Death Over Dishonour

By Anmol Sharma

[Scene I]

“The king… the king has fallen!” The words as though a jagged thunderbolt shattered the golden calm of the chamber, reverberating against walls lined with centuries of valor. The messenger, who had been sprinting for quite a long time, sank to his knees on the marble floor, face pale and hands trembling. “Veer Maharaj… he fought like the mountain itself, holding the enemy at the battlefield of ‘Garh’… but… the men… they overwhelmed him… they… they…” His voice choked and broke.

A hush fell. The only sound was the distant clash of metal from the fort’s ramparts and the muffled roar of the advancing army. Every heartbeat had been amplified, heavy with the weight of betrayal and loss. The messenger’s eyes darted nervously. “I saw him… he struck down the vanguard… he faced the scimitars of a thousand men… his sword shattered theirs, and still he fell, pierced from behind, where even his shield could not reach… the invader… he did not meet him fairly…”

The peerless queen, draped in red silk threaded with gold that caught the last rays of the sinking sun, remained unmoving. Her face was calm, almost ethereal, framed by the veil that fell like a remnant of the river of fire over her shoulders. Her anklets chimed softly with each step she took, yet there was no tremor in her hand, no falter in her gaze. Her heart was beating with grief, yes, but she had trained herself in the art of concealment; every tremor of emotion folded into an imperceptible flame of will.

“They… they struck while he was surrounded… Even as he slew fifty of their men, one of them crept through the shadows and pierced him from the flank. His blood… it …it fell upon the sacred flag of this land… and the banner, once proud, now lies trampled. The soldiers… they faltered… and the fort… the outer walls… they burn at the hands of the invader.”

Her eyes, dark and fathomless, did not waver, as though the sun itself had paused to witness. She did not sigh. She did not clutch her veil. She turned; with the poise of a queen and the precision of a warrior. The sun, sinking behind the hills, set her robes aflame with its dying light. Though her soul ached, her body spoke only of strength, of command, of the refusal to let despair show. In her silence lay defiance. 

“So he dies,” she said, barely above a whisper. “So he dies… and yet we remain.”

She turned her eyes, dark and fathomless, to the distant ramparts where the smoke of burning timber swirled like ghosts and serpents in the twilight sky. “Tell me of the men… those who survived. Did they retreat? Did any hold the gates? Speak clearly!”

“They did… some… brave souls held the eastern bastion until the last moment,” the messenger stammered, “but numbers… numbers could not withstand the tide… the invader… he surged forward like a flood of iron and fire… and still your husband… he faced them, sword in hand, never yielding… never pleading… until… until…”

Her hand rose, a subtle gesture, and the words hung in the air, unfinished yet complete in their weight. She did not weep. She did not falter. Every muscle of her body radiated a controlled vow. “He has fallen,” she said, voice now calm, “but we shall not.”

“What shall we do? The invader’s men… they storm the northern gates even now… the soldiers… many have fled… the walls… the walls will not hold much longer.”

The red and gold of her robes shone like molten fire against the darkening sky. Her gaze swept over the fort, a kingdom on the verge of despair. “Then we hold what cannot be taken by the sword or arrow of our men,” she said, voice rising with unyielding power. “Summon the women  to the inner sanctum. If the walls cannot shield our flesh, then we ourselves shall shield our kingdom’s honour. Every soul shall rise, untarnished.”

“O queen,  what… what do you speak of…?”

Outside, the drums of the invader’s army echoed across the hills, a relentless wave of impending doom. Yet within the fort, a new current had begun,  one of silent anticipation, unbroken will, and the knowledge that the fire awaiting them would be more enduring than steel, more sacred than life itself.

[Scene II]

She turned her attention inward, to the inner courtyard that had been filled slowly yet deliberately. Maidens with hair braided like coils of silk, with veils drawn tight; clutching infants, daughters upright filled the seemingly endless grand pavilion. The scent of jasmine from the girls’ hair, and burning milk from the women carrying their little ones to their breast  had mixed faintly with the fragrance of henna on the newly-weds’ hands and the scent of incense smoke in the wrinkled hands of the elderly ones, who had once served their husbands on their sides.  

