The women of Chittor faced the terror of captivity during medieval sieges. Their deaths became symbols of courage, but history tells us much less about the choices they actually had.

In February 1568, the Mughal army captured Chittor after a siege lasting several months. The defenders had resisted Emperor Akbar’s forces. As defeat approached, accounts describe women dying in a collective act of self-immolation known as Jauhar.

The event entered the Mughal imperial record. An illustration produced for the Akbarnama, the official chronicle of Akbar’s reign, depicts the burning of Rajput women during the siege. The manuscript was prepared decades after the event, under imperial patronage.

I find the image difficult to look at without thinking about the women themselves. The artists recorded a scene of mass death. The chroniclers described the military campaign. Later generations remembered the women as symbols of courage and honour.

But the women left us almost no testimony of their own. We know how others described their deaths. We know far less about what they wanted.

That difference matters when we ask whether Jauhar was a voluntary act of resistance or the result of a society that placed a woman’s honour above her survival.

What Was Jauhar?

Jauhar was a practice associated particularly with Rajput communities in medieval India. Accounts describe women dying through collective self-immolation when a besieged fortress faced defeat and its inhabitants feared captivity.

The men sometimes prepared for a final assault, known as saka, expecting to die in battle. Together, these practices became part of Rajput traditions of resistance.

Jauhar differed from sati, in which a widow died on her husband’s funeral pyre. The circumstances were not the same, although both practices became associated with ideas about female virtue and sacrifice.

The fear of captivity was not imaginary. Medieval warfare could expose defeated populations to killing and enslavement. Women faced particular risks of sexual violence and exploitation. These dangers existed in several military cultures, including those of Muslim-ruled states.

But understanding the threat does not establish that every woman involved in Jauhar freely chose death. The surviving historical accounts rarely allow us to investigate individual decisions.

The Siege of Chittor in 1568

Akbar’s campaign against Chittor formed part of the Mughal Empire’s expansion into Rajasthan. The fortress was strategically important. Its capture would strengthen Mughal authority in the region.

The siege began in 1567. Mughal forces eventually breached the defences in February 1568. The conquest was followed by extensive killing.

Abu’l-Fazl, Akbar’s court historian, described the campaign in the Akbarnama. His account is an important source, although it reflects the perspective of the imperial court.

The illustrated manuscript also preserves a representation of Jauhar. One painting, commonly identified as The Burning of the Rajput Women During the Siege of Chitor, shows how Mughal artists represented the event.

The painting is historical evidence, but we must be precise about what kind of evidence it provides. It tells us how the event was portrayed in a manuscript produced under Akbar’s patronage. It does not give us direct access to the women’s thoughts.

Nor can an illustration establish whether every woman acted voluntarily. The difference between recording an event and understanding the experiences of those involved is substantial.

The Padmavati Story Belongs to a Different Historical Problem

The most famous account associated with Jauhar concerns Queen Padmavati, also known as Padmini.

According to the popular legend, Alauddin Khalji desired the queen and attacked Chittor. Rather than fall into his hands, she entered the flames with other women. The story has become deeply embedded in popular accounts of Rajput history.

But its historical foundation is uncertain. Alauddin Khalji’s conquest of Chittor in 1303 is established. The existence of Queen Padmavati is not.

Amir Khusrau, who accompanied Alauddin’s campaign, described the conquest without identifying a queen named Padmavati. The best-known surviving literary account appeared in 1540, when Malik Muhammad Jayasi composed Padmavat in Awadhi.

Jayasi wrote more than two centuries after the siege. His poem was shaped by Sufi literary traditions and contained allegorical elements. It cannot be treated as a contemporary account of the events of 1303.

Historian Ramya Sreenivasan has studied the changing representations of Padmavati across literary and historical traditions. Her work helps explain why a figure whose historical existence remains uncertain could become such a powerful symbol.

The Padmavati legend deserves study. But we should not confuse its cultural importance with proof that every detail occurred.

When Honour Becomes a Burden

The most difficult part of Jauhar’s history concerns the meaning of honour. In Rajput traditions, women’s sexual conduct was closely connected with family reputation and lineage.

Captivity threatened physical safety. It could also expose women to social condemnation. A woman who survived sexual violence might face judgment from her own community, despite having committed no wrongdoing.

Such attitudes were not unique to Rajput society. Ideas connecting female chastity with family honour appeared in many historical cultures. They continue to influence attitudes toward women in parts of South Asia.

