Kelwa/Kailwa is a small village situated around two hours away from Chittorgarh and an hour from Lake Pichola. It was mainly inhabited by the Rathores and ruled by the Chundawat clan, who were once the rulers of Mewar. One chief of Kelwa was Rawat Sihaji Singh Chundawat. He was a very close ally of Rana Sanga. His son Jaga Singhji also died fighting for Rana Udai Singhji in one war with the Afghans in 1555 AD. Kelwa’s heir was the minor child of Jaga Singhji and his widow, Sajjan Bai Songara Chauhan. Being from the clan of the Chauhan Rajputs, she was a warrior at heart. From the early age of about four, her only son was brought up under his uncle Naga Singhji to fight for his motherland and serve it like all other Mewaris.
Fateh Pratap Singh Chundawat or Fatta (Patta), as fondly called by everyone, was a deft warrior even before he reached his teens. His name and bravery spread across the land to Rana Udai Singh’s ears in Chittorgarh. He was also the nephew of Ranaji’s close aide Rawat Chundawatji. Upon the order of Ranaji, Fatta and his mother were brought to Chittorgarh from Kelwa, and Udai Singhji made sure he was trained as deftly as his own sons. That is when Fatta befriended the crown prince Kunwar Pratap Singh.
Chittorgarh was under the constant glare of the Mughals. It was a roadway to the glorious port cities of Saurashtra. Mughals wanted Mewar and Marwar to ally with them. Akbar had already started sending troops with alliance proposals to the lesser states. If they didn’t agree, they were attacked. In this situation, Udai Singhji met a sage on a hunting expedition. The sage predicted that great danger loomed over Chittorgarh, and to flourish and survive, Mewar needed to shift its capital. The inauguration of the new capital was made in 1559 A.D. Soon, Mewar’s new Capital was the one beside Lake Picholi, and most of the Royal Family shifted there in 1562 A.D. The older Kunwars Pratap, Shakti, Vikram, etc., were given the responsibilities of protecting Mewar’s other major forts at Kumbhalmer, Mandalgarh, Rampura, Shahpura, Bijolia and other check posts that made up Mewar’s major borders. Mewar was on alert while Akbar was concentrating on Saurashtra. Once he heard that Ranaji had shifted the capital, he hatched a plan.
Fatta here was learning warrior skills not only from the Rajgurus but from Kunwar Pratap himself, who was impressed with the boy’s ideology. Needless to say, both shared the same short name “Fatta” amongst kin as well. Around fifteen years of age, in 1565 A.D., Fatta was ready to take over the responsibilities that once belonged to his father. But he had in mind that there might be something bigger waiting for him.
Needless to say, Rana Udai Singhji knew the situation and impending danger and spent about two years looking for allies who would join Mewar with their troops at Chittorgarh. Rao Surjan Singh of Bundi and Rajkumar Shallavan of Gwalior were the first kins to respond, as the sons-in-law of the Rana of Mewar, followed by the sixteen Rawats of Mewar, including close kins like the Rathores of Badnore (Meera Bai’s nephew Jaimal), the Punwars of Bijolia(Kunwarani Ajabdeh Baisa’s father) and the Songaras of Jallore (Maharani Jaivanta Bai’s kins).
Even with the help of this troop, Udai Singh’s own mere two thousand left at Chittorgarh made a smaller number as compared to the impending danger upon the fort. Around the end of 1566 or the beginning of 1567, the popular folklore suggests that Kunwar Pratap Singh and his family, despite his reluctance to leave Chittorgarh, were ordered to shift to Kumbhalgarh by his father and foresee the situation there. With Chittorgarh under threat, so were the other major forts of the state.
In October 1567, while returning from Saurashtra, Akbar surprised his troops by stopping at the foothills of Chittorgarh. An impending doom was about to happen. Rana Udai Singh, upon hearing this, gave the “adhipatya” or ultimate power of the fort to the competent Senapatis, Fatta Sisodia, a mere seventeen-year-old, and Raja Jaimal Rathore of Badnore. Many folklores suggest Jaimal too was young, but not a teen like Fatta.
Here begins our tale in this historic setting!
Jiwa Bai Solanki had stepped into the Senapati Mahal, Chittorgarh, which was now home to Fatta since he was designated in charge of the fort by Ranaji. As per the norms, before taking on any designation, a Rajput man was to be married. Her father was happy to marry her to one of Mewar’s bravest. She, in turn, was in awe of him being compared to Kunwar Pratap for his skills. A warrior herself, Jiwa was always someone who looked for brave souls.
