This was originally written as a Short Story, but it feels better to include this chapter in The Legend of Maharana Pratap, the series, as it is one of the most important and impactful chapters of his life that made him who he was.
“Tomorrow will be a new dawn, of new hope, and a new beginning.
Tomorrow will be the best.
Because Tomorrow, there will be no tomorrow.”
The cold night was silent. The stars twinkled like a sheet of golden sequins spread across the midnight sky. The camp tents below had green flags flying high. The Shahenshah E Hind was having a good night’s sleep in the peace of an almost seized victory. He dreamt of sitting on the throne of the fort the next day as the invincible, and who knew, perhaps, he could catch that nightmare alive. Kunwar Pratap Singh had stolen Jalaluddin’s dreams and turned them into nightmares. His otherwise not-so-efficient father would have surrendered long ago. Rumour had it that he had escaped with his closest kin to some lakeside palace. Jalal shifted in his sleep. He wished that Kunwar Pratap were still here. Chittorgarh was not just home to these people. It was their honour. He would soon win it all. Their pride would be his.
The glorious fort city of Chittor stood on the cliff above the tents. It had seen so much in its lifetime. From magnificent monuments to brutal bloodshed, its walls had witnessed it all. What the Mughal army didn’t know was that the fort tonight would be sleepless. It will be awake, in the most honoured celebration.
The Senapati Mahal, with its arches, domes and jharokhas, stood beside the Vishnu Talab, as the very iconic Jal Mahal of Padmavati was visible in the distance. Rani Padmavati was an inspiration. Over three hundred years have passed by since her time. Rulers changed, and dynasties changed. Chittorgarh remained in its glory. Lamps and torches were lit across the mahal. Horses rested outside. The open meadows were now the medical camps for injured soldiers.
The Senapati Mahal was abuzz. Gunpowder was being stored in the basement hallway. The warriors were nursing today’s wounds. The wives and daughters looked after their medications. The day had been tough on the battlefield. It was the fourth day of war; they had successfully managed to hold the army back at the Padan Pol, the first of the seven gates to the fort. But time and men were running out. The inevitable was around the corner. Food was scarce, and so was manpower. A three-month-long siege was coming to an inevitable end.
Fateh Singh Sisodia stood on the edge of the watchtower just above the Suraj Pol. The walls had been bombarded and badly damaged yesterday. His heart ached today. Back home at Kelwa, his kin was waiting for his return with the new bride. Little did they know what was going to happen. One of the guards came in, making him turn.
“Ranisa is waiting for you, Rawatji.” A smile curved his lips. His mother always waited up for him, perhaps now his wife too, and tomorrow it will all be ending in glory. He hastened towards the Senapati Mahal. He had called it home for the last few years. This meal was going to be special.
Jiwa Bai Solanki was staring at the handful of red Alta that had not faded from the marriage that happened a week back.
To every bride, it was a dream come true. To her, it was also a responsibility towards her motherland. Her father wanted her security, and Rawat Fateh Singh Sisodia was the bravest he knew. But being his wife clearly meant being his partner in the battle of life for his motherland. She had understood that the first night itself from the way he had spoken about his duties as the leader. Just fifteen, Jiwa was in awe of her newly married husband. At seventeen, he led an impossible battle so bravely that each day she had prayed for his well-being while watching his mother do the tilak on his forehead. Four days, and now, she knew the end was near. She stared at her reflection in the mirror of her room. The vermilion on her hairline arched her heart. Today, it reminded her of bloodshed. She stared in silence at the bridal wear on her bed. She was supposed to wear all her finery one last time to the chambers of glory. She stood up and walked towards the trunk she had brought from home. She opened it and kept aside the stacks of newly made clothes. Below all of those were an orange angrakha and a red pagri. She opened the folds of the angrakha and smiled.
