uda was going of her own accord to meet Vikramjit. She had been away from Chittor for many years. On returning, she was overjoyed, and when she heard that Vikramjit had become Rana, she thought now our honor in Chittor would be firmly reestablished. While she was immersed in these happy thoughts, near Vikramjit’s palace she encountered Banvir. That maid happened to be working at Vikramjit’s palace then. She told me that on seeing Uda, Banvir said, ‘Udabai, do you recognize me?’

Uda apparently could not recognize him. Then Banvir told her that he was, in fact, her elder brother, and that it was he who had gone against everyone else to make Vikramjit the Rana. You know that among her brothers, Uda loved Vikramjit the most. Since it was by Banvir’s effort that Vikramjit became Rana, Uda began to regard Banvir as equal to God himself.”

Meera Bai said, “In truth, Banvir is very clever. He understands the psychology of every person very well. He exploited Uda’s weakness for Vikramjit. And then what happened?”

Karmetbai said, “Then Banvir, noticing Uda’s clothing, expressed sorrow, saying he could not bear to see the royal princess of Chittor in such a pitiable state. He promised to provide her with fine clothes and ornaments, and to give her some gold coins every month. In return, he asked Uda to work on his behalf…”

“…will happen. The truth is, Meera, what should I hide from you—my daughter has always been very greedy. That is why she is in this condition.”

Meera Bai let out a deep sigh and said, “That means Uda too has been turned into a pawn.”

Karmetbai said, “At times I feel such pain. My father married me off to an aged Rana for political reasons, and when I was at the age of playing with dolls, I came here as the junior queen of Chittor. From the very moment of my arrival, the family politics began. I hold no grievances against any of these people—my grievance is only against my father. He never thought of me as anything more than his property. Had he considered me a living being, he would have valued my emotions and feelings—but he never did. Only my brother Sa understood me. But now even he is no longer at my side, and because of me, he had to meet death at such a young age.”

Hearing this, Meera said, “Your brother Sa was by your side—but think about me. From the moment of my birth, I have had to fight my battles alone. I feel like Kunti of the Mahabharata. In her childhood, Kunti was given in adoption by her father to Kuntibhoja. Her own father never tried to understand her feelings and emotions. A little girl, in whose heart love for her parents and family naturally grew, was given away to another as a daughter. Imagine her condition—she was forced to accept a new family and foster parents as her own. Kunti once said to my Giridharji that she could not blame herself, nor could she even blame Duryodhana. She believed all the fault lay with her father: ‘pitaram eva garheyam nātmānam na suyodhanam.’

I too, though I never say it aloud, have never been able to forgive my father. Even before my birth, my father had surrendered me to Grandfather Sa’s will. Before dedicating me for a special purpose, they too thought of me as nothing more than their property. Yours, mine, all our conditions are like that of Kunti in the Mahabharata—there has been no change for us. For thousands upon thousands of…”

Even after thousands of years, the condition of women has not changed. After my mother’s death, I was sent away to Grandfather Sa, and from then on my father hardly maintained any connection with me. From my birth, my parents had never once kept me away from them. Because of that, I had developed a deep love for them—they were my everything. After my mother’s death, I could have remained with my father—what harm would there have been in that? But my father did not ask for my opinion even once; keeping me almost in the dark, he sent me away to Grandfather Sa for a lifetime. I can never forget those childhood days in Kurki. I truly feel that Ramabai was far more devoted to me than my own father. That is why she remained unmarried her whole life, practicing Kumari Dharma, just to stay by my side. When we left Kurki and came to Merta, she too came along with me.

That is why, in the Mahabharata, Kunti once said to Shri Krishna, “Just as wealthy men spend money freely in charity to gain fame, my father too gave me in adoption to his friend in order to earn renown. He gave me away as though I were a bag of coins—dhanam vṛttair ivārpitā.” But she also said, *“Just as a wealthy man donates wealth without hesitation to gain fame as a benefactor, so too my father, without hesitation, gave me in adoption to his friend—vṛttair vadānyatvena khyātair yathā akleśena arpyate, tadvat evāham arpitā.”