I find that connection particularly disturbing. A woman facing an invading army might fear enslavement or assault. But she might also live in a society that regarded survival after sexual violation as shameful. The two pressures could reinforce each other.

We cannot establish from the surviving accounts how each woman understood her situation. Some may have regarded death as preferable to captivity. Others may have faced pressure from relatives or community leaders.

The historical evidence does not allow us to assign one motive to everyone. Yet later stories often describe the women as though they acted with a single purpose. Individual lives disappear behind the collective language of sacrifice.

Why Did Later Generations Celebrate Jauhar?

Rajput traditions preserved Jauhar as an act of resistance against overwhelming military force. The women who died became symbols of courage. Their deaths were remembered alongside the final battles of the men defending the fortresses.

Such accounts helped later communities explain defeat without surrendering their sense of dignity. The defeated could still be remembered as heroic.

But the stories also reflected ideas about what women owed their families. A woman’s willingness to die rather than face captivity became evidence of her honour.

I question that judgment. A woman who survived captivity would not have become less worthy of respect. If she escaped enslavement or endured sexual violence, the responsibility for that violence belonged to those who harmed her.

Her survival would not diminish her dignity. The distinction matters because heroic accounts can carry moral expectations into later generations.

When death becomes the highest expression of female honour, survival risks being treated as a lesser choice. I do not think that is a lesson we should preserve.

The Responsibility of the Conquering Armies

Jauhar cannot be understood without examining the military conditions that produced the fear of captivity.

The Delhi Sultanate and the Mughal Empire expanded through warfare. Their campaigns involved political struggles and violence against defeated populations. Enslavement was an established institution in parts of medieval South Asia.

The existence of such practices does not establish what happened to every woman during a particular siege. Each claim requires evidence.

But religious admiration for a ruler should not prevent historians from investigating the conduct of his armies. Alauddin Khalji’s conquest of Chittor must be studied through the surviving evidence. The same applies to Akbar’s campaign in 1568.

Neither ruler should be exempt from criticism because of his political achievements or religious identity. Nor should the actions of medieval rulers become grounds for blaming Muslims living today.

Historical responsibility belongs to the people and institutions involved. Our responsibility is to describe their actions accurately.

How a Historical Tragedy Became a Political Symbol

The story of Padmavati changed as it passed through different literary and political settings. Jayasi’s sixteenth-century poem belonged to a particular world of Sufi poetry.

Later retellings gave greater prominence to Rajput martial honour. Colonial-era writers interpreted the story through their own ideas about Indian history and political identity. Modern popular culture carried it to much larger audiences.

The controversy surrounding the 2018 film Padmaavat showed how strongly the legend remained connected with identity and historical pride. The film itself was based on a literary tradition rather than a verified biography of a thirteenth-century queen.

The controversy also demonstrated how difficult it can become to separate historical investigation from inherited beliefs. Once a figure becomes a symbol of collective honour, questioning the evidence surrounding that figure may be treated as an insult.

But historians must be able to ask such questions. The people who lived through the sieges deserve more than stories shaped by the political concerns of later generations.

The Women Missing From the Historical Record

I began examining Jauhar after a reader responded to my article about Muslim conquests and enslaved women. He described the women who died rather than face capture by invading armies.

His comment made me think about the different ways societies remember women caught in war. Some women were enslaved. Others died during sieges. A few entered historical accounts because they were connected with powerful families.

Most left little trace in surviving records. The women associated with Jauhar appear in chronicles and later legends, but their individual voices are largely absent.

That absence creates a serious limit for historians. We cannot reconstruct their private decisions from stories written by people who did not know them.

We can examine the military circumstances and the social values surrounding their deaths. We can also investigate how later generations used their memory. But we should resist the temptation to turn uncertainty into certainty.

Remembering the Women Without Glorifying Their Deaths

The Mughal artists who illustrated the Akbarnama gave the women of Chittor a place in the imperial record.

We can see how the court represented their deaths. We cannot hear what those women said before the fortress fell.

Later generations supplied the language of courage and honour. Their accounts helped turn Jauhar into a symbol of Rajput resistance.

But a symbol cannot tell us whether every woman wanted to die. I would rather remember the women as people caught in a siege than treat their deaths as a lesson in how women should protect their honour.

Survival would not have made them less worthy of respect.

Further reading and sources

• The Indian Express: Padmavati, Sufi literature and nationalism
• The Indian Express: The legend of Padmavati
• Victoria and Albert Museum: Mughal manuscript collections

Related analysis: A Family of Four Was Murdered in Skardu. What Kind of Honour Demands the Death of Children?