Why not.

 Ajab Kumari and Meera Bai: Two Lamps Lit by the Same Flame.

Bhakti in India has never been confined to temples, texts, or time periods. It appears wherever the soul dares to love God without condition. Ajab Kumari of Mewar and Meera Bai of the same land stand centuries apart, yet their lives echo each other like two verses of the same divine song. One was drawn to Srinathji of Nathdwara, the other to Giridhara Gopala, yet both walked the same inward path—total surrender.

Both Ajab Kumari and Meera Bai were born into royal surroundings, cushioned by privilege and expectation.

Meera Bai, a Rajput princess, was married into the royal house of Mewar. The court expected obedience, lineage, and decorum.

Ajab Kumari, also of noble lineage, lived amid palace comforts and social respect.

Yet, in both cases, royalty failed to bind the soul. Their true allegiance lay elsewhere. What wealth could offer was insignificant compared to the call of Krishna.

Renunciation for them was not about abandoning the world physically, but withdrawing consent from its claims.

For both women, Krishna was not an idea, symbol, or distant deity.

Meera Bai spoke to Krishna as husband, friend, master, and child. Her poems reveal intimacy so intense that society mistook it for defiance.

Ajab Kumari’s devotion to Srinathji was equally personal. Her yearning was so deep that tradition holds Srinathji Himself responded—appearing, blessing, and accepting her bhava.

In both lives, God reciprocated devotion. This is the central truth of bhakti: when love is complete, God ceases to remain abstract.

Neither woman was understood by her surroundings.

Meera Bai was mocked, threatened, poisoned, and ostracized.

Ajab Kumari faced disbelief, quiet ridicule, and dismissal—especially when she spoke of divine experiences.

Yet neither argued, protested, or justified herself. Their answer was deeper devotion, not explanation.

Bhakti does not demand validation.

It only demands sincerity.

A subtle difference lies in how their devotion flowed outward.

Meera Bai sang—her bhakti spilled into poetry that still moves hearts across languages and centuries. She became the voice of longing.

Ajab Kumari lived her devotion inwardly, quietly absorbed in seva and remembrance. Her life itself became the hymn.

One offered Krishna her voice; the other offered Him her entire being.

Both offerings were accepted.

Meera Bai’s legacy is audible—bhajans sung in temples, homes, and pilgrimages.

Ajab Kumari’s legacy is quieter—preserved in temple lore, whispered among devotees of Srinathji.

But bhakti does not measure greatness by volume.

Meera teaches us that love can sing against the world.

Ajab Kumari teaches us that love can disappear into God.

Ultimately, Ajab Kumari and Meera Bai remind us of a single truth taught by the Bhagavata tradition:

Bhagavan belongs to the bhakta, not to history, hierarchy, or ritual.

Whether through song or silence, rebellion or retreat, Krishna recognizes only one qualification—unconditional love.

One sang aloud in palace halls,

Her anklets ringing defiance.

One walked in quiet temple shade,

Her breath itself remembrance.

One offered tears in flowing verse,

One offered life unspoken.

Giridhara smiled at both the same—

For love alone is token.

When Meera Met Ajab in Nathdwara

The bells of Srinathji’s temple had just fallen silent.

Incense still lingered, curling like unspoken prayers.

The marble floor was cool beneath bare feet, and the black stone form of Srinathji glowed softly in the lamplight—as if listening.

Meera Bai stood near the mandapa, her tanpura resting against her shoulder, eyes moist from singing.

Ajab Kumari knelt closer to the sanctum, her hands folded, her lips unmoving.

Krishna watched both.

Meera:

“Sakhi, I sing because my heart overflows.

When I try to be silent, He sings within me.

Tell me—how do you hold such stillness?”

Ajab Kumari smiled, not lifting her eyes from Srinathji.

Ajab Kumari:

“I do not hold it, Meera.

He holds me.

When the river reaches the sea,

does it still remember its sound?”

Meera’s eyes widened. She laughed softly.

Meera:

“Ah! You have already arrived.

I am still walking, singing to keep my courage.”

Ajab’s Quiet Confession

Ajab Kumari:

“Do not think silence means absence of longing.

My yearning burns so fiercely

that words would turn to ash before reaching Him.”

Meera touched her chest.

Meera:

“Then we suffer the same fire.

Only the smoke rises differently.”

The lamps flickered. The priest had left.

The temple belonged only to the Lord and His lovers.

Meera sang softly:

“Mere toh Giridhara Gopala,

doosaro na koi…”

Ajab Kumari closed her eyes.

Ajab Kumari:

“Your song is His garland.

My breath is His lamp.

Both reach Him, Meera.”

For a moment, the stone form seemed to lean forward,

as if Srinathji Himself wished to hear better.

Meera:

“They called me mad.

They tried to stop my singing.

Tell me—did they understand you?”

Ajab Kumari:

“They did not need to.

He did.”

Meera bowed her head.

Meera:

“Then perhaps madness is simply

loving Him without witnesses.”

Ajab Kumari finally looked at Meera fully.

Ajab Kumari:

“Yes.

And Nathdwara is the door

where such madness becomes grace.”

Krishna’s Answer

No voice spoke.

Yet both women felt it—

a warmth, a certainty, a smile that needed no form.

Krishna’s answer was simple:

One sang Me.

One became Me.

How could I choose between My own?

Meera lifted her tanpura.

Meera:

“I will carry this meeting in my song.”

Ajab Kumari returned to her silence.

Ajab Kumari:

“I will dissolve it in prayer.”

The bells rang again.

Two women walked out—

one humming, one still—

leaving Nathdwara fuller than before.

Some saints teach us through sound,

some through stillness.

But in Nathdwara, before Srinathji,

both are only different ways

of knocking on the same eternal door.