My father, out of greed for religious merit, offered me at the feet of Giridharji. I know that both my father and Grandfather Sa had a noble purpose behind this, but in the process my life became a sacrificial altar. I ceased to be an ordinary woman. Like ordinary women, I lost all desires for small pleasures and indulgences. My family sacrificed me for the welfare of the nation and its people. And so, I was deprived of living life like any other woman.

Queen Karmetbai said, “Meera, such words do not suit your lips. Everyone honors you as if you are a goddess from heaven. How many are blessed with such fortune? Just looking at you gives us all strength of heart—yet you speak such words of despair?”

Tears rolled from Meera’s eyes as she said, “I had truly forgotten that I have no right to express my own emotions, no right to sit for even a moment and speak my heart. You see, even the women of the great epics were human—they too had joys and sorrows, faults and virtues, just like ordinary women. None of them were beyond these things.”

Meera realized she had stepped out from behind her veil, so in time she withdrew back into her shell and said, “From now on, we must pay some attention to Uda. I can already see storm clouds gathering in Uda’s sky.”

Hearing this, Queen Karmetbai’s face suddenly turned pale. (Continues)

Click here for Part-1, Part-2, Part-3, Part-4, Part-5, Part-6, Part-7, Part-8, Part-9, Part-10, Part-11, Part-12, Part-13, Part-14, Part-15, Part-16, Part-17, Part-18, Part-19, Part-20, Part-21, Part-22, Part-23, Part-24, Part-25, Part-26, Part-27, Part-28, Part-29, Part-30, Part-31, Part-32, 

__________________

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 Award-Winning Novel: Meera-33 first appeared on Sindh Courier.

Meera

By Debasree Chakraborti

Place: Chittorgarh Fort

Pratap remained silent for a while and then said, “So many years have passed, Saanjh. Sitting in this era I have tried many times to see Mira of the past, but her face always appears very blurred to me. Even now, I can see that scene—Mira sitting in the courtyard of the new temple she had built for her Giridharji, lost deep in thought. From all around, accusations were floating against her—that Emperor Babur had sent Mira a diamond necklace. The Rajput women of Mewar took great delight in spreading slander about her character, adding all sorts of colors to the story. In truth, they could never become Mira themselves, and so they found joy in belittling her.”

The rain began to drizzle, drop by drop. From the look of the sky, soon it would pour heavily. It had been a long time since she had drenched herself in the rain, and Saanjh’s heart overflowed with joy. She said,

“But I’ve heard that after listening to Tansen’s praise of Mira’s songs, Emperor Akbar came in disguise to hear her sing, and being pleased with her singing, he gifted Meerabai a diamond necklace.”

Pratap replied, “Look, Saanjh, as far as I know, Mira never had any connection with Akbar. Even the story about Babur is doubtful. Such tales were spread only to portray Mira as a mere wandering yogini. Besides, I believe that giving her a necklace by removing it from one’s own neck after hearing her sing was actually meant as an insult. Do you know the real truth? Mira secretly tried to keep contact with kings across India in order to protect Mewar and Rajputana.”

Pratap began the tale again, “One day Rana Ratan Singh was in his palace when Banbir came to him and said, ‘Ratan Singh, Mira still has that diamond necklace. The last ascetic who came to her—we captured him, but we could not recover anything. From tomorrow…’”

“It has been strictly forbidden for any ascetic to meet Mirabai. If any ascetic disobeys this order, he will be killed. Such is the harsh decree I have given.”

Ratan Singh said, “But one thing I simply cannot understand—why would Babur suddenly send Meerabai a diamond necklace?”

Banbir replied, “Ah, this is exactly why I call you thick-headed. With this kind of wit, how will you ever rule a kingdom? Listen, Mira’s uncle Veeramdev was secretly in contact with Babur. He had informed Babur about how Merta would fight against Mewar. Because Merta’s financial condition is poor—almost like beggary—Babur sent Mira a diamond necklace. After all, it isn’t possible to send such a large sum of money through a messenger.”

Ratan Singh said, “But why would Babur send it through Meerabai? He could have sent it directly to Veeramdev, and that would have been much simpler.”