The eldest widows adjusted their veils, the maidens clasped their hands to their hearts, and the mothers held their daughters silent, for the queen had entered the hallway to address. Even those yet to feel the weight of motherhood settled forward, their faces calm, their resolve mirrored in the queen’s own. The women knew and wished for their husbands, brothers and fathers; although unaware that they had been brutally consumed by the indomitable relentless flames of Himsa.  

The queen walked past them, as those women gave her way. Her veil framed her face, hiding the tremor that threatened to rise in her heart. Yet in the depths of her eyes blazed a light no darkness could dim, a calm defiance that radiated like the first rays of dawn over a battlefield. She did not speak at first, letting silence carry her authority, letting her presence alone be the anchor of courage. She stopped at the central platform of the courtyard. “Step forward, Every one of you… all who bear the blood of this reign, come forward. Do not look back. Hold fast to your courage. Let your hearts remain unbroken. The walls may tremble, the enemy may roar, but what you carry within cannot be touched.”

Mothers lowered their children into the arms of attendants, maidens smoothed their robes and veils, widows straightened their shoulders, daughters clasped their hands together as if holding the pulse of generations, for all were anchored by the subtle gravity of her presence. She paused, placing a hand lightly on the edge of the central platform, feeling the heat of anticipation already rising in the courtyard.  “Every heartbeat, every glance, every step you take here is a testament to the strength that flows through you. Stand together. Stand tall. Step forward with pride. Do not falter. Do not waver.” Her eyes swept over the assembly once more. She did not crumble. She did not break. The women’s collective gaze met hers. The courtyard seemed to hold its breath, every stone and lamp alive with the unspoken energy of shared courage. Only an electric impulse of resolve flowed among them, linking every heart to hers. Each one became a living symbol of courage, of choice, of the unyielding flame that no enemy could douse.

Finally, she lifted her hand slightly, letting her gaze rest on each woman, steady and unwavering, and pointed out towards her east. Her lips moved almost imperceptibly, the words tasting of destiny and defiance. “Listen to me… every one of you. Stand as one. Hold fast to what is yours. Step forward together, with courage in your hearts and pride in your souls. Step forward without fear.”

The women turned their faces, and to their astonishment, the sacred stepwell awaited in the east, massive and commanding, black as a pit from pole to pole. The queen had signalled something humongous, which had crackled up the air around them as if whispering prophecies. She raised her hands briefly, allowing the sunlight to strike her face through the narrow gaps between her dainty fingers. “The world shall see,” she said, her voice carrying across the courtyard, “that a woman of Mewar, though bereft of her lord, shall not surrender her soul. Let every soul in this fort rise as one. Let honour blaze brighter than fear.” The women had become aware of the ceremonial radiance which was to occur next. The crimson of their silk mirrored the blood of their men who had fallen defending the fort; the gold threads glimmered like rays of unyielding pride. Their veil, draped like a river of fire, concealed their sorrow and projected only strength. Every ornament, every fold of cloth, had been turned to a silent story of courage, of lineage, of a women’s power that no sword could shatter.

She did not speak of sorrow; she did not allow despair a foothold. She had mastered every gesture, every glance, every slight tilt of oneself in channeling grief into sacred purpose. The courtyard itself seemed to transform, charged with the energy of a thousand generations of Rajput pride, every stone and beam humming with the promise of the ritual to come. And in that silence, broken only by the distant rumble of drums and the faint clinking of anklets, the women began to make space, assembling near the peerless queen. The queen’s eyes never left them. She was both guide and guardian, flame and reflection, the axis around which this final act of courage would revolve. The invader’s army pressed closer, unaware that the heart of the fort had already been transformed into a bastion that no sword could pierce; a fortress made not of stone, but of will, dignity, and legend.

“If death must come, let it come before dishonour. Let the world know… that courage and virtue are not conquered by armies, but by those who live and die for them.”