His mother had made sure she was adjusting well to the new home. The irony was that their marriage ended with Akbar’s bombardment and cannonball noises at the fort walls instead of the dhol nagadas. They had stared right at each other, almost like a reflex, knowing their shared life was always going to be a tough battle.
Fatta had remembered Kunwar Pratap’s words, “Always look for a mirror to your soul, and you will be happy, when he had reluctantly agreed to this quick union needed to resume his duties, officially. The Chundawats had served the Ranas of Mewar for ages, and he was not going to let his ancestors down. Jiwa’s father mentioned her warrior skills to him more than once, and he nodded politely. Each Rajputani was brought up with self-defence skills; she was no different. He had thought.
On the wedding night, his new bride surprised him with the question, “Do we have much time?”
He had stared at her bridal finery and smiling face as she repeated the question.
“What… do you mean….” He had blurted.
“I mean, how much time till we run out of resources and have to fight the Mughal?” She had asked rather plainly. “I know the resources won’t last forever.”
“A month at the most.” He had no right to lie and give her false hopes of a future he couldn’t promise.
“I feel you should start planning strategies, then Rawatji.” She had left him speechless with her thoughts.
She had provided her own valuable opinions, asking for a peace talk.
“We don’t bow to the Turk!” He had objected.
“We can try to stop a war that will take lives. You know how ugly it will be; a peace talk will be worth a try.” She had suggested.
He had passed it on as a thought to the seniors Jaimal, Kalla and others who were ready for a peace meeting that went in vain with the arrogant Mughal.
Each day in Chittorgarh now felt like a day nearer to death. And amidst this battle and struggle for survival, love bloomed in Fatta’s heart. He saw a girl who took care of his mother, a girl who practised her sword skills religiously. A girl who knew his heart even if he didn’t tell it aloud. A girl who asked him for administrative updates each week ended with one simple question. That now seemed like the norm.
“How much time do we have, Rawatji?” She was putting the lamps out for the night.
He stared at her in the dark, and his heart skipped a beat. For once, Fatta feared losing something, someone…
“Rawatji?” She frowned at his silence and turned to face him. His eyes shone in the flickering light of the sole lamp that was still lit. His face told her things he couldn’t dare to say in words. In silence, she placed her hand on his thumping heart and asked, “What are you scared of?”
“losing…” he stopped at her stare “People and feelings I just found.”
“Rajputs.” She smiled. “Never fear losing anything when it comes to their motherland.” Her words made him pull her into an embrace.
She placed her head on his chest and asked softly, “Are the women aware of the impending Jauhar?”
“I… don’t know. Jaimal ji will formally announce the war tomorrow and in two to three days…” he stopped.
“ The gates of the fort will open to welcome the Turks with sword and blood.” She smiled.
“And the saffron robes of sacrifice.” He added.
“And when it will all be over…” She stopped.
“You and I will perish in our motherland. In different ways, maybe. But together.” He held her hand.
“With a Promise to meet again, in the next life.”
“I promised you seven lives together in our wedding, Jiwa. A Rajput keeps his promises.” He smiled away his tears as she hugged him more tightly for the night. A new day meant a day less now.
The day started with a meeting at the Kumbha Palace Ranimahal.
“ We all know that the war is impending, and our strength is not enough to face them.” Sajjan Bai’s voice was firm with the women, “We know what to do as Rajputanis. We have been prepared for Jauhar ever since we were born, and we will not let down our motherland and our self-esteem.”
“Jai Bhavani.” Echoed through the Ranimahal as each woman smiled through the scary moments.
They took out their wedding attire and jewellery, and made sure they cooked their husband’s and children’s favourite meals now. They smiled through the piles of wood being stocked and gunpowder, weapons and cannons being raised to the fort’s main points. Piles of wood and burning materials were being brought in for the next two days for the Jauhar Kund. The women prepared their attire and the men their swords. The women cooked as the men made strategies.
“We cannot light a Jauhar Kund at the Palace.” Jaimalji’s wife spoke up. “We cannot harm Ranaji’s home when he is not here. Neither can we disrespect them.”
“The Jauhar will happen at the Senapati Mahal.” Sajjan Bai agreed.
That night, Jiwa took out her almost-new wedding attire. She stared at the thread hand-woven with love. The jewellery belonged to her mother. She trailed her hand above them and stopped at her box of vermilion. There were voices in the corridor. She grew alarmed. The sound of yet another cannonball that was hurtled at the invincible walls. Reaching the threshold, she heard her husband talk to his mother.
