When we think of the nine-year siege of Gingee Fort by the Mughals (1690–1698), most of us picture the relentless assaults, daring escapes, and the resilience of the Maratha king, Rajaram. But tucked away in the pages of Persian chronicles, later compiled by historian Jadunath Sarkar in his Later Mughals, lies a quieter, heartbreaking story — that of one woman whose name history did not record.
Siege Without End
For nearly a decade, the mighty Rajagiri fort in Gingee stood like a thorn in the Mughal Empire’s side. Mughal forces, under Zulfiqar Khan, surrounded the fort in 1690, determined to capture it and end the Maratha stronghold in the South. Supplies dwindled. Disease and hunger gnawed at both sides. Yet the Marathas held firm.
Rajaram himself managed to escape in 1698, slipping away to continue the Maratha resistance from safer territory. His departure, however, left many behind — soldiers, servants, and members of his household.
The Fall of Rajagiri
Not long after Rajaram’s escape, Mughal forces finally breached the fort. According to the Tarikh-i-Dilkusha, a Persian chronicle written by Bhimsen Saksena, chaos swept through Rajagiri’s stone corridors. Mughal troops closed in on the remaining defenders. Many surrendered, others were taken prisoner.
It was then that one of Rajaram’s wives — her name unrecorded in the chronicles — made a fateful choice. Rather than face capture and the uncertain fate that awaited her in the Mughal camp, she climbed the ramparts of Rajagiri and threw herself down, ending her life.
A Body Beyond Reach
Sarkar’s account adds a haunting detail: because of the steep, sheer nature of the Rajagiri hill’s stone face, her body could not be recovered. It remained far below the fort walls, visible from the summit for many days — a grim reminder to all who looked down.
For those trapped inside, this was no abstract story — it was a sight they could not avoid, a silent testament to the fort’s desperate final hours.
The Silence of History
Who was she? We know she was not Tarabai, the celebrated queen who later became regent of the Maratha Empire. Nor was she Ambikabai, who committed sati after Rajaram’s death in 1700. This woman’s identity is lost to us — her name absent in Persian, Marathi, and European accounts alike.
Perhaps she was a lesser-known consort, perhaps a woman of noble birth given in marriage to cement an alliance. Whatever her story, the chronicles move on quickly, their focus returning to the movements of armies and the strategies of kings.
But in that moment, high on the walls of Rajagiri, she made her own defiant stand — not with a sword, but with a leap into history’s shadows.
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