[Scene III ]

The southern walls of the fort shivered as the first siege engines rumbled forward, enormous, wooden beasts gnawed at by iron teeth, grinding toward the gates. Through the smoke of distant fires, soldiers of the fort swung their scimitars and shields in coordinated arcs, forming a living barrier. Arrows zipped through the air, slicing at the advancing crowd. Sparks erupted as metal clashed with metal, and the thrum of the drums grew louder, more insistent, as if demanding immediate surrender.

A massive battering ram smashed against the western gate. Timber splintered under repeated blows. From the southern bastion, a volley of arrows tore through the sky, striking shields and helmets. Smoke and dust coiled like serpents into the air, turning the sun into a dim orange disc. The invader’s men surged forward, their war cries shrill and harsh, attempting to breach the eastern walls. Yet each charge was met by a wall of resistance, stones and scimitars and unyielding courage.

From his tents, the invader was whispering among his generals, plotting how to breach the walls with overwhelming force, how to strike fear into every heart within. He hoped that terror alone might force surrender, that the sight of his army battering the gates would make the defenders falter. Rumors reached the fort that he intended to scale the walls, to scatter the defenders, and to seize control of the inner sanctum, taking hostage any who resisted. His mind seemed set on conquest, believing that fear, steel, and cunning together would break even the proudest hearts.

From her chamber, the queen could see the battering rams being swung with renewed force, as she prepared herself for the final embrace. She had heard that the invader hoped to strike a decisive blow at the northern gate first, expecting the soldiers to crumble under the relentless assault. He would try to force his way in, to scatter the defenders, to breach the walls with speed and terror. Scouts whispered that he had ordered archers to fire relentlessly, thinking that arrows could weaken morale, that smoke and flame might force the women and soldiers into panic. 

Yet the queen’s eyes swept over the inner courtyard, where women waited, calm and resolute. Her hands rested lightly on the parapet, yet her presence radiated command. The maidens smoothed their robes, the widows straightened their shoulders, and mothers held their daughters close, each drawing quiet strength from her poise. The air was thick with unspoken grief; each woman knew that their husbands, brothers, and fathers had fallen in the battle beyond the walls. A heavy silence hung over them, mingling sorrow with defiance. They clenched their hands, their jaws tight, their eyes reflecting both loss and the flicker of courage. Despite the pain etched deep within, they were prepared to follow the path their queen would guide them through, ready to meet whatever fate awaited with dignity and unbroken spirit. The queen, though, gazed from an elevation, from where the stepwell was visible, her silk flowing behind her, gold threads glinting in the fading light. Her eyes scanned the women, their faces pale but resolute, their hands steady, their postures straight. 

The northern walls of the fort shuddered under another assault. Horses screamed. The air smelled of sweat, iron, and smoke. The invader’s war cries rose higher, louder, urgent, relentless. Battering rams struck with renewed force. The outer gate groaned and splintered under the assault. Smoke and dust rolled in through the cracks, filling the ramparts, choking soldiers. Yet every eye in the inner courtyard remained fixed on the queen. Every chest rose and fell in unison with her calm, measured breaths. 

The queen gazed at her crimson veil fluttering like a flame caught in a storm. Not a muscle twitched in grief; her hands rested lightly on the balustrade, her body a pillar of calm amidst the rising chaos.The banners of the enemy had climbed higher, their shadows stretching across the stone. Smoke and fire were close, the storm of steel almost upon them. Yet she did not flinch. Her hands rested lightly on the wall, her chest steady, her gaze unwavering. Now, only she,her women,  and the stepwell remained unconquered;  as all other had been seemingly conquered.

Every glance toward the courtyard carried command. Every pause, every breath, every subtle tilt of her head held authority. The women’s faces, mirrors of her resolve, reflected courage sharpened to a blade. They awaited her signal, their hearts bound together in silent anticipation.

And she spoke.

[Scene IV]

“The time has come to put on the last and immortal veil… close all doors of my palace.”

