Most of us know Meerabai. We know she loved Krishna. We know she sang. We know she walked away from a palace and never looked back.

But what about the women who came after her? The ones who walked the same path, sang the same kind of songs, and lived the same kind of devotion, but whose names were never written down?

That is what this book is about.

Daughters of Meerabai is the story of several Indian women saints whose lives have never been properly documented. They lived between the eighteenth and twenty-first centuries. They came from different parts of India and different walks of life. What they had in common was a deep inner life and a world that mostly chose to ignore it.

The book starts with something very personal. The author lost her father in 2018. Grief brought her to Meerabai's words. And Meerabai led her to these other women, one by one.

The first woman she writes about is Sahajobai. She lived-in eighteenth-century Delhi, in the Mughal city of Shahjahanabad. She was about to be married when her cousin, a spiritual teacher named Charandas, appeared at her door and asked her a question that changed everything. She left with him that very day and spent the rest of her life in prayer and devotion. At nineteen, she composed a sacred text. She ran ashrams, received land grants from Mughal emperors, and was so devoted that people in her tradition say God Himself came looking for her.

Today, her samadhi sits in a small, almost forgotten corner of Old Delhi, a few lanes away from Chandni Chowk. The author finds it by asking for directions to a famous kachori shop nearby.

That gap between who Sahajobai was and how little she is remembered today is at the heart of this book.

Then there is Bhuribai, who married at twelve, cared for a sick husband for ten years, and quietly built a whole spiritual community on her own without a guru or any formal training. There is Anjana Devi from the hills of Kurseong, a young woman who people said had a flute playing wherever she walked, and who left her body at twenty-one. There is Vandana Mataji, born Parsi, drawn to Jesus, who ended up singing bhajans on the banks of the Ganga in Rishikesh and spent her life moving between traditions, fitting perfectly into none of them. And there is Nan Umrigar, who lost her grown son in an accident and found her way through grief through complete surrender to love.

Each of these women faced something hard. Poverty, loss, rejection, being told they did not belong. Each of them kept going anyway.

The author does not write about these women from a distance. She travels to meet the people who still remember them. She sits in village ashrams in Haryana and Rajasthan on full moon nights, singing songs that Sahajobai composed three hundred years ago. She holds a nineteenth century book of Sahajobai's poems in her hands and cries. She runs across wet grass in a saree to bow before a stone statue she has been looking for for years.

The writing is warm and honest. And it carries a quiet urgency, the feeling that these stories need to be told now, before the last people who remember them are gone.

India has always had women who walked this path. This book makes sure a few of them are finally seen.

Read more by ordering your copy here.