Banbir made a sound of irritation and said, “Don’t waste your little intelligence. You hardly have any to begin with, and if you spend even that, it will be a disaster. So from now on, try little by little to rely on my wisdom instead.”

Ratan Singh said, “But why would Babur send the necklace to Meerabai at all?”

Banbir replied, “Because Mira is Mewar’s daughter-in-law. If Babur’s necklace of charity reaches Merta through her, it indirectly insults Mewar. In other words, it is a deliberate insult to Mewar’s Rana, Ratan Singh. That is why Babur took the shelter of such a ruse. But don’t worry, eliminating all your enemies one by one—that is my duty.”

Ratan Singh, overjoyed, said, “The more I see of you, the more amazed I am. To have someone as skilled a politician as you by my side, I consider myself fortunate.”

A cruel smile appeared on Banbir’s lips as he said, “Trust me blindly. I am the only one who truly wishes you well; the rest are all your enemies. You saw it yourself—even your own maternal uncle abandoned you and fled in your time of danger.”

“Hmm, that I know,” said Ratan Singh. “But is there no way to get rid of Mira somehow?”

Banbir said, “I am only waiting for the right time. My messengers, Champa and Chameli, are always keeping watch over Mira’s palace. Now I just have to wait.”

All day long Champa and Chameli loitered around Mira, keeping a sharp eye on her every movement. Mira understood everything but remained unperturbed. Yet these days, she had written a number of songs addressed directly to the Rana.

Hidden in each song was a piercing note of accusation.

“Ranaji, why do you keep such deep hostility?

Ranaji, why does this slander taste sweet to you?

Ranaji, I sing only Govind’s praises, Ranaji, I shall no longer remain bound by your chains.”

Every song was written and sung solely in reference to the Rana. Hearing them, Ratan Singh grew restless—he could no longer bear Mira’s accusations. One way or another, Mira had to be removed. But Banbir was waiting for the right moment—when would that moment come?

If things went on like this for long, the Rana himself would become disgraced. For though confined, Mira was using her songs as weapons to send messages far and wide. Mira was exceedingly intelligent, and keeping such a woman in Chittor for long could only invite danger.

One night, while the Rana was asleep, Banbir came with news: in the sanctum of Giridharji’s temple, Mira was speaking with someone.

Banbir said, “I have told you many times that Mira’s character is not good. Now, in the darkness of night, she is indulging in debauchery with someone inside the temple. This is the moment I was waiting for—now she can be caught red-handed.”

Rana Ratan Singh and Banbir, along with guards, rushed to Giridharji’s temple and banged on the door. After a while, the temple door opened. Standing there at the threshold, dressed in the robes of a devotee, was Meerabai.

Ratan Singh asked, “So late at night, with whom were you speaking inside the temple?”

Meerabai smiled gently and replied, “I was speaking with my Giridharji, sharing with Him my joys and sorrows.” Banbir said with great ferocity, “Have you no other place for your filth? Before the whole world you put on the guise of a saintly woman, and in the darkness of night behind the closed doors of the temple you indulge in sin with a man. Your days are over. Now you have been caught red-handed.”

Ratan Singh pushed Mira aside and entered the sanctum of the temple. He searched carefully everywhere—there was no one. The sanctum was empty, no trace of anyone. Ratan turned back, lowered his head, and walked away. Banbir and the guards too entered the sanctum, but indeed found no one. They too had to return, defeated. Thus, even this opportunity to humiliate Mira slipped from their hands.

Once they left, Meerabai closed the temple doors and went inside. She began shifting the pile of flowers offered at Giridharji’s shrine. Beneath that pile, near the deity’s altar, lay a small lotus flower. Pressing it, a square slab of stone on the floor slid aside, revealing an underground tunnel. From that passage emerged Champa, Chameli, and the temple priest Gadadhar Pandit.

Mira placed Giridharji’s garland in Panditji’s hands and said, “Panditji, hidden within this garland is a most precious necklace. You will deliver it to Jaymal and tell him that this necklace will help protect Merta. It is not wise to wait any longer—you must leave at once.”