Every single royal lady was in all their finery, best jewellery, garlands and the red bridal wear of their weddings. They dressed up tonight to celebrate their life. Princesses giggled with each other, making garlands for their hair and necks. The younger ones stood clueless at the celebration. Chittorgarh hasn’t had any celebrations ever since Ranaji left. They savoured their mother’s handmade Ghevars full of love, laddoos, and all other traditional delicacies. The Senapati Mahal was lit up with a thousand lamps, the aroma of delicacies and the laughter of clueless children.
In the large hall, overlooking the rooftop and night sky, the men sat down for their meals. The orange angrakha and red pagri. Their swords and spears beside them, ready to face glory. The ladies with their faces covered in red and pink veils today served their husbands, sons and fathers the best dinner of their lives. Fatta had looked around in the crowd. He had spotted his mother sitting with the widows in a very engrossing discussion. The kheer made him smile at her. She smiled back, knowing he understood she had made his favourite. His eyes searched the crowd as soon as he saw the Bati Chokha. That was the dish Jiwa had cooked six days back at her Rasoi Rasam; her first dish in her new home. She was not here. Not among the married women, the ones who served or the princesses in the jharokha. A frown appeared on his face. Didn’t Jiwa Bai know the importance of this meal? Where was she?
A gasp from Rawat Chundawat’s wife had silenced the hall. She was staring at the entrance in awe. A frown appeared on Fatta’s face as he stood up. Those eyes. Those very doe eyes spelt a flash of undying love as they stared at him. Jiwa stood there, in her warrior attire, with a sword in hand and a dagger at her waist. Her face was covered with the end of the pagri, her eyes shining. The bindi on her forehead was bright red with traces of sweat across it. Her hands were freshly painted red. Before anyone else could react, his mother had walked up to her.
“Jiwa.” She had managed in her shock. “What is going on?”
“ Maasa, pardon me for my audacity, but…” She had stared right at him; his admiring eyes gave her strength. “We were eight thousand against twenty thousand. Now, we are a mere three thousand left to protect our motherland. I felt my life would be more useful on the battlefield than at the Jauhar Kund. If I need to die, I choose to kill before I die; I choose my sword. I, as a Rajputani, have been taught to be a warrior.” She had stopped as her worried father emerged from the crowd.
“Jiwa.” He had warned. She stood silent, staring at her feet.
“Jiwa Baisa” Her mother-in-law’s soft voice made her look up at the moist eyes “I am so proud of you.”
A rush of warmth filled her heart as she was embraced tightly. She had never known her own mother. Now she did.
“Anyone who wants to join us and pick up the sword is welcome.” She was stunned as her mother-in-law stood beside her, staring at the crowd. Fatta smiled as a few princesses and elderly women walked up to them.
“Let’s resume the meals.” He smiled with a nod at his bride.
Fatta had made his way to the almost empty weaponry store in the basement as everyone retired to their rooms. Everyone had to make the most of these moments. He understood that. But he had to have a plan in his head. A way to create maximum damage. He stopped as he heard footsteps in the empty corridor. An attack at night? He wouldn’t be surprised. He picked up the dagger silently as he watched the shadow. It was nearing, stealthily.
“Stop right there.” In the light and shadow of the corridor, a cold blade of steel was at his neck before he could move his dagger, and the one who stood in front of him had surprised but brave eyes.
“I apologise, Rawat Ji. She lowered her sword. He promptly removed the veil from her face. That smile. That very shy smile he had fallen for. It won’t be there tomorrow. Putting aside the aching feeling in his throat, he had managed a “What are you doing here?”
A worry swept across her face, “The weapons in store. They are…”
“Not enough, I know. We won’t survive longer than…” he had stopped as her eyes met and shone. The tears refused to leave the veerangana’s eyes. He held her hands; both were stone cold in his sword in between.
“We will do this, we will fight till our last breath.” She said in complete determination, “Mewar will be so proud of you.”
“Us.” He smiled, “As many years as the Jauhar and Saka will be remembered, so will Jiwa Bai Solanki”
She smiled. His proud eyes made her blush. The warriors were lost in feelings and attachments. He had embraced her without a care about who could be watching. She was taken aback at first, but then she hugged him back. The smell of his bruised body and his warm breath were to stay with her forever.
