Fire Work In Lake BiwaFire
The Fire That Refused to Kneel
The desert wind danced through the narrow lanes of Chittorgarh as the girl adjusted her dupatta and stood by the famous Jauhar kund. A voice, rough like a stone, froze her “Was she just a sacrifice or something more?” Riya turned to face the unknown speaker, only to find an elderly woman dressed in a ghagra choli, staring into the distance. Everyone here spoke of Queen Padmini with great respect, as if she were more deity than woman. But the whispers were too many. Riya, still confused, questioned who the queen really was? –A brave queen or Something still hidden about her? She turned back toward the woman, who was still staring ahead. “They burned our Queen, child” She said, her eyes narrowing, “But do you know who lit the fire?”
What began as a folklore assignment was now unraveling into something deeper – Unexplained.
“They speak of a woman too bright to be touched by the sun. I wonder… how she’ll look under my shadow.” Alauddin Khilji leaned back against his velvet throne, his eyes narrowing at the travelling poet before him “Say it again” he demanded. “Padmavati, the jewel of Chittorgarh” the poet repeated, trembling with fear under Sultan’s growing interest “Her reflection alone is enough to outshine the moon, Huzoor”
Something flickered in Khilji’s eyes. He dismissed the court, but the name lingered in his mind. That night, he couldn’t sleep. He walked down the marbled floors of his palace like a lion trapped in a cage, haunted by an image he had never seen. His obsession fuelled every single day. Days later, his spy returned with details —her grace, her intellect, the fierce bravery she possessed. It was no longer a curiosity. It was a fire.
“A woman who rules men with her silence,” he murmured, staring into the distance. “She must bow before me. All beauty should.” His obsession turned dangerous. Under false friendship, he sent a peace offering to Chittorgarh. But peace was not what he was looking for.
When his messenger returned, breathless, speaking of a glimpse caught in the mirrors of the Chittor palace, Khilji clenched his jaw. “A glimpse is not enough. I want her —or I will take her.” the Sultan rose from his prayer mat and whispered to his commander: “Prepare the army. The desert shall burn before I am denied.”
And somewhere in the silence of a fortress, the Queen looked up – as if she already knew he was coming.
The wind shifted in Chittorgarh, and so did the silence. Padmavati stood on the palace balcony, her gaze firm. “War travels faster than its horses,” she murmured to her handmaid. Her fingers tightened around the silver railing as the scent of incoming war lingered in the air. She had heard whispers of Khilji’s obsession —the poisoned gift disguised as friendship, the messenger who watched her too long. But fear was not of her companion. “Let him come,” she said, her voice steady. “A woman’s worth is not in her reflection —it is in how fiercely she guards what cannot be stolen.”
She gathered the women of the court, trained them in silence, prepared them with great bravery and courage. As the war drums echoed faintly in the distance, her people looked to her not just as a queen, but as their leader, their storm, their hope.
And when the first ray of Sun touched the ground, Padmavati did not flinch—she simply turned and said,
“Tell the soldiers: Chittor does not kneel.”
Riya didn’t know why her chest felt heavy—like something inside her had woken up.
She traced her fingers over the cold stone wall, the same place where hundreds of women made an unimaginable choice. But it wasn’t just sacrifice she saw—it was resistance. Power. The old woman had long vanished, but her words still lingered. “But do you know who lit the fire?”
Riya looked up at the sky, the same one that once saw Khilji’s army, the same one that watched a queen challenged history.
And at that moment, she didn’t want to write an assignment. She wanted to uncover the truth. Because some stories aren’t finished —they’re just waiting to be found.
“But what if she was more than the story they told?”
Smoke filled the night, and the fire’s heat made breathing hard. The flames engulfed Chittorgarh’s walls, consuming the fort inch by inch. Around the Queen, women held their children close, their eyes wet but their voices steady. Mothers kissed their little ones goodbye, their hands trembling but their hearts fierce and firm. Padmavati stood strong, her face lit by the flames, her spirit unshaken. She felt the women’s prayers, saw the girls’ heartbreaking tears, fearful glances as She drew strength from their shared unity and determination. “This fire will never steal our honor,” she said softly, but with iron in her voice. “We will choose death over shame.”
No one cried out loud. There were no screams —only a heavy, quiet strength in the air. Women hugged their daughters, passing on fierce promises with tight smiles. The children clung to their mothers, sensing the weight of what was coming, but trusting their queen’s bravery.
From a distance, Alauddin Khilji watched the fortress burn, the orange glow reflected in his eyes. His lips curled in a bitter smile.
“She burns, and yet she will not bow,” he whispered, a mixture of frustration and something darker filling his voice. “Chittorgarh may fall, but she remains untouchable in her defiance.”
The fire swallowed the sky, turning Chittorgarh into a furnace of bravery. Padmavati walked ahead, the smoke blurring her sight, but not her will. Behind her, women held their children, whispering promises through tight smiles. No cries, only courage. She looked behind her —the women were ready. Silent. Brave. Some still holding hands, some carrying the last scent of jasmine in their hair. No sobbing, no begging. Just a stillness filled with a thousand unsaid goodbyes.
“So it ends here,” she said.
And then came the sound —not war drums, but footsteps. Too many. Too close. The enemy had entered the fort.
Outside, Alauddin Khilji emerged through the ruined gates. He had brought an entire army to take a woman. All he saw now was ash and echoes.“She chose fire over me,” he muttered, his voice bitter.
His commander bowed his head. “No, Huzoor… she chose freedom.”
Riya crouched near the ruins, heart uneasy, notebook clenched in her hands. The sun was high now, on Chittorgarh like it had centuries ago. The story she had followed —told in quiet tones, carved into walls, spoken in proud voices —had always ended in flames. But something didn’t sit right.
Late last night, buried in an old manuscript in the town’s library, she had found it. A page. Torn, fragile… but enough. There had been another plan. A secret escape. A tunnel beneath the palace. A path meant to save the queen and the women with her. A last chance.
But it never happened.
No record of success. No survivors. Just fire and sacrifices. Someone deceived them that night. Someone unfaithful.
And in the margins, written in the shaky ink of someone hopeless: “We were betrayed. Someone spoke.”
Riya’s chest tightened. She imagined them—Padmavati and the women—waiting in silence with only hope that could save them, only to realize that the path was no longer safe. That someone they trusted, had sold them to the enemy.
She looked up at the Jauhar Kund, where smoke once rose, and wondered if the queen had known in those last moments. Had she guessed the escape was blocked? That every footstep toward the flames was not just bravery, but a heartbreak ?
Her fingers tightly gripped the notebook.
They were not running toward death.
They were running from betrayal.
And no one remembered that.
Behind her, a voice broke the silence—low, rough, and too close.
“Some stories were buried for a reason.”
Riya froze. She didn’t dare turn around.
By: Anjali Kumari
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