“They have nearly sixty thousand, and we have a mere eight Maasa; we needed more manpower.” He was saying to her.
Jiwa stood in the dark and stared back at her wedding wear. Then, at his saffron attire, she had a hand-stitched gift for him in a hurry. She had made up her mind.
“ What are you doing?” Fatta frowned, watching his wife keep her jewellery in the box.
“ I made this for you.” She smiled. He saw the saffron of sacrifice against her promises of red. His heart sank.
“ I pray no wife ever needs to gift this to her husband again, ever, Jiwa. This is the last time, I promise.” He sighed.
She held his hand and said, “ I want permission from you today.”
“Jiwa, you are independent to do or say what you feel.” He reassured.
“I want to… fight.” Made him fall back two steps.
“What?” He asked wide-eyed. “But… But the Jauhar…”
“My motherland needs manpower. My Matribhumi needs my blood. Rawatji, isn’t it true that we chant Maata Bhavani’s name before Jauhar? Maata Bhavani was not weaponless or helpless. Provide us, ladies, with weapons; we will raise an army of Bhavanis.”
“But Jiwa. We have two days.” He reasoned.
“A Rajputani is born with warrior skills in her blood. Two days will be enough.” She was adamant. “I want the saffron robe instead of the red attire.”
“Talk to Maasa tomorrow, I'm sure she will understand.” He stared at his attire unmindfully, then at her, as she smiled at it like she was going to a war she had waited for all her life.
Sajjan Bai had just finished her morning pujas when Jiwa entered her room in silence. Sajjan had expected her here someday, hoping she would make her daughter-in-law comfortable with the ideals of Jauhar. Maybe she had questions in mind?
“Jiwa Baisa.” She smiled. “Padhare.”
“Umm… Maasa…. I have something to ask of you.” She smiled faintly.
A sudden chaos in the streets caught their attention as Sajjan Bai, in a reflex, reached for her husband’s sword that lay on the table.
“ Sainik!” she called the nearest guard. “Check what happened. Quickly!” The woman warrior rushed to the streets.
“Maasa.” Jiwa stared at the sword she had put down. “You have fought wars, didn’t you?”
“Minor ones.” She smiled. “Once or twice when Kelwa was attacked, a Rajputani had to protect her motherland, and her only hope.” She smiled at Fatta’s childhood memories. “More tough are the battles within. In life.” Her voice trailed.
“Maasa. I was having a thought.” Jiwa cleared her throat.
“Ranisa.” The Sainik came back. “There was a bombardment at the walls Senapati Fatta Ji had fixed yesterday.”
“ There is not much time.” Sajjan Bai whispered to herself.
“Maasa.” Jiwa’s voice made her stare. “I think our Matribhumi needs our blood, not charred bodies.” She stared at the girl, trying to believe what she heard.
“Ji?”
“I think all the Rajputanis, who have fought before, or know how to, should choose Saka and not Jauhar.” Jiwa was determined.
“But, Jauhar…” she spoke, “is the norm.”
“It was not before Ranisa Padmavati made it Maasa. She too fought first and used Gora and Badal to free Rana Ratan Singhji before the final Saka. We need soldiers. Mewar needs soldiers, Maasa. Each life is precious.” Jiwa stopped as her eyes shone. She didn’t want her voice to choke. Sajjan Bai hugged her proudly.
“I will announce this.” She reassured.
Within the evening, the interested princesses, queens and Samant girls were ready, with their swords, determined to protect the motherland. The ones who chose Jauhar, mainly because they had children to take to the Kund with them, were provided with protection outside the Senapati Mahal.
“The last meal is being cooked.” The cook announced, silencing the women one last time before “Jai Mewar! Jai Bhavani.” Filled the air.
Sajjan Bai had gathered around two hundred women at the Rajputanis troop. Many responded to her call. She had made herself clear: “Kill yourself before they capture you, let your chastity remain.”
All the great warriors of Mewar sat down for their final meal that night. It was nothing less than a wedding frenzy, with all the delicious dishes, paan and drinks served for all. The women fed their children one last time. The girls put on their fineries, one last time.
Jiwa was checking on her lance and sword when Fatta stepped in after the meal. Tonight, Chittorgarh was sleepless. Tonight was their last. He stopped at her sight. The orange robe, the bunned hair, the vermillion on her forehead. Sword in hand. He couldn’t be prouder.
“Rawatji.” She smiled like the rest of the day, placing her sword back beside his. Equals. In life and death.
“Have you had your meal?” He asked as she nodded.