Panditji, holding the garland given by Mira, disappeared down the tunnel. Chameli closed the secret passage, covered it with flowers of worship, and sat in a corner of the temple with her head against the wall. Meerabai, taking up her ektara, sat before Giridharji and began to sing.

Pratap said, “Do you know, Saanjh, in this fort the maids had no dignity, no honor. Once, even Champa and Chameli had misunderstood Mira gravely. But in her company they discovered her true character. Such love and respect a queen could give her maids was something they had never even imagined.”

Chameli said to Meerabai, “You do not know what terrible conspiracies are being woven against you. Leave this place while you still have time, Bai-sa.”

Mirabai had replied to them, “Call me only Bai-sa. I am…”

“…one of you.” That is why even the palace maids began to call her Bai-sa.

You see, Saanjh, Mirabai wanted to erase all divisions of society.

Hearing Champa and Chameli’s words, tears welled up in Mira’s eyes. Since her mother’s death she had been forced to live by fighting constantly—how much longer she would have to fight, she did not know.

Mira began to sing:

“Apan na aavaye likh nahi,

Bhaji ban pari laal chhavan ki…”

All around was a silent night. Mira’s song spread far beyond the fort. Rana Ji wondered—

“To whom is Mira sending these messages? You do not come, nor do you send any letters.”

But to whom was Mira sending these signals? Even within Giridhar’s temple no one was to be found!

At that moment Banbir came and said, “Ratan Singh, Mira cannot be kept here any longer.”

Ratan Singh replied, “But how will you kill Meerabai? Her devotees will never accept her death. That could bring us danger.”

Banbir said, “Do you not know there is a rule among the Sisodias? If any woman of the royal family was viewed with suspicion, then charanamrit of Goddess Kali would be sent to her. If she were guilty, she would die after drinking it.

We will send charanamrit for Mira from the royal court. You will drink it first before everyone, and when nothing happens to you, then poison will be mixed into it and sent to Meerabai. After that, whatever is destined will happen.”

Saying this, Banbir walked over to the balcony (jharokha).

Pratap said, “Saanjh, the royal families of Rajasthan have for generations been steeped in vile conspiracies. They did not hesitate even to kill a daughter-in-law of the family by making her drink poisoned charanamrit. I feel disgust even to speak of such things. Saanjh, just think once—how could Mira live amidst such a loathsome environment?”

Tears filled Saanjh’s eyes as she said, “Truly, hearing all this, I can only bow my head in reverence to Meerabai.”

Pratap said, “One day Champa and Chameli asked Meerabai, ‘Bai-sa, our Ranaji died because of Babur, and yet you are joining hands with him?’

Then Meerabai replied, ‘Bapu-sa’s death did not happen because of Babur. Those who killed Bapu-sa are enemies of the entire motherland. That is why it is necessary to remove them.’

Champa then asked, ‘But what if those enemies are very close to us—our own people?’

In response Mirabai said:

“Ācāryāḥ pitarah putrās tathaiva ca pitāmahāḥ,

Mātulāḥ śvaśurāḥ pautrāḥ śyālāḥ sambandhinas tathā.”

(This is a very important verse from the Shrimad Bhagavad Gita.)

The Lord has said here that lust (kāma), anger (krodha), and greed (lobha) are the three gates to hell. In truth, all three are different forms of desire (kāma). When one gives undue importance to worldly objects, people, or possessions, these three arise.

The activity of kāma (desire) is of two kinds:

Īṣṭa-prāpti (attaining what one desires)

Aniṣṭa-nivṛtti (removing what is undesirable).

Within attainment itself there are two divisions:

The desire to accumulate wealth (lobha),

The desire to enjoy pleasures (kāma).

When there is an obstacle to the removal of what is undesirable, anger (krodha) arises. That anger is directed at those who hinder our enjoyment or accumulation, or at those who harm us, leading to actions of destruction against them.

But Arjuna had not wished to kill his own kinsmen, for he felt that doing so would condemn him to hell.

When Arjuna’s mind was weak, at that moment Lord Krishna told him that to excuse the sins of one’s own kin is itself equivalent to sin. Those whom Arjuna wished to forgive because they were his relatives had already filled the pot of their sins to the brim. If forgiven at that time, they would have caused immense harm to many others.

