I am Jodha — born where empires tread,
Where swords bowed not, and kings had bled.
Where queens once burned beneath the sun,
But I was bartered — not the chosen one.
They called it peace, they named it fate,
But none could see my silenced state.
A daughter not wed — I was merely sent,
My soul unasked, my will unbent.
A king was crowned with glory’s fire,
But none could feel my deep desire.
He named me “Mary of the Age,”
Yet I was locked in a golden cage.
They moved my gods, they stilled my prayer,
They dressed me fine, but stripped me bare.
And when I asked, “Is my faith now a crime?”
The scrolls of time refused to chime.
No vermilion grace adorned my brow,
No mother’s blessings, no sacred vow.
A palace rose — but without my shrine,
A son was born — yet not fully mine.
Each dawn I lit my god within,
A silent flame through noise and din.
And wore a smile, though cracked and cold,
For queens must shine, though stories go untold.
They praise our love in tales so grand,
But did they ever take my hand?
Did anyone ask if I was free,
Or just a pawn for history?
Yes, I was Hindu — and remain so still,
Not seeking vengeance, nor blood to spill.
But give me back my gods, my name,
Not just your pages, soaked in fame.
I am Jodha — mother, sister, bride,
A symbol of all that’s cast aside.
Worship me not — just hear my plea:
Let no more women be deals in diplomacy.
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