Teeja Saka Chittor Ra

 23rd February 1568.
 
The sun rose on the eastern horizon, not with the hope of a new day. But, with the horror of what was to follow. The first rays of the Sun God were met by the chants of “Jai Bhavani!” that echoed in the air of Chittorgarh. The Mewaris knew it was time.

Four months back, when the Mughals camped at the base of the fort, a helpless Chittorgarh had watched. Rana Udai Singh had left with his closest aides to make the new city westwards, his capital. If rumours were to be believed, he had left behind a cavalry of 8000 soldiers, under Rao Jaimal of Merta and Rawat Patta of Kelwa, to look over the fort. He had also left behind some of his lesser queens and infant princes, as an assurance to the people that Chittorgarh was invincible.
Their safety and hope had lived in Kunwar Pratap. Truth be said, they had already taken the Crown Prince as their King. Ever since Ranisa had left with him till he became the Senapati, he had time and again proved to be a better leader than his father. But to Mewaris, their lives were not as important as their motherland. They had urged him to leave with his family. He had always been reluctant, but the people gave their opinion.
“Mewar’s future is in your hands, Kunwar Sa. As long as you are breathing, so is the dream of an independent Rajputana.”

He had left a part of his soul back here, as he travelled across the state, not to join his father, but the Bhils somewhere in Kelwara, and to protect Kumbhalgarh. Everyone had blessed his son and heir, Bhanwar Amar Singh, time and again as he had ridden out of Chittorgarh, beside his mother’s palanquin, a clueless but brave nine-year-old. He was turning out to be like his father, the elderly civilians had remarked.
 
In the next four months, they had silently witnessed occasional cannon attacks, Akbar’s failed attempts to get up to the fort, and finally, his arrogance led him to build the Mohur Magri. Never had they seen an artificial hill being built in a matter of three months just to shoot cannons from. They knew this invader was not going to leave. He was determined. What followed was that the Mughals surrounded the fort for the next months, making it impossible for the civilians to step out. Under Kunwar Pratap’s instructions, they were provided with food grains and necessities that were stored in the Royal Granary. But they also knew the truth. Someday, it will all run out. Rawat Doda, Rao Maan Singh of Jalore, Ishwari Das Rathore of Deolia, the Gwalior Rajputs, and Kachchwaras of Panchnot had also joined Chittorgarh in support of the Rana in these months.
 
Just at the foothills of the Fort, the Mughal tents were getting ready for the day when the general came running into the largest tent, the one that belonged to the Padshah-e-Hind himself.
“Jahapanah!” He sounded terribly alarmed, as the echoes of “Jai Bhavani!” were merged with “Jai Eklingji!”
“What is it, Abdullah?” He frowned at the disturbance.
 
The last time he checked, the cavalry, the cannons and elephants were ready to ride up to the fort one more time. Just like the day before, and the day before that. This “invincible” fort was getting on his nerves now. Four months later, he had postponed his trip to Gujarat, in the determination to teach Udai Singh’s stubbornness a lesson. He had made the mistake of now accepting Jalaluddin Mohammad’s alliance. He would pay for it. He had to. Chittorgarh's siege will be a warning to Rajputana not to mess with him. Or question his power. And if he could just get either Udai Singh or his Son, the valiant Pratap, captive, that would be a sweet revenge for all this time he was getting homesick.
 
“I don’t know, but something is happening up there.” He pointed skywards, a little wide-eyed.
“Where?” Jalal frowned.
“At the…. Fort!” He hadn’t waited for the man to finish as he came out of his tent. 
 
The troop of around 65000 of the original 80,000 that had come for his aid, 80 cannons, guns, matchlocks, swords, arrows and 5000 elephants were ready to march into the fort, for what he had anticipated as the final battle. After all, they were a mere 8000, now reduced to a mere 5000-foot soldier, and horses. Their swords were not as strong as the Mughals, he had thought.
 
But time and again, the Rajputs had surprised him. He was sent a last letter from the fort about a week ago, for peace talks. He had anticipated a defeated Udai Singh, scared at his feet, or perhaps even better, his son Pratap. But he was shocked to find three men and a boy came to meet him. Rawat Ram Das Chundawat, Raja Jaimal, Rawat Kalla and the teenager Rawat Patta had made themselves clear: “You leave or we will fight till you leave our motherland!” His general had asked the Mewaris to Salaam the Shahenshah. Jaimal Rathore had replied vainly to him, “He will receive my due respect at the battlefield.” They were clear. They wanted war, and he obliged.
 