I too have given sinners many chances. But when I have seen that change in them is impossible, I have had to choose another path. And as for the matter of Babur, as you mention—he is now a very important piece in the politics of India. Therefore it is with him that I must move forward.” (Continues)

Click here for Part-1, Part-2, Part-3, Part-4, Part-5, Part-6, Part-7, Part-8, Part-9, Part-10, Part-11, Part-12, Part-13, Part-14, Part-15, Part-16, Part-17, Part-18, Part-19, Part-20, Part-21, Part-22, Part-23, Part-24, Part-25, Part-26, Part-27, Part-28, Part-29, Part-30, Part-31, 

__________________

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 Award-Winning Novel: Meera-32 first appeared on Sindh Courier.

Meera

By Debasree Chakraborti

Place: Chittorgarh Fort

Pratap remained silent for a while and then said, “So many years have passed, Saanjh. Sitting in this era I have tried many times to see Mira of the past, but her face always appears very blurred to me. Even now, I can see that scene—Mira sitting in the courtyard of the new temple she had built for her Giridharji, lost deep in thought. From all around, accusations were floating against her—that Emperor Babur had sent Mira a diamond necklace. The Rajput women of Mewar took great delight in spreading slander about her character, adding all sorts of colors to the story. In truth, they could never become Mira themselves, and so they found joy in belittling her.”

The rain began to drizzle, drop by drop. From the look of the sky, soon it would pour heavily. It had been a long time since she had drenched herself in the rain, and Saanjh’s heart overflowed with joy. She said,

“But I’ve heard that after listening to Tansen’s praise of Mira’s songs, Emperor Akbar came in disguise to hear her sing, and being pleased with her singing, he gifted Meerabai a diamond necklace.”

Pratap replied, “Look, Saanjh, as far as I know, Mira never had any connection with Akbar. Even the story about Babur is doubtful. Such tales were spread only to portray Mira as a mere wandering yogini. Besides, I believe that giving her a necklace by removing it from one’s own neck after hearing her sing was actually meant as an insult. Do you know the real truth? Mira secretly tried to keep contact with kings across India in order to protect Mewar and Rajputana.”

Pratap began the tale again, “One day Rana Ratan Singh was in his palace when Banbir came to him and said, ‘Ratan Singh, Mira still has that diamond necklace. The last ascetic who came to her—we captured him, but we could not recover anything. From tomorrow…’”

“It has been strictly forbidden for any ascetic to meet Meerabai. If any ascetic disobeys this order, he will be killed. Such is the harsh decree I have given.”

Ratan Singh said, “But one thing I simply cannot understand—why would Babur suddenly send Meerabai a diamond necklace?”

Banbir replied, “Ah, this is exactly why I call you thick-headed. With this kind of wit, how will you ever rule a kingdom? Listen, Mira’s uncle Veeramdev was secretly in contact with Babur. He had informed Babur about how Merta would fight against Mewar. Because Merta’s financial condition is poor—almost like beggary—Babur sent Mira a diamond necklace. After all, it isn’t possible to send such a large sum of money through a messenger.”

Ratan Singh said, “But why would Babur send it through Meerabai? He could have sent it directly to Veeramdev, and that would have been much simpler.”

Banbir made a sound of irritation and said, “Don’t waste your little intelligence. You hardly have any to begin with, and if you spend even that, it will be a disaster. So from now on, try little by little to rely on my wisdom instead.”

Ratan Singh said, “But why would Babur send the necklace to Meerabai at all?”

Banbir replied, “Because Mira is Mewar’s daughter-in-law. If Babur’s necklace of charity reaches Merta through her, it indirectly insults Mewar. In other words, it is a deliberate insult to Mewar’s Rana, Ratan Singh. That is why Babur took the shelter of such a ruse. But don’t worry, eliminating all your enemies one by one—that is my duty.”

Ratan Singh, overjoyed, said, “The more I see of you, the more amazed I am. To have someone as skilled a politician as you by my side, I consider myself fortunate.”

