She placed a kiss on his forehead, tasting iron and sandalwood. Then she rose. Behind her, the palace of Chittor was no longer a home; it was a kiln, prepared for a final, terrible firing. The jauhar had begun.
Deep in the subterranean chambers, the air was thick with the scent of sandalwood paste, rosewater, and the dry, anticipatory crackle of the pyres. Seven hundred women, from the wrinkled dowager queens to the wide-eyed infant princesses, moved in a slow, sacred dance. They were not wailing. That was the most terrible part. There was no sound save the rustle of silk and the low, hypnotic chant of the priest. padmavati ending
Padmavati descended the cool stone steps. She was the last. The fire waited in the central pit, a hungry orange tongue licking at the stack of fragrant logs. She looked at the faces of her companions. Nagmati, Ratan Singh’s first wife, stood closest to the pyre. Theirs had been a life of rivalry, a gentle war of glances and courtly verses. Now, Nagmati held out her hand. There was no jealousy here. Only sisterhood in the face of the abyss. She placed a kiss on his forehead, tasting
The sun bled through the smoke, a crimson coin slipping behind the ramparts of Chittor. Ratan Singh, his chest a ruin of Saracen steel, lay cradled in the lap of his Queen. His eyes, once fierce as a falcon’s, were soft now, seeing a horizon beyond the siege. The jauhar had begun
She had walked through the fire, and in doing so, she had made herself immortal. He would live as a footnote in her story. And the fire would sing her name for a thousand years.