The Power of The Devotion of Meera Bai in the Hindu Tradition
—A timeless story of transformation and divine connection—
I was born into the Rajput clan, a proud warrior people of Rajasthan. My name is Meera. Some called me princess. Others, madwoman. But to Lord Krishna, I was always just His Meera.
I didn’t ask for this life—this hunger, this longing. It began when I was five. I saw a wedding procession pass through our village. Clothes glittering, music swelling. I turned to my mother and asked, “Who will my husband be?” She smiled and replied, “Shyam—Lord Krishna—is your eternal groom.”
That night, I placed a small idol of Krishna beside my bed. I whispered goodnight to Him.
Years passed. My days were full of rituals, my heart full of Him. I sang to Krishna before the sun rose. I poured water with His name on my lips. Others thought I played at worship. But I knew—Bhakti, devotion, was more than duty. It was love. Quiet. Fierce. Unshakable.
When I was married off into the royal house of Mewar, they gave me gold and silks. But I took only my Krishna murti, my little idol. I couldn’t love a man of the world. My love belonged to the dark-skinned Lord of Vrindavan—the flute-player who danced with the Gopis under moonlight.
My husband died before I truly knew him. His brother, Vikram Singh, grew furious with me. I refused to join the royal court. I’d sit in the temple, singing Krishna’s name. They said I brought dishonor. They locked me inside my chambers. But you cannot chain a soul in Bhakti.
They sent me poison in a cup—vish. “Drink it,” they said, “or face disgrace.” I looked at my Krishna idol, the one thing I’d carried through palace gates and prison walls. I smiled. “If this is my Karma, may it lead me to Your lotus feet.” And I drank.
But nothing happened. No pain. No death.
Only song.
Later, I learned why. In the Puranas, Lord Shiva drank poison during the churning of the cosmic ocean to protect the world. That night, I sang to both Shiva and Krishna. I understood something then—true devotion is not bound by religion or customs. It is surrender. It is truth.
But they did not stop.
Once, they sent a cobra in a basket. “A gift,” they said. I opened it with trembling hands. Inside, coiled and silent, was the serpent. I closed my eyes. “If You wish, take me now,” I prayed.
Instead, the snake slithered out and bowed its head at my feet.
Word of these things spread. I became a ghost in my own land—hated by kings, loved by the poor. Women came to hear me sing. Men left their swords outside the temple. I was nothing. And still I was His.
They called it madness. I called it freedom.
One night, I walked to Dwaraka, Krishna’s holy city by the sea. I sang every step. My voice raw, my feet blistered. At the gates, I was refused entry. Temple priests saw only a woman, a widow, a disgrace.
But just then, the doors opened—on their own.
The priests fell to their knees.
Inside, I touched the feet of Lord Krishna's massive idol. The room smelled of jasmine and ghee. I began to sing. My last song.
I don’t remember the words. Only the feeling—like I became air, light, sound. A part of Him. And then…I was gone.
Some say I merged into the idol itself. Others say I died there. What I know is this: Forgiveness is not weakness. Bhakti is not madness. Truth is not always written in scrolls.
I was cast out, poisoned, slandered.
But I chose love.
And love brought me home.
⸻
Keywords Used: Shiva, Krishna, Puranas, Karma, Bhakti, Devotional Story
Themes: forgiveness, bhakti, truth
Word Count: 598
The Power of The Devotion of Meera Bai in the Hindu Tradition
—A timeless story of transformation and divine connection—
I was born into the Rajput clan, a proud warrior people of Rajasthan. My name is Meera. Some called me princess. Others, madwoman. But to Lord Krishna, I was always just His Meera.
I didn’t ask for this life—this hunger, this longing. It began when I was five. I saw a wedding procession pass through our village. Clothes glittering, music swelling. I turned to my mother and asked, “Who will my husband be?” She smiled and replied, “Shyam—Lord Krishna—is your eternal groom.”
That night, I placed a small idol of Krishna beside my bed. I whispered goodnight to Him.
Years passed. My days were full of rituals, my heart full of Him. I sang to Krishna before the sun rose. I poured water with His name on my lips. Others thought I played at worship. But I knew—Bhakti, devotion, was more than duty. It was love. Quiet. Fierce. Unshakable.
When I was married off into the royal house of Mewar, they gave me gold and silks. But I took only my Krishna murti, my little idol. I couldn’t love a man of the world. My love belonged to the dark-skinned Lord of Vrindavan—the flute-player who danced with the Gopis under moonlight.
My husband died before I truly knew him. His brother, Vikram Singh, grew furious with me. I refused to join the royal court. I’d sit in the temple, singing Krishna’s name. They said I brought dishonor. They locked me inside my chambers. But you cannot chain a soul in Bhakti.
They sent me poison in a cup—vish. “Drink it,” they said, “or face disgrace.” I looked at my Krishna idol, the one thing I’d carried through palace gates and prison walls. I smiled. “If this is my Karma, may it lead me to Your lotus feet.” And I drank.
But nothing happened. No pain. No death.
Only song.
Later, I learned why. In the Puranas, Lord Shiva drank poison during the churning of the cosmic ocean to protect the world. That night, I sang to both Shiva and Krishna. I understood something then—true devotion is not bound by religion or customs. It is surrender. It is truth.
But they did not stop.
Once, they sent a cobra in a basket. “A gift,” they said. I opened it with trembling hands. Inside, coiled and silent, was the serpent. I closed my eyes. “If You wish, take me now,” I prayed.
Instead, the snake slithered out and bowed its head at my feet.
Word of these things spread. I became a ghost in my own land—hated by kings, loved by the poor. Women came to hear me sing. Men left their swords outside the temple. I was nothing. And still I was His.
They called it madness. I called it freedom.
One night, I walked to Dwaraka, Krishna’s holy city by the sea. I sang every step. My voice raw, my feet blistered. At the gates, I was refused entry. Temple priests saw only a woman, a widow, a disgrace.
But just then, the doors opened—on their own.
The priests fell to their knees.
Inside, I touched the feet of Lord Krishna's massive idol. The room smelled of jasmine and ghee. I began to sing. My last song.
I don’t remember the words. Only the feeling—like I became air, light, sound. A part of Him. And then…I was gone.
Some say I merged into the idol itself. Others say I died there. What I know is this: Forgiveness is not weakness. Bhakti is not madness. Truth is not always written in scrolls.
I was cast out, poisoned, slandered.
But I chose love.
And love brought me home.
⸻
Keywords Used: Shiva, Krishna, Puranas, Karma, Bhakti, Devotional Story
Themes: forgiveness, bhakti, truth
Word Count: 598