“Now what is that smoke?” A thick cloud of black smoke rose up from the fort and into the morning sky, engulfing it in grey. 
“What are they doing?”
“I have sent Ghazi Khan to check on that Jahanpanah… ah, there he is.” Abdullah pointed at the man riding back to camp on his black horse.
“They… are coming for Saka.” The man finished after the Salaam.
“That is the Jauhar pyre.” He pointed.
“Jauhar?” Jalal’s eyes widened. 
Back in his childhood at Umerkot, and from his newly wed Rajput Queen, he had heard this term. The final decision of a Rajputani. Death of Honour. Self-respect before life. Jalal found his throat going dry as he stared up at the smoke. This was all real!
“Get my elephant ready!” He instructed.
“Jahapanah, you don’t need to go to the battle today; we will finish it off.”
“I want to.” He strode off to get into his warrior attire.
 Jauhar. Saka.
Be Careful with them, Jahapanah, Raja Bharmal of Amer had warned him in a light conversation, once we decide on Saka, we are the greatest warriors on earth! He was going to witness that today. Was it tempting to win like this? Of course, it was. Was he eager to know how it would feel? He was.
 
“There is not enough wood to light us a pyre in the Kund.” Rani Sarda Bai Rathore was alarmed. The Infant Princes and princesses were clueless, scared and crying in their mother’s arms, while the older ones were stone cold, staring at the fire being lit.
“Then what will we do?” Rani Bhagwati Bai Chauhan seemed worried. “Time is running out.”
“Where is Jiwa?” Rani Madalsha Bai Shekhawat sounded alarmed. “She is not here, Ranisa Jhalia”
“I saw her with her mother-in-law” Rani Padmavati Bai was calm, putting on the sindoor in her thali. Everyone looked their prettiest today, what an irony.
“ We are here.” Rani Sajjan Bai Songara Chauhan of Kelwa was at the door of the Jauhar Kund, or what was serving as it at Jaimal and Patta shared Haveli. Everyone stood in awe as she was followed by Jiwa Bai Solanki and a few other princesses and queens, dressed in saffron. “We choose to fight today, our men need more people!”
“But Ranisa”, Rani Asha Bai Parmar sounded alarmed “, Jauhar?”
“It is to die with honour. And we promise to die with honour, no one will touch our chastity.” Jiwa’s fifteen-year-old pride surprised the women. Tears hidden in smiles, they hugged each other for the last goodbye.
Ratan Bai Rathore had a solution to the problem that was now faced by 10,000 royal women in the Jauhar Kund.
“ Patta, get us some explosives, as much as you can get.”
“Barud?” He frowned, astonished. Perhaps a little clueless.
“ Let’s take our positions at the Pol gates, ladies,” Jiwa commanded the women warriors. Eyes met one last time, 
Perhaps we will meet in the next life again. I couldn’t be prouder of you!
 
“ O the pure Agni dev, Bhavani Mata, Mother Earth in her glory. We summon you. We, the Rajputanis of Chittorgarh, choose to embrace you, O Fire Lord! We hope you welcome us and our chastity, and we pray you to grant us another life to be a Rajputani, to serve our mother again, and to defeat the invaders. We bow down to you, accept us!”
“Jai Bhavani!” 
Princesses, Young Princes, and Queens all followed. Some with tears, some emotionless, some bravely. Some are proud to choose the end every Rajput dreamt of.
 
“Jai Eklingji” “Har Har Mahadev!”
The sky was filled with chants that ran Goosebumps in the Mughal camp.
A loud noise was heard atop the fort. Jalal was about to sit on his elephant, and he stopped. The smoke became thicker.
 
“They have blown themselves up!” Some soldiers shouted in astonishment as ashes flew across the sky. “Human Ashes!” Someone else spoke up.
“March to the fort!” He ordered.
“Shahenshah e Hind Zindabad!”
 
Patta touched the ashes and put them on his forehead. A lone tear appeared as he said softly, “ We bow to you, mothers of Rajputana. Daughters of Mewar. Brave women of Chittorgarh. Har Har Mahadev!”
The gates of the fort were flung open. All seven of them, men positioned on foot and horses, women ready with swords, as the cavalry of elephants marched towards them.
“Har Har Mahadev!” 
 
