The Many Lives of a Rajput Queen

by Ramya Sreenivasan

The Padmavat reveals a tension between Sufi ethics and the norms of lay patrons in its treatment of Nagmati, Ratansen’s first wife. The Sufi-symbolic perspective encodes the mystical love between hero and heroine as a reflection of the normative love between man and God. This symbolism privileges the exclusive relationship between the seeker and his beloved, and hence demands monogamous fidelity from both the hero and the heroine. Ratansen can win Padmavati only after he has successfully passed this test. The founding condition for his quest is thus his rejection of his first wife, Nagmati. He must continue to demonstrate the same faithfulness to Padmavati even after he has obtained her. Thus he recognizes and rejects Lacchmi, the daughter of the ocean, who appears to him in the form of his wife.

  It is significant, however, that Nagmati returns after Ratansen is united with his beloved Padmavati. Abdul Wahid Bilgrami’s treatise on Hindavi poetry, the Haqaiq-i Hindi (1566), provided Sufi glosses for Vaishnava symbols and bhakti terminology, thus illuminating the interpretive practices of Sufi communities reading Braj and Avadhi poetry in the sixteenth century. According to Bilgrami, the hero’s two wives in these narratives signified the immortal soul’s link with the next world, and the connection of the lower or carnal soul with this world, respectively.99 This gloss would suggest that Sufi interpretive communities read the first wife’s return as signifying the return of the world, after the Truth had been revealed to the seeker in union with his beloved. In the Padmavat Nagmati re-enters the narrative lamenting her husband’s absence in a barahmasa, the form traditionally employed to describe the woman’s pining for an absent lover or husband (viraha). With the re-entry of the first wife, the relationship between mystical seeker and his beloved thus loses some of its exclusiveness.

  The inexorable fact of elite polygyny seems to coexist uneasily with a Sufi monogamous ethic here. As the values of lay elites and their courtly genres take precedence at this point, the heroine now contends with a rival for her husband’s affection. In the Padmavat Ratansen simply re-enters his old relationship with Nagmati and the co-wives are left confronting each other. They come to blows before Ratansen intervenes and reminds them that they are united by a common duty (seva) to him (445). The pattern is identical in the Mirigavati and the Chandayan. Bilgrami’s gloss on the co-wife (saut) recognizes the tension latent in this relationship. He suggests that accommodating the two worlds—divine and mortal, mystical and corporeal—simultaneously, is as impossible as keeping two wives equally happy. The overlay of elite patriarchal practices upon Sufi mystical codes is apparent in the resolutions to the Mirigavati and the Padmavat, as the hero’s death is followed by the sati of both his wives. Nagmati displays the same passionate love (and virtue) as Padmavati does.

  The conclusion to the Padmavat articulates resolutions to the concerns addressed in each layer of the narrative—mystical and political. The defeat of Alauddin by the brave vassals Gora and Badal does not mean that danger has been repulsed once and for all. Both within a Sufi metaphysic and in the turbulent context of northern India in the sixteenth century, danger had to return. In Jayasi’s world, however, Alauddin Khalji did not pose the only threat to Chitaur. Another Rajput ruler could also threaten the mystical-political order the kingdom embodied. When Ratansen is a prisoner in Alauddin’s Delhi, Devpal of Kumbhalner sends an emissary to woo Padmavati. After rejecting his advances, Padmavati tells Ratansen (when he returns from Delhi) about this insult to her and to his honor. An angry Ratansen characterizes Devpal’s advances:

  When has the frog gazed upon the lotus; the bat never sees the sun’s face.

  The peacock dances in joy at his own color; this rooster seeks to emulate him.

  Before the Turks attack the fort, I will capture him, else I am not a king! (645).

  Devpal’s wooing of Padmavati echoes Alauddin’s desire for her. It would seem that in Jayasi’s perspective, there was no distinction between the emperor of Delhi and a hostile Rajput ruler as enemies of Chitor. Ratansen attacks Devpal’s fortress and avenges the insult to his honor by beheading Devpal in single combat, but is himself mortally wounded by the latter’s poisoned sword. Thus, Ratansen falls not to the sultan’s attack but to another Rajput ruler’s poisoned sword in single combat. His death signifies resolutions both at the mystical and political levels. At the mystical-symbolic level, Ratansen has obliterated himself for love and transcended mortal boundaries between himself and his beloved. At the political level, he dies avenging the insult to his queen (646). For Jayasi, whether Ratansen’s foe was the sultan of Delhi or the Rajput ruler of Kumbhalner was immaterial.