Could Fatta ask for more? This girl, he had assumed to be a teenager with dreams. He was thinking all evening up there alone in the watchtower, amidst other things, how he would break the news of the impending Jauhar and Saka, requesting her to join the ladies and crush her newly made dreams. And here she was matching outfits and swords with him, without a word.
All through the night, they had talked about happy memories, childhood, and inspirations. They had talked about the one they both idolised.
“Kunwar Pratap will be devastated by this loss.” She looked worried.
“He knew this was coming long ago.” Fatta was admiring his sword sitting beside her “And you don’t know him, he is like a tiger, he comes out stronger than ever from bruises.”
“I hope Kumbhalgarh is safe.” She said it more like a prayer.
“It will be, as long as Kunwarsa is there.” He smiled.
Kunwarsa had been a guru, an inspiration and an elder brother.
“Do you believe in reincarnations?” Jiwa had made him smile.
“I didn’t,” he had held her hands in his," but I want to, now.” She smiled back at him with a nod.
“I want to, too.”
The night was almost over. There were movements in the enemy tents. The elephants, horses and foot soldiers were slowly making their way toward the fort. It was almost time. Jiwa had lit the lamp at her Lord Krishna’s feet. She stood with her hands folded as he waited patiently behind her. Jiwa, without a shake of her hand, had picked up the sword and turned to him with a smile.
“ Jai Mewar he smiled. “Jai Bhavani," she smiled back. Eyes shone, perhaps with pride and a little tear. Tears had no place in a warrior’s life; they had been taught so all their lives. She smiled at the threshold as his mother appeared in white warrior attire and an orange pagri. She had an aarti thali in hand, set with a lamp, vermillion and more. She had made them stand together as she did their tilak. A small tear escaped her eyes as they hugged her. “Let’s make our motherland proud”, she had blessed them as they touched her feet. Her voice had no hint of fear.
One by one, the women were making their way to the Jauhar Kund. Married women, young maidens, small children. Not a tear or remorse on their faces. All ready to do the most honourable thing they dreamt of, heard of, and some have seen. The Jauhar Kund did not have the amount of wood needed for ten thousand lives. They had requested Fatta for some gunpowder. Senapati Fatta was marching his troops to the Suraj Pol. Jiwa had walked out, leading a troop of maidens towards the Hanuman Pol.
“We protect our home with our blood.” She took her oath.
“Jai Bhavani” filled the air.
The first rays of the sun had descended on earth rather unwillingly that day. Even the sky cried with a shower of sudden, non-seasonal rainfall. The sky turned grey as thick smoke filled the air.
“What is that?” The Shahenshah e Hind sounded alarmed. And before anyone could answer him, an explosion of gunpowder had deafened them. There were ashes everywhere. Human ashes.
Fatta knew the time was here. One last time, he was on his knees, taking the holy soil on his forehead.
“May I come back to serve you again, Mother?” He had picked up his sword, “Har Har Mahadev!”
“Har Har Mahadev!” Jiwa echoed as the gates of the fort opened for a final battle.
Note: On 23rd February 1568, the Chittorgarh fort witnessed its last and most brutal Saka, Jauhar and mass killing in the very famous war against Akbar’s huge army. Fateh Singh Sisodia was made the commander of the fort by Rana Udai Singh on the recommendation of his son and heir, Kunwar Pratap Singh. Jiwa Bai Solanki was a warrior royal lady of the Solanki clan of Saurashtra. As many as 10,000 royal women were at the Jauhar, while 8000 Men and 500 women died at Saka. In a matter of a few hours, Rajputana’s glorious fort of Chittor had turned into a graveyard. We remember these brave hearts, who fail to find a place in our history books.
Note: In popular culture, Fateh Singh Sisodiya's nickname is often Patta and not Fatta, as it originally was. That causes some confusion, as the crown prince Pratap Singh's nickname was Patta. To avoid confusion, I have stuck to the original nickname instead of the popular one.
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