“Did you send Kunwar Pratap the final… farewell?” She asked softly.
“I couldn’t…” He looked away “Tell him that I failed to protect his Chittorgarh.”
“Rawatji.” She stopped him, “We never fail. It is all destiny. Saka is an honour. Kunwar Pratap will regret not being here, I'm sure.”
“I know he will. He will feel responsible, and I don’t want that yet.” Fatta shook his head, “He is Mewar’s future. If anyone can make the Turk Invader pay, it's him.”
“I know that.” Jiwa agreed to smile, “he will give us closure.”
“Jaimalji informed Ranaji today. By the time the message reaches Udaipur, Chittorgarh will be…” He stopped.
The hour bell rang through the palace as they stared at each other.
It's time.
Jiwa saw Sajjan Bai perform her son's Tilak, not a tear in her eyes, a proud smile as she kissed his forehead, “ Make Mewar proud of her sons!” She blessed him and walked away to assemble the women troops. The ladies were almost ready at the Jauhar Sthal. The house was to be abandoned soon. Such was the order.
Jiwa stood, placing both their swords at Maata Bhavani’s feet for the last time, then touched them to her forehead. She smiled and handed him his. Her hand shook a little, he had noticed. He stared at her proudly before filing her hairline with vermilion one last time. She bent to touch his feet, but he stopped her, holding her shoulders with both hands.
“ Mewar will be proud of you.” He said as she smiled. “Jai Eklingji.”
“Jai Eklingji.” She hugged him. Saffron united in sacrifice.
The Padan pol was chosen by the women's troop. They stood at the gates, waiting for dawn to arrive. The gates open to the invaders. Rawat Saidas Chundawat took his nephew Fatta with him to the eastern gates of the fort at Suraj Pol, where Akbar himself was rumoured to be attacking.
Dawn. Saturday, 23rd February 1568.
The chants of “Jai Bhavani” met “Har Har Mahadev” as the ashes of Jauhar bathed the soldiers in new strength. Every Rajput in Saffron was now seeking blood to serve his motherland. And hers.
Jiwa fought bravely with the Mughal forces. They did not understand that these were women behind the veils, and not men, such was the bravery. Sajjan Bai fell fighting before her eyes. Blurring her vision for a minute, she resisted another attacker and killed him.
“Jai Mewar!” she was echoed by others.
Fatta fought on foot today, killing everyone who came his way. Elephants were making their way up the roads travelled by Mewar’s greats. The sight of Akbar made his blood boil.
“Har Har Mahadev!”
Jiwa couldn’t stand two attackers at once. Those cowards were attacking two men for one woman. She smiled. A Rajputani was enough to scare two of them. She stared at her fellow warriors' struggle. She saw herself bleed and feel the blood soak her attire red. She saw their lusty eyes, the temptation to catch a girl alive for their own carnal pleasures. She knew what to do.
Patta stood there, blood-soaked for revenge. About five to seven of them have now surrounded him. He had seen friends and kin fall. He stood sword in hand. Defending one, the other hit him from the back.
“Cowards!” He shouted. The vision was growing blurry. He could see his mother. Jiwa? His thoughts trailed. He could see an elephant stomp at him. He needed to get up. He needed to fight. He needed to get away from the elephant’s path.
“Jai Bhavani.” The invading army gasped as Jiwa flung her dagger to her own chest. “You can never catch a Rajputani alive.” She smiled at them, “Not since Ranisa Padmavati taught us to save ourselves.” She smiled at them like she had defeated them. Not at war, perhaps in death.
“Shahenshah.” The elephant-mounted man spoke to his rider. “I think we stomped over some injured warriors.”
“Who?” he had asked.
“ The Senapati boy.” The man had checked the injured warrior, still breathing, maybe his last.
The elephant walked away, the men moved ahead, bodies lay blood-soaked, in the love of their motherland.
Mewar did not celebrate Holi that year. The red, orange and pink are not often good memories. They reminded me of all the blood, lives, and massacres that shook their nerves at Chittorgarh. Mewar could not forget that day, even 500 years hence.
Some love stories remain immortal in life, some in death, some lost in time.
In Love, fighting for each other, against the world, rarely for themselves, all the time for the motherland, separated in life, united in death, in love, in responsibilities, in inspiration and motivation, Rawat Fateh Singh Chundawat, the seventeen-year-old Sisodia boy, and Jiwa Bai Solanki Chauhan, his teenage warrior bride, remain immortal. In folklore, history, memorials, literature and hearts!
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| Mine Explosion at Chittorgarh from Akbarnama |