  Narratives ending with the death of their protagonists were not new in the Sufi tradition. Thus in Nizami’s Laila Majnun the heroine precedes the hero in death. In the tale of Shirin and Farhad, the sculptor Farhad dies before Shirin. The order of the protagonists’ death here was determined by internal narrative choices rather than generic constraints: there was no symbolic investment in the prior death of either hero or heroine. At the mystical-symbolic level, the immolation of the wives, Padmavati and Nagmati, signifies their obliteration of themselves for love, just like Ratansen: “In life, beloved, you took us to your heart; we will not leave you in death, lord (650).” The queens willingly annihilate themselves (fana) to transcend the bounds of the mortal world. In the process, the Sufi doctrine of the transcendence of mortality through such mystical love (ishq/prema) is reaffirmed.

  At the same time, the Padmavat clearly reveals the impact of Rajput patriarchy upon this Sufi narrative, as the hero precedes the heroine in death. This provides the woman with a climactic opportunity to prove her supreme virtue and supreme love by immolating herself on the pyre of her dead husband. Kolff has demonstrated how upwardly mobile Rajput clans in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries used female immolation to assert status, even at the cost of their own destruction. The Padmavat neatly appropriates such Rajput practices into a mystical frame of reference. Further, this climactic “sacrifice” by the woman preserves the honor of man, wife, family, clan, or tribe and state. Construed thus, it would be equally comprehensible to local Afghan elites even though they may not have practised widow-immolation themselves.

  The same Sufi perspective reconstrues the significance of Alauddin’s ultimate defeat even in victory. Alauddin cannot obtain Padmavati because she is committed to the monogamous fidelity enjoined upon her by the norms of both Sufi poetics and lay elite patriarchies. Moreover, the Delhi sultan has pursued his love through the use of violence and force; his methods are inferior to Ratansen’s path to true love—through asceticism and self-mortification. Alauddin’s failure thus signifies a rejection of his methods. This interpretation of Alauddin’s conquest of Chitor is suggested in the oft-quoted stanza of the Padmavat that culminates in Chitor “becoming” Islam:

  When they had already departed with their love; by then the Patsah entered the fort;

  The moment had passed already; Rama and Sita had disappeared.

  The Shah came into the assembly hall . . .

  He picked up a fistful of ashes; threw it in the air, “the Earth is illusion;

  Until ash falls upon a man’s head, desire (tisna) does not die.”

  . . . the women committed jauhar, the men died in battle.

  The Patsah demolished the fortress, Chitaur became Islam (651).

  This resolution has attracted considerable commentary. In Aziz Ahmad’s interpretation, “This allegorical epic of Rajput chivalry, written by a Muslim, ends with an anti-Islamic finale: ‘and Chitore became Islam.’ As the author is a Muslim, the array and might of the Turks is not belittled, though his sympathy lies with the Rajputs . . . Much more remarkable is his complete self-identification with the sense of tragic intent in a Rajput epic-theme, and its view of his own culture and religion . . .”100 Ahmad’s reading is based on a primordialist understanding of “Hindu” and “Muslim” religious communities and their hostilities. What he finds remarkable is the “self-identification” of a “Muslim” poet with (Hindu) “Rajput
s.”

  It is much more productive to read Jayasi’s celebration of Rajput heroism, and his skepticism about Alauddin’s triumph, as a conjunction of a Sufi mystical quest with local political anxieties about sixteenth-century imperial expansion. Jayasi’s sense of tragedy at the defeat of the Rajputs may well have emerged from this multilayered perspective. From a Sufi perspective, in this final annihilation Chita-ur (“the domain of the heart and mind”) is obliterated and realizes its identity with the divine through martyrdom. At one level, this is the brilliant pun signifying the true meaning of Chitor’s “becom[ing] Islam.”101 Meanwhile, Alauddin is left with ashes, for all his strenuous pursuit of Padmavati.

  While Sultanate political elites provided patronage for the expansion of Sufi establishments across the subcontinent, Sufi masters claimed “spiritual jurisdiction over a specific territory” (wilayat) that they believed to be “above the authority of mundane rulers.” The Sufi thus claimed to be above wealthy and powerful lay patrons, even as he was dependent upon them. Prominent Sufi shaikhs such as Nizamuddin Awliya maintained a carefully calibrated autonomy from the Delhi sultan’s court, to prevent “a potentially disastrous confrontation of incompatible claims to secular and spiritual governance over the same territory.” For a poet, such as Jayasi, the asserted superiority of Sufi masters such as Nizamuddin Awliya over the Delhi sultans would have been remembered and transmitted within the Chishti silsilah of his pirs. Tensions between sultans and Sufi shaikhs were also well known through the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries in North India, Gujarat, and the Deccan.102 Such contests for authority lent an edge to enduring Sufi values such as the affirmation of din (faith/the spiritual realm) over dunya (the material/political world). The defeat of Alauddin Khalji in the Padmavat thus suggests Jayasi’s celebration of the power of Sufi love over the sultan’s military conquests.

