From The Quill of Suranya

Her hand trembled on the white pearl string she held close to her bosom. It had tiny red spots on it, which she could not help but assume to be blood. Some of the war, its reminders of the sins of her kin, had rubbed off on her hand now. She shivered a little, trying not to lose composure. She had lost everything that was not hers to begin with. No amount of praying could now heal her broken heart. She was mourning her love in secret because he was gone, but she was still alive. To be scrutinised for lamenting such a forbidden loss. As long as she was breathing, she had to make sure she played her pawns well. She had to reconcile with her siblings. She had to make friends with the enemies. Anything that would make her relevant, even when deep in her heart, she wanted to slip away into oblivion. The most powerful woman in the world spent the night in the darkness of her room, wine glass in hand, helpless and defeated in the hands of fate. © Suranya Context: On 29th May, 1568, the armies...

Aj chal ek adhuri dastaan pura kar lete hai.  Ek teri ishq mein hum gerua orr lete hai.  Aj hawayon ka rukh mor dete hai.  Chal aj thoda jee lete hai. Tere ishq ka jogan banti firti hoon,  Duniya se chupake teri sapne bunnti hoon,  Aasuyon ko tera saya bana leti hoon. Par ab bohot hua chupna chupana.  Aj chal subah ke dhoop mein  Duniya se baya kar deti hoon,  Prem hai tujhse, sirf tujhse. Tu hi sach meri, aj tu yeh jaan le.  Do kadam main chalu,  Tere ehsaas mein ghar bana loon,  Aaja aj palko mein tere sapne sawar loon. © Suranya Meera Bai, a prominent figure of the Bhakti Movement, identified herself as Lord Krishna's wife. The princess of Merta, married to the crown prince of Mewar Bhojraj, refused to lead the life of a widow after her husband passed away in a battle against Babar. It is widely believed that when she was invited back to Chittorgarh by Rana Udai Singh after his mother Rani Karnavati had asked Meera to leave the c...

Confessions of a Lover  Etched in stone  For time immemorial  For you to adorn;  A love that was  Yet couldn't be.  Time's reminder to its travellers  That not all who love are happy  Not all whose names survive  Die a hero for their Beloved. Betrayal, abandonment, sacrifice  Virtues that a heroine would often live by,  That proved her worthy of being  A protagonist in his life.  But she was so much more.  One whose name was lost in time  Because her identity  Was not defined by his. Yet somewhere in some Bard's tale  A pillar or a few words in stone  She survives through time as his  Even when life kept them apart. © Suranya S ometimes in history, when you treat people as people, you stumble across characters, stories and incidents that touch your heart. Thanks to Anandabazar Patrika and its article on Saru Maru edict, long after I had read and mostly forgotten about Devi, what Asoka's first ...

She watched his horse go till the dust settled back on the road. Her eyes shone, but no tear drop fell on her cheeks. There was no time to cry. It was time to prove that Love was the greatest strength. Days passed by, then a week. Many a messenger came and went telling about the progress at the battlefield, but each day her eyes were fixed at the gates, for a letter. A letter addressed to her, minus the seal and title. A letter that called her by the name she had otherwise forgotten. Every night as the stars twinkled, she sat sleepless and stared in the direction of the camp. That's where the sun set every day, almost as a metaphor of the darkness that engulfed her life after he departed. Somewhere in a tent in the camp, he stared at the flickering lamp with a feeling of longing. A will to return to her. Embrace her and feel at home. He could have written a letter, assured her he was fine, but what if she replied? Or worse, the letter reached her late? Long after he was gone? Could...

In the midst of my melancholy night,  When the crickets sing and the owls hoot in the distance,  Standing on the pavilion in anticipation,  I search for your face on the crescent moon. The gentle breeze whispers  Erupting my skin in goosebumps  As though you touched my soul again.  I shiver and wrap my quilt around my heart. I feel you in the excited beat against my bosom,  A tiny sparkle of a precious pearl drop on my cheek, My eyes drawn in Kohl smudged,  Yet a smile lingers on my lip  As I sing for you the holiest lyrics  Adjusting the strings of the Sitar  To that of my heart, calling you home to me. Did you remember me today  When at dawn the cuckoo sang? Or the waters of the Narmada  Splashed across your tired face? Did you whisper a prayer for me In your Namaaz today? Like I did for you before the Lord,  Who plays the flute in the music of love,  Just like we do? Do you also wait for me?  Counting eve...

 The soil of Mewar was mesmerisingly bright  In yellow, red, and green.  Giving the eyes a spectacular sight.  As the June rains arrived Washing the Aravallis in an ocean of beauty,  Beyond the Bhimlat's tranquillity  A fort stood in proximity. The land of Bijoliya. Somewhere in the palace, there  Amidst the bloodshed and might Lived a girl who dared to love,  The bravest the land bore in a long time. Her days would pass in waiting  And nights rereading letters  He had often sent without being discreet.  Words and feelings between the lines  Her hand traced the curves of each letter  As though she felt his fingers entwined. Every evening as dusk settled in  Or the rain blurred the horizon in mist  She stood there, on the highest Jharokha Eyes beyond the plains, far away  Where she could see the silver-lined way. He would one day come galloping down  The dust gave away his presence in brown. The people w...