Her voice sliced through the charged silence and  tense stillness of the corridors. Outside, the twilight sky was streaked with smoke and dust, hung heavy with embers of the dying sun, and far below, the fort roared with tremors of war. It carried the weight of decision, and the women gathered inside straightened, sensing the gravity of what was about to unfold. 

The distant sound of siege; walls crumbling, shouted orders, clanging weapons,  was reminding everyone that the enemy was already at the queen’s gates.

The Great Indian Wall, the unbroken breath of Chittor’s pride, now writhed under the relentless surge of the enemy. Soldiers clambered over the battlements, their armour glinting in the dying light, while others scaled the walls with ropes and ladders, hammering stakes into the ancient stone. The invader’s banners of  black and red, dark against the crimson horizon had been planted above every bastion.

The clang of metal rang continuously as swords met shields, the echo ricocheting through the narrow alleys and courtyards. The cries of the wounded mingled with the shrieks of horses, their hooves slipping on bloodied stone, creating a cacophony that reverberated even into the inner chambers where the women were waiting.

Dust and smoke curled upward, catching the fading sun and turning the air to a haze of gold and gray. From the terrace, the chief mistress’ gaze swept over the courtyard. She saw the distant figures of the enemy advancing, banners high, the shimmer of armour in the firelight, the relentless surge toward the northern gates. The tangible, grinding pressure of the invader pressing on the fort , had filled every corner of the palace. A harsh, unyielding truth that no veil of poetry or legend could soften.

The women, who had gathered in the inner courtyard, felt it too. Every heart beat in measured anticipation, every breath drawn in the shadow of the flames that had yet to be lit. The stepwell was set. The time had come.

Inside, the air was thick with oil lamps and jasmine smoke. The queen stood tall upon the marble terrace;  her red veil drawn down, her gold ornaments glinting like amber of a dying flame. Her eyes, calm yet fathomless, reflected neither fear nor regret; only the kind that belongs to immortals on the brink of sacrifice.

Below, more women had gathered in the inner courtyard. The courtyard was trembling in reverence.

The silence was broken, not by words, but by footsteps. From the shadowed corridor of the queen’s palace, a figure emerged with her gait slow but commanding. She moved with the quiet authority of one accustomed to observation, to know the unseen, yet every step she took drew the gaze of the entire assembly. Youth lingered in her posture, yet her eyes were particular with experience and foresight. She had spent years serving her husband, seemingly unseen from the hearts of those who dwelt within the kingdom, those who felt that the new queen had stolen her position. The women turned as one, bowing instinctively. The superior queen, Nagmati had come.

In her hand, she held a burning log; with  the flame hissing as it devoured the oil-soaked cloth wound around it. Her face was solemn, and the lips between faith and grief. But her eyes… her eyes blazed like the sun. Without a word, she approached the stepwell piled with sandalwood, ghee, camphor, and oil. She paused, glanced once at the queen.

Then, with one steady movement, she hurled the flaming log into the heart of the stepwell.

The fire caught instantly.

The dasis began ringing the temple bells;  one after another, a chorus of devotion, echoing through every dome and parapet of the queen’s palace. The sound mingled with the distant thunder of war. The queen stepped forward, her veil trailing like a river of scarlet behind her. In her hands, she carried a white cloth imprinted with her husband’s handprints; bright red with sindoor, the mark of eternal union. As she descended the grand staircase, the women parted, bowing. Her superior stood waiting near the flames. The two queens met halfway. Their eyes locked.

Nagmati’s lips curved into a faint smile. She raised a slender hand, pale and steady, and took a handful of chandan-kumkum and smeared it reverently across the queen’s forehead, tracing the line of courage, then across her own, sealing a bond forged in trust and resolve. She lifted a pinch of mishri and held it before the younger queen. 

“Sweeten your mouth, my sister.” 

Her voice was steady despite the tears welling in her eyes.

“For we go to meet our husband… and our gods.”

