My Sister Padmini And Bhansali's Rani

The Padmavati row is the creation of a toxically patriarchal Hindu nation

- Anuja Chauhan

Like all Rajputs, I’m very proud to be one. I didn’t change my surname after my marriage partly because feminism, but mostly because I just love the way it sounds. I’ve diligently researched all my ‘royal’ connections (few, tenuous, almost no bragging rights). I possess T-shirts that read ‘Rajput war strategy—A headlong dash with no plan B’ and ‘Your Palace or Mine?’ and I’ve worn them both to bits. When I was a child, I soaked up all the mandatory Rajput tales— Prithviraj Chauhan, Rana Pratap, Rani Padmini, you name it. In fact, I have several cousins named Prithvi, two uncles named Pratap and a sister named Padmini. All the older men in my family (and several of the women) have massive, white, handlebar moustaches.

Early this year, my sister Padmini, who has lived in Australia for the last 30 years, came to India with her family and we did a tour of Rajasthan together. Her teenagers, an amiable, intelligent, Aussie bunch, their blood thinned by her union with their UK-bred, academically inclined, Kayasth father, were pretty shaken by the stories narrated at the sound and light show at Chittor Fort, especially by the tale of Panna Bai (surely every working mother’s child’s worst nightmare? Way to pick your career over your family!) and Rani Padmini’s jauhar [self-immolation by women to avoid capture when facing certain defeat in war]. At the bonfire camp that night, they gazed into the flames and wondered what it might be like to burn alive.