A cruel smile appeared on Banbir’s lips as he said, “Trust me blindly. I am the only one who truly wishes you well; the rest are all your enemies. You saw it yourself—even your own maternal uncle abandoned you and fled in your time of danger.”

“Hmm, that I know,” said Ratan Singh. “But is there no way to get rid of Mira somehow?”

Banbir said, “I am only waiting for the right time. My messengers, Champa and Chameli, are always keeping watch over Mira’s palace. Now I just have to wait.”

All day long Champa and Chameli loitered around Mira, keeping a sharp eye on her every movement. Mira understood everything but remained unperturbed. Yet these days, she had written a number of songs addressed directly to the Rana.

Hidden in each song was a piercing note of accusation.

“Ranaji, why do you keep such deep hostility?

Ranaji, why does this slander taste sweet to you?

Ranaji, I sing only Govind’s praises,

Ranaji, I shall no longer remain bound by your chains.”

Every song was written and sung solely in reference to the Rana. Hearing them, Ratan Singh grew restless—he could no longer bear Mira’s accusations. One way or another, Mira had to be removed. But Banbir was waiting for the right moment—when would that moment come?

If things went on like this for long, the Rana himself would become disgraced. For though confined, Mira was using her songs as weapons to send messages far and wide. Mira was exceedingly intelligent, and keeping such a woman in Chittor for long could only invite danger.

One night, while the Rana was asleep, Banbir came with news: in the sanctum of Giridharji’s temple, Mira was speaking with someone.

Banbir said, “I have told you many times that Mira’s character is not good. Now, in the darkness of night, she is indulging in debauchery with someone inside the temple. This is the moment I was waiting for—now she can be caught red-handed.”

Rana Ratan Singh and Banbir, along with guards, rushed to Giridharji’s temple and banged on the door. After a while, the temple door opened. Standing there at the threshold, dressed in the robes of a devotee, was Meerabai.

Ratan Singh asked, “So late at night, with whom were you speaking inside the temple?”

Mirabai smiled gently and replied, “I was speaking with my Giridharji, sharing with Him my joys and sorrows.”

Banbir said with great ferocity, “Have you no other place for your filth? Before the whole world you put on the guise of a saintly woman, and in the darkness of night behind the closed doors of the temple you indulge in sin with a man. Your days are over. Now you have been caught red-handed.”

Ratan Singh pushed Mira aside and entered the sanctum of the temple. He searched carefully everywhere—there was no one. The sanctum was empty, no trace of anyone. Ratan turned back, lowered his head, and walked away. Banbir and the guards too entered the sanctum, but indeed found no one. They too had to return, defeated. Thus, even this opportunity to humiliate Mira slipped from their hands.

Once they left, Meerabai closed the temple doors and went inside. She began shifting the pile of flowers offered at Giridharji’s shrine. Beneath that pile, near the deity’s altar, lay a small lotus flower. Pressing it, a square slab of stone on the floor slid aside, revealing an underground tunnel. From that passage emerged Champa, Chameli, and the temple priest Gadadhar Pandit.

Mira placed Giridharji’s garland in Panditji’s hands and said, “Panditji, hidden within this garland is a most precious necklace. You will deliver it to Jaymal and tell him that this necklace will help protect Merta. It is not wise to wait any longer—you must leave at once.”

Panditji, holding the garland given by Mira, disappeared down the tunnel. Chameli closed the secret passage, covered it with flowers of worship, and sat in a corner of the temple with her head against the wall. Meerabai, taking up her ektara, sat before Giridharji and began to sing.

Pratap said, “Do you know, Saanjh, in this fort the maids had no dignity, no honor. Once, even Champa and Chameli had misunderstood Mira gravely. But in her company they discovered her true character. Such love and respect a queen could give her maids was something they had never even imagined.”

Chameli said to Meerabai, “You do not know what terrible conspiracies are being woven against you. Leave this place while you still have time, Bai-sa.”

Meerabai had replied to them, “Call me only Bai-sa. I am…”

“…one of you.” That is why even the palace maids began to call her Bai-sa. You see, Saanjh, Mirabai wanted to erase all divisions of society.