The younger queen bowed, accepting the offering, then bent low to touch Nagmati’s feet. 

“Jai Bhavani”

The women began to form a circle; moving clockwise around the blazing stepwell. They were revolving like planets around the sun and the sacred fire was reflecting in their eyes. The smoke rose like incense to the heavens. Their ornaments jingled, their veils swirled, their chants grew louder. Every woman; mothers holding daughters, widows with tearless eyes, maidens clutching rosaries, warriors’ wives still wearing vermilion on their brows, and even women carrying another soul along with hers; had stepped forward, face steady, eyes luminous. They were no longer mere mortals; they had become the embodiment of Shakti; radiant, fierce, eternal.

Outside the fort, the invader’s army roared in triumph. The gates of the king’s bastion had fallen. His banner fluttered high, black and red against the bleeding sky. The air crackled with shouts of victory, but their commander’s eyes burned with hunger, not satisfaction. He had conquered walls, but not the queen.

“Find her!”

His men scattered like wolves unleashed. Their torches licked the stone walls as they ran through the royal courtyards, overturning all idols, shattering mirrors, slicing tapestries in rage. But the queen was not there.

Inside, the women’s chants grew in rhythm. The bells continued to toll ; sharp, unbroken, holy. The wife of the chief captain took her place near the temple gate, striking the great bell again and again until her hands bled. Her eyes were fixed on the fire.

Meanwhile, the invader slashed through the last bastion; his soldiers placed their banner on the citadel. He stormed forward, stepping over corpses of defenders, his sword dripping with victory. He finally entered the queen’s fort; the northern gate, which according to him, was the last door between him and his desire. He opened the door, cheering, his armour glinting in the infernal light. But as he opened  the door to the outer courtyard, he froze.

Before him stood hundreds of women. All women.  Veiled in crimson, forming a wall of silence. Each held a mashaal; a flaming torch, upright in her hand. The invader halted, confused. His sword hung midair.

The women began to walk forward slowly, rhythmically, like an advancing tide of fire. Their bangles jingled in unison, their footsteps echoed on the stone. For every step he took backward, they took one forward, until the light of their flames reflected in his terrified eyes.

“Attack!”

Before his men could come, the women in the front hurled their torches. Fireballs erupted, crashing onto the invader’s armour, searing through his robes, setting his shield ablaze. The smell of burning oil and flesh filled the air. He stumbled backward, shielding his face. The women threw more; camphor and coconut oil bursting into violent flames. The scene had turned into chaos. The flames rose higher, devouring everything.

His men finally came, only to find in aghast horror that their master had been half-burnt. They fell to their knees, to shield him from the rising fireballs; but he roared, “Forward!”

They hence charged, trying to slash through smoke, but the women had set fire to the wooden boundary between them, in no time. The wall of flames surged upward, cutting them off. 

He coughed, with eyes burning, and sought  to find another path.

Inside the innermost retreat, the final door creaked open.

The queen stepped out.

The stepwell blazed before her,  a whirlpool of red and gold, fire dancing like a living deity. Purohit's wife stood at the edge, chanting verses of the great Goddess,  and resembling her with their brave queen. Around them, women revolved. Their voices had become one with the Divine. The queen descended forward towards the hundred stairs, her red veil slipping from her head, falling to her shoulders like a final blessing for her immortality. Her hair, black and lustrous, swayed behind her like a signal of farewell. Her face glowed in the reflection of fire.

Nagmati met her halfway towards the stepwell. The two queens embraced one last time. 

Purohit's wife blew the great shankh  of divine sanction. Its deep, resonant sound rolled through the corridors, echoing over the ramparts, reaching even the ears of the invader beyond the burning gate.

He turned; completely startled, panicked; and ran toward the sound. By the time he reached the topmost terrace, he saw it.

Far below, in the courtyard of flames, hundreds of women were running; all veiled figures, their bodies glimmering in firelight, their bangles ringing. They were screaming in fierce defiance.

“Jai Bhavani!”