 The darkness danced in the flickering light,  The music played as the breeze swept by  Dancing around was the water in ripples  And the jasmine cast its aromatic spell. The moon shone through the clouds that night,  Upon the walls of the magnificent marble  Of the golden-roofed palace  And the red stone fort is in sight. The Anguri bagh in fresh sown grapes  The wine cups tinkling, poetry going on till late.  Somewhere in the distance, the bells rang  She dipped her quilt in the bottle of ink and began.  A night of longing and of love,  Of feelings bound and desires cursed. Her soul was restless in search of her heart,  She placed the quill on paper But didn't know where to start. The ink blotted the scented papers blue,  Her words were scattered across the sky  Like the veil of stars shimmering bright. Had her heart travelled far across the land,  Rode on a horseback into his desert homeland? Followed his ...

 "TOMORROW WILL BE A NEW DAWN, OF A NEW HOPE, AND A NEW BEGINNING. TOMORROW WILL BE THE BEST. BECAUSE TOMORROW, THERE WILL BE NO TOMORROW." ~ Suranya

When the moon shines on the waters of the Jal Mahal, in the silence of the night, it sighs. Perhaps thousands of full moons ago, even the moon was jealous when Rani Padmavati used to dress up in her grandeur in the Jal Mahal, which her husband had dedicated to her. Perhaps in her laughter, even the raindrops felt jealous. The moon peeks upon the Meera Kanha Temple. Perhaps on full moon nights like this, the saint poetess danced to the songs of her beloved. Today, the courtyard of the temple remains empty. The moon shines upon the Kumbha Mahal. Perhaps on one such moonlit night, in her simple giggles and laughter, a teenager, Kunwar Pratap, had found home in his beloved Ajabdeh Baisa. Today, the moon shines on Chittorgarh. Silent. With memories. And yet the ruins look as beautiful as the grand palaces did once upon a time... ~ Suranya

 They alone become immortal  Who chose the pen over the sword?  They alone are treated as humans  Of soul, flesh and blood.  Those who leave behind Memoirs of Emotions  Than Monuments of Dust. © Suranya

"Will I ever find love? Be brave enough to hold on to it?" Her tears gave way to heartache. She had lost her heart to someone she shouldn't have. "What will the picture of a Chauhan Prince do in a Mughal Princess's room?" The words from his letter resonated in her ears, in his voice. She never knew that he hadn't written that to her. Neither did her pleas reach him. She was tired. Tired of running from her feelings and emotions. Tired of being the perfect, composed, inspirational figure everyone looked up to. Tired of being only a princess. She wanted to be HIS princess.  But there he was, thousands of miles away in Bundi. Perhaps the news of her accident and recovery never reached him. Neither her pain nor her love. There he was, with his wife and children. Why would he remember her? The mere existence of her in his life was perhaps about the politics of the land. She didn't care about that. Her heart ached every time he was home. His home. His fami...

Jiwa was the luckiest bride. Or so her friends had said. She was getting married to the bravest of the brave. The chief warrior of Chittorgarh. Patta Singh Sisodia was indeed so at seventeen. She had caught a glimpse of him from behind her veil as she blushed to herself in between the ceremonies. The wedding night was an anticipated one for the new bride. And there she was sitting among her friends and relatives, who teased her endlessly. Then, there was a thundering noise that shook Chittorgarh. There was a commotion at one of the gates of the fort. People were running about. She was left alone by the ladies who went to check on the development, worried. All she could hear was "Coward... bombardment... Wall... War", and she immediately got up and reached for her sword in a reflex. Some of the ladies gasped at the new bride as she made her way out to the corridor. Sword in hand, she stood at the door, her face still in the veil as she asked, to no one in particular, "Did...

 Na Galat Thi Woh,  Na Galti Kiya Tha Koi Na Bhagi Thi Wo Koi Yudh Se,  Na Kisiko Bewajah Saza Sunaya Tha Galti Toh Bas Itni Si Thi Uski,  Pardah Chorke Samne Khadi thi, Mardo Ke Sath Ladi Thi. Galti Bas Itna Thi, Ke Ladki Thi Woh Takt Pe Kaise Baith Gayi? ~ Suranya

He smiled at the dying figure of the teenager. He was now going to sit upon the throne. What Banbir forgot was that for every betrayal there is a greater loyalty. For every sin, a greater sacrifice. As Panna stood watching him kill her son instead of the heir prince. ~ Suranya

  Ao Sunaaye Tumko Gathaa, Gaatha kuch Veero ki, Gatha ek swaraj ki,  Sapna ek swadhinta ki. Gatha Patniyoke Prem o ki, Gaatha Maa o ke Biswaso ki. Ao sunaye tumko gatha, Gatha ek Mewar ki. Gatha ek Maratha Ki. Gatha ek Bharat ki. Yeh katha hai Shurveero ki, Maharanaon ki, Maharajaon ki. Yeh gatha hai Chatrapatiyo ki. Gatha unke yudhon ki, adarsho ki, sammano ki. Kahani un maharaniyon ki, rajkumariyon ki, veeranganaon ki. Katha unke atmasammanon ka. Premo Ka. Bhaktiyo ka. Gatha ek Meera ka, ek Padmini ka, Ek Karnavati ka. Suno katha unn Maa o ka. Unke Parvarish Ka. Balidaano ka. Yeh Gatha ek Jijabai ka, ek Panna Dhai ka, ek Jaivanta Bai ka. Suno katha unn Patniyo ka. Unke pratikska ka. Tapasya ka. Unke vachan o aur satitwa ka. Yeh Gatha hai ek Ajabdeh ka, ek Saibai ka, ek Jiwa ka. Suno katha unn deviyon ka, Unn Maa o ke ashisho ka. Suno Katha ek Veer ki, Dharti k ek putra ki, Eklinji ki Avatar ki, Suno Gatha ek Swadhinta premi Pratap ki. Suno Katha uss Suput ki, Bhavani Maata ...