  And yet, the pun might be even more sophisticated than a celebration of triumphant mystical love over the sultan’s corporeal love and realpolitik. In Jayasi’s perspective, Chitor was rendered the domain of Islam, after all, and through the triumph of Sufi love (ishq) and the mystical path (tariqat) rather than through imperial conquest. The devout Sufi celebrated the triumph of Islam by a different mode of conquest—through the power of love—even while articulating an anti-imperial critique of the sultan. Similar conjunctions are apparent when jauhar, the self-annihilation of the Rajputs by immolation and in battle, is re-encoded as the climactic instance of Sufi fana, obliteration of the self. The Rajputs may thus have triumphed over Alauddin after all, in achieving transcendence, but these are Rajputs now reconstrued as practicing Sufis!

  In its resolution, therefore, the Padmavat reveals the same method as the rest of the narrative. Jayasi appropriated diverse perspectives from spiritual and political realms in the early sixteenth century and wove them into a coherent narrative embodying a Sufi mystical doctrine and practice. He also established the superiority of the Sufi perspective over all other competing perspectives. These perspectives included those of the local Rajput–Afghan elite from which such narratives drew their patrons; and the political elite of the imperial Delhi Sultanate which provided the patronage under which Sufi silsilahs expanded their spiritual domains in North India.

  The manuscript traditions and adaptations of the Padmavat suggest that early modern audiences read it both as a Sufi “tale of love,” and as lay, heroic romance. The poem addressed its multiple audiences by selectively appropriating from the values and literary genres of those social groups. The Padmavat also incorporated elements from the ascetic exercises and imagery of the competing Nathpanth. Such Sufi appropriations were framed by assertions of their own doctrinal and spiritual superiority, and Jayasi was no exception to this practice. The Padmavat also articulated the political and patriarchal practices of the lay elites that constituted its clientele of potential patrons. In its engagement with contemporary politics, the Padmavat displays the same method that it does in its negotiations with rival religious and spiritual orders. Jayasi successfully weaves together the political and patriarchal norms of his target audiences within a Sufi frame of reference. In so doing, he asserts the political superiority of Sufi pirs and precepts to its multiple audiences. These included the political elites of the Sultanate who provided the patronage for the spread of Sufi institutions in North India, as well as the local landholding and military elites, both Rajput and Afghan, who constituted the immediate network of patronage for the composition and circulation of Avadhi “tales of love” between the fourteenth and seventeenth centuries.

  Notes

  1. Translator’s footnote: “Referring to a well-known story of the Quran, chap. xxvii, sec. 2. Hudhud is the bird that brings the news of Balquis, queen of Seba, to Solomon. The famous Padmini is apparently responsible for the allusions to Solomon’s Seba.”

  2. Habib 1981: vol. 2, 188—90.

  3. See also Rizvi 1955: 76, for his Hindi translation of Barani. For reviews of all the known contemporary sources see Qanungo 1960: 1—20; and Ahluwalia 1978: 89—99.

  4. Sunil Kumar 2000: 45–52; for a critique of Barani, see Alam 2003: 31–43; for wider surveys of the historiographic traditions of the Delhi Sultanate, see Hardy (1960) 1997; and Nizami 1983; for a review of the field, see Hardy 1993.

  5. Davis 1997: 191–4; Talbot 2000: 290–4.

  6. See for instance Nizami 1961; M. Habib (1970) 1993; Siddiqui 1972; idem 1977; idem 1992; Lawrence 1978; idem 1984.

  7. Jain 1990: 233–41.

  8. Bhutoriya 1995: vol. 1, 328–9.

  9. Somani 1982: 232–3.

  10. McGregor 1984: 34.

  11. For the eleventh-century Sudansan Chariu by Nayanandi, see Pandey 1982: 80.

  12. For explorations of kingship in Jain traditions, see Arai (1978) 1998; and Cort 1998.

  13. Dasharath Sharma 1970: 38–40.

  14. The inscription is reprinted in Shyamaldas 1986: vol. 1, 409.

  15. Jayasi provides an allegorical gloss for the fortress kingdom by punning on its name, Chita-ur (the domain of the mind, chita and heart, ura). I use this spelling here, closer phonetically to the Avadhi, to distinguish Jayasi’s usage. For the fortress in Mewar, I use its conventional name Chitor.

