Dusara Na Koi

Dusara Na Koi
(The Final Song of Meera)

Night descended upon Mewar like a curtain drawn over sorrow.
The palace lamps flickered, their flames trembling as if they knew what was to come.
Meera sat before her Krishna idol, singing softly — her voice the only light left in the dark corridors of the royal court.

“Mere to Giridhar Gopal… dusara na koi…”

Her song flowed like the Yamuna — calm on the surface, eternal beneath.
But behind the marble doors, anger brewed.

The courtiers had whispered for too long:

“The princess has lost her mind… she sings to an idol, not to her king.”

At last, Rana ji entered the temple, his footsteps echoing against the stone floor.
In his hand was a silver bowl, cold and gleaming.

“If your Giridhar protects you, Meera,” he said,
“then drink this and let your god save you.”

Meera looked at him — not with fear, but with a kind of gentle pity.
She rose slowly, folded her hands, and smiled.

“Ranaji,” she said softly, “you send me poison — but see, it is only what He allows.”

She lifted the bowl, her eyes fixed upon the dark idol before her —
the flute, the smile, the silent promise of eternal love.

And then, she drank.

The court gasped. The bowl fell from her hands and rolled across the floor —
when it stopped, its contents had turned to milk.

Meera stood radiant, her face aglow, her voice rising in divine ecstasy:

“Mere to Giridhar Gopal… dusara na koi…”

The lamps flickered out.
The room filled with the scent of tulsi and sandal.
When the guards entered moments later,
they found only the idol, a garland resting at its feet,
and Meera’s anklet shining faintly in the lamplight.

No body. No sound.
Only the echo of her last song —
a whisper that still wanders through the deserts of Rajasthan:

“He was my life, my death, my everything.

“He was my life, my death, my everything. 
Mere to Giridhar Gopal… dusara na koi. 
You are my alone.”