Swords clashed! Blood drained the roads that once glorified Chittor’s invincibility. The Mughal soldiers were amused to find women in men’s attire. Until some met with death on their sword tips.
The women who were injured decided to kill themselves with their own swords before the invaders could dare to touch their chests. Their souls should be pure. The men fought till their last drops of bloodshed for their mother.
Jaimal spotted the Mughal emperor atop the elephant as he moved his sword, smiling.
In a flash, Jalal was taken aback as his elephant’s trunk was cut off by the Rathore sword.
“And that’s my Salaam to you, Shahenshah!” Jaimal’s words made his temper boil.
“Kill them!” He ordered. 
What followed was the greatest battle Jalal had witnessed. A Rajput against a hundred of his men stood undefeated. Kalla’s legs were cut off. Sitting him on his shoulders, Jaimal fought on with the Mughals. Jalal was growing impatient. He asked for his gun. He wanted to shoot the man himself.
 
The civilians of Chittorgarh were distraught. They were being looted by the invaders, and children who had lost their mothers were forcibly taken away.
“Search the palace, ransack the houses, he must be hidden here somewhere!” Jalal was growing impatient and angry.
“Udai Singh has escaped long back!” One of his trusted generals, Abdul, informed him. Nearly a thousand of his close relatives have been killed. Every notable general is dead. His son-in-law Shallavan has managed to escape. Shahenshah.”
“You fool! Where is Pratap?” He looked like he had lost a battle of egos. “ Kunwar Pratap would never escape! That’s not what I heard of him.”
“He had been forced to leave a few months back and ….” The guard stood in silence. They were clueless about where he was.
“Fools!” Jalal felt like tearing his hair. He was so near it. The taste of victory, the kingship of Mewar. So near yet so far, these Rajputs!
“ Orders Jahapanah?” Abdul stood, head bowed.
“Kill them!” He spoke each word, determined as Abdul stared, a little taken aback, as though he had heard wrong.
“Didn’t you hear me? KILL THEM!”
“But… there are nearly 30000 of them…” Abdul’s throat went dry.
“Kill them all! That will be a message to Udai and his son!” Jalal smiled.
“Jahapanah.” Abdullah entered, eyeing Abdul. “The Patta haveli is blown up… there are… umm… unidentified body parts…. Bones… will you have a… look?”
“Destroy them, destroy everything, talabs, kund, temple, houses, palaces, everything!” Jalal left for his tent.
 
The helpless cry of old young men and women, children of all ages, filled the sky with pain. Jalal felt the helpless cries and enjoyed what his power caused. Chittorgarh witnessed a horror perhaps never witnessed in Rajputana. A fort was massacred in a matter of a day. Jalaluddin entered the lifeless fort one last time on 24th February 1568 and handed it over to his trusted general. The Mughal flag was now flying as the red one soaked in blood.
They said it rained that day in Chittorgarh, untimely, in the winter. Perhaps Mother Earth decided to cry for her brave sons that day.
 
Jalaluddin went back to Agra happy, clueless about the wave he had caused in another heart, somewhere in Mewar. That day, Kunwar Pratap had lost a part of his soul. With the defeat of his morals as a Rajput, he emerged stronger. Against all odds. And made sure Jalaluddin Mohammad Akbar never got what he wanted. A bowing Mewar, stripped of its independence. That day, with the thousands of lives that were lost in Chittorgarh, one soul was ignited in the flames of rebellion, independence, and freedom. A soul that ignited many more Swaraj later in history.
 
Every year, between February and March, a fair is organised in Chittorgarh called the “Jauhar Mela” in memory of that fateful battle. Although the popular belief is that it celebrates Rani Padmini’s Jauhar, that is not true. This Mela was believed to have started somewhere during Raj Singh’s reign, and it continues today and attracts a lot of tourists. If popular stories are to be believed, then a lot of Rajputs prefer to visit the “Jauhar Sthal” (Padmini’s) and Jaimal Patta’s house as well as Kumbha Palace to pay tribute to all three Jauhars and Sakas that once shook Chittorgarh.
 
The Last Siege of Chittorgarh did fill Akbar with remorse much later in life when he took to secularism and admitted that the Chittorgarh massacre was his biggest mistake. Also, he made two life-size statues of Jaimal and Patta to praise their bravery at the Agra Fort premises that were later destroyed by Aurangzeb. All said and done, my personal opinion is that such a big “mistake” can never be undone from his life and career as an emperor. Neither would the statues have pleased the bravest sons of Rajputana. One good thing that had come out of the Chittorgarh seizure was the emergence of Kunwar Pratap as Maharana Pratap, which paved the way for his immortal deeds. After all, History is witness to the fact that for all the greater good, there has been such unacceptable violence time and again.

Akbar shoots Jaimal during the siege.