  16. For a longer summary of the plot, see Appendix 1.

  17. Warder 1974–92: vol. 2, 278–89; vol. 3, 67–71; vol. 4, 234–51.

  18. Pandey 1933: 383–419; Jayasi 1940: 48. For the testimony of a descendant, see Shukla 1995: 6.

  19. For the scholarly consensus on the poet and the dates of his works, see Millis 1984: 16–40.

  20. Rizvi 1978–83: vol. 2, 370.

  21. For Sufi hagiographies’ emphasis on miracles demonstrating charismatic power and authority, see Digby 1975: 17–18; and Aquil 1997–8.

  22. De Bruijn 1996: 54. For revenue grants made to Simnani’s family and khanqah in the Mughal period, see Bilgrami 1972.

  23. Mahdi: “Literally, guided or rightly guided, but according to Sunni traditions . . . the leader who is expected to rise before judgment day.” Rizvi 1978–83: vol. 1, 41. For the Mahdawi movement in Mughal India, see idem 1965: 68–134.

  24. Rizvi 1965: 131; Saeed 1972: 202–3.

  25. For an incisive analysis of the Padmavat manuscripts, see de Bruijn 1996: 14–23. On early manuscript traditions of the Mirigavati, see Parameshvarilal Gupta 1967: 28–37.

  26. Mataprasad Gupta 1952. All citations are from this edition.

  27. Ibid. 562, stanza 133a.

  28. Ibid. 632, stanzas 637a and e.

  29. See for instance Callewaert ed. 1980.

  30. Dalmia 1997: 152.

  31. Alam 1998: 319.

  32. Mataprasad Gupta 1952: 3–7.

  33. See Phukan 1996.

  34. De Bruijn 1996: 26.

  35. See Abidi 1962.

  36. Ibid. 4.

  37. Phukan 1996: 47–51.

  38. Gaeffke 1989: 527–32.

  39. Badauni 1990: vol. 1, 333.

  40. For the career of Banar
asidas, see Cort 2002: 42–8.

  41. Lath 1981: 49. Lath translates the original pothi as “narrative ballads.” I prefer “books,” although pothi also denotes bound manuscripts.

  42. Compare Lath’s version, “My visitors greatly enjoyed my singing and conversation,” ibid.

  43. The Avadhi original, ratan padarath, gems and the precious metals in which they are encased, is used by Jayasi as a pun on the names of Ratansen and Padmavati.

  44. Parentheses indicate stanza numbers in Gupta’s critical edition.

  45. Translation of the frequent term within these narratives, piram kahani. Chandayan (172), Padmavat (23).

  46. Cited in Parmeshvarilal Gupta 1967: 39. My translation from the Hindi.

  47. For a discussion of Razi’s adaptation, see Phukan 1996.

  48. For a discussion of the ideal of the chakravartin in early medieval polities, see Inden 1992: 213–62.

  49. Gupta 1994: vol. 1, 310.

  50. Ibid. 313–17.

  51. Busch 2004.

  52. For Balban’s son, see Elliot and Dowson 1996: vol. 3, 110; vol. 3, 236 for Muhammad bin Tughlaq; and vol. 4, 311 for Farid Khan, later Sher Shah. For cosmopolitan authors and audiences in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, see Phukan 2000; idem 2001; and Alam and Subrahmanyam 2004.

  53. Pritchett 1991: 1.

  54. For particularly rich analyses of the Sufi symbolism in these Avadhi “tales of love,” see Pandey 1982; and Behl, forthcoming.

  55. While there is little historical scholarship on the Nathpanth, the term denotes an order of renunciants venerating their founder Gorakhnath (c. tenth century CE), who believed in a formless deity and evolved a meditative discipline centered around a mystical physiology. Nirgun bhakti (see footnote below) shared the belief in a formless deity; some groups also acknowledged and borrowed Nath ascetic practice. See Briggs 1989; and White 1996; for a discussion of the relationship between the Nathpanth and nirgun bhakti, see Barthwal 1978: 115–55.

  56. Devotional (bhakti) movements that emerged from the fourteenth century onwards within and beyond Hindu practice, worshipping a god without attributes (nirgun). For an early and still influential study, see Barthwal 1978; for a lucid summary, see Lorenzen 2005: 203–8.