Hearing Champa and Chameli’s words, tears welled up in Mira’s eyes. Since her mother’s death she had been forced to live by fighting constantly—how much longer she would have to fight, she did not know.

Meera began to sing:

“Apan na aavaye likh nahi,

Bhaji ban pari laal chhavan ki…”

All around was a silent night. Mira’s song spread far beyond the fort. Rana Ji wondered—

“To whom is Mira sending these messages? You do not come, nor do you send any letters.”

But to whom was Mira sending these signals? Even within Giridhar’s temple no one was to be found!

At that moment Banbir came and said, “Ratan Singh, Mira cannot be kept here any longer.”

Ratan Singh replied, “But how will you kill Meerabai? Her devotees will never accept her death. That could bring us danger.”

Banbir said, “Do you not know there is a rule among the Sisodias? If any woman of the royal family was viewed with suspicion, then charanamrit of Goddess Kali would be sent to her. If she were guilty, she would die after drinking it. We will send charanamrit for Mira from the royal court. You will drink it first before everyone, and when nothing happens to you, then poison will be mixed into it and sent to Meerabai. After that, whatever is destined will happen.”

Saying this, Banbir walked over to the balcony (jharokha).

Pratap said, “Saanjh, the royal families of Rajasthan have for generations been steeped in vile conspiracies. They did not hesitate even to kill a daughter-in-law of the family by making her drink poisoned charanamrit. I feel disgust even to speak of such things. Saanjh, just think once—how could Mira live amidst such a loathsome environment?”

Tears filled Saanjh’s eyes as she said, “Truly, hearing all this, I can only bow my head in reverence to Meerabai.”

Pratap said, “One day Champa and Chameli asked Meerabai,

‘Bai-sa, our Ranaji died because of Babur, and yet you are joining hands with him?’

Then Meeabai replied, ‘Bapu-sa’s death did not happen because of Babur. Those who killed Bapu-sa are enemies of the entire motherland. That is why it is necessary to remove them.’

Champa then asked, ‘But what if those enemies are very close to us—our own people?’

In response Meerabai said:

“Ācāryāḥ pitarah putrās tathaiva ca pitāmahāḥ,

Mātulāḥ śvaśurāḥ pautrāḥ śyālāḥ sambandhinas tathā.”

(This is a very important verse from the Shrimad Bhagavad Gita.)

The Lord has said here that lust (kāma), anger (krodha), and greed (lobha) are the three gates to hell. In truth, all three are different forms of desire (kāma). When one gives undue importance to worldly objects, people, or possessions, these three arise.

The activity of kāma (desire) is of two kinds:

Īṣṭa-prāpti (attaining what one desires)

Aniṣṭa-nivṛtti (removing what is undesirable).

Within attainment itself there are two divisions:

The desire to accumulate wealth (lobha),

The desire to enjoy pleasures (kāma).

When there is an obstacle to the removal of what is undesirable, anger (krodha) arises. That anger is directed at those who hinder our enjoyment or accumulation, or at those who harm us, leading to actions of destruction against them.

But Arjuna had not wished to kill his own kinsmen, for he felt that doing so would condemn him to hell.

When Arjuna’s mind was weak, at that moment Lord Krishna told him that to excuse the sins of one’s own kin is itself equivalent to sin. Those whom Arjuna wished to forgive because they were his relatives had already filled the pot of their sins to the brim. If forgiven at that time, they would have caused immense harm to many others.

I too have given sinners many chances. But when I have seen that change in them is impossible, I have had to choose another path. And as for the matter of Babur, as you mention—he is now a very important piece in the politics of India. Therefore it is with him that I must move forward.” (Continues)

Click here for Part-1, Part-2, Part-3, Part-4, Part-5, Part-6, Part-7, Part-8, Part-9, Part-10, Part-11, Part-12, Part-13, Part-14, Part-15, Part-16, Part-17, Part-18, Part-19, Part-20, Part-21, Part-22, Part-23, Part-24, Part-25, Part-26, Part-27, Part-28, Part-29, Part-30, 

__________________

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 Award-Winning Novel: Meera-31 first appeared on Sindh Courier.