The invader’s eyes widened in horror and his lips left out a gasp, as he realised what he was witnessing. He screamed, ran… and ran… and kicked down the final door, but it was too late. The door crashed open, revealing only a sea of fire. 

The women were vanishing;  into light… the light of immortality.

Then, all of a sudden, the doors banged shut.

Before them, Nagmati had advanced once, then Purohit's wife, then the captains’ wives, then mothers, maidens, widows; all had leapt together with their veils trailing like wings.

The air still reverberated with the chants of the Goddess as the flames soared upward, touching the skies, painting them crimson.

Outside, the invader stood frozen. His face went pale beneath the soot. His army was silent, so was he. He could only hear the burning. The echo of faith and immortality. He sank to his knees, the roar of fire around him echoing in his chest. The fort was conquered, the walls breached, the bastions fallen; but the greatest treasure had escaped him. Honour, unyielding and immortal, had survived where swords and armies had failed. Flames rose higher, smoke curling into the night, carrying the story of courage beyond stone and steel, into legend.

The peerless queen had once stood at the brink of the stepwell, with her eyes lifted toward the heavens. A single tear rolled down her cheek… a tear of release… a tear of joy… a tear of the ethereal happiness to meet her dearmost. She closed her eyes, whispered her husband’s name, and stepped forward, nonchalantly.

For she, the queen; had denied him, what he sought most,

Her approval.

[Scene V]

The fire had ended, over the course of a light drizzle.

What once blazed like a thousand suns now lay subdued again, with soft waves of grey smoke curling upward like wavering tendrils, dissolving into the pale morning sky. The air was thick, neither living nor dead; as if it too hesitated between the memory of what had been and the emptiness that followed. The courtyard; it breathed quietly, listening only to the sigh of the moist wind brushing across charred marble and scorched walls.

The tremulous bell hung crooked; for its bronze surface was streaked dark with drying strains of blood, as if someone had shaken its soul; glinting faintly in the drizzly morning light. Feeble droplets slid down its curved surface, catching the gray light and sending sparks dancing across the wet stone. The metal itself remembered the sacrifice it had witnessed. The remnants of the queen’s fort stood like a wounded sentinel, with its ramparts blackened and its domes glistened with ash. It had carpeted the marble floors, blanketing the ruins in a strange, sacred calm. The fragrance of ghee and sandalwood; and metallic tang of heat and soot; mixed faintly with the earthy smell of the rain-soaked ground.

Small rivulets ran along the steps of the courtyard, carrying extreme traces of vermilion, ash, and sandalwood into tiny puddles, shimmering in the dim morning light. Above, the sky rumbled softly. Its distant thunder was rolling like the faint recognition of drums long stilled. Drizzle tapped on the broken balustrade, spilled from shattered rooftops, and fell into empty niches where empty lamps lay burnt. 

Each patter; each plink of the water against the marble, carried the memory.

That the stepwell had not been a mere well.

It stood at the heart of the courtyard. It had ceased to be a symbol of death; it had become the threshold between mortality and legend. It had quenched; both thirst and turmoil. It had mirrored; both faces and courage. The gods themselves had inverted its purpose; turning water to flame, and flame to salvation. It stood that even in ruin, purity can burn brighter than conquest.

At its edge, the walls bore hundreds of vermilion handprints which had been pressed with calm devotion, not haste. The smallest ones trembled slightly, as if made by tender fingers that hesitated for a heartbeat before touching destiny. Beside them, larger palms rested firm and still, belonging to those who had already accepted their fate with grace. They were signatures of will, of women who had chosen dignity over life.

A single pearl rolled to the edge of the stepwell, stopped, and stayed still, refusing to leave her memory behind. It was the last trace of splendour from the queen’s attire.

Her beauty had not perished.

The flames could devour skin, could consume jewels, but they could not touch what made her truly beautiful. Her silence, her decision, her unyielding calm in the face of ruin had transcended her form. She had not lived to preserve her face; she had lived to preserve her pride. Every woman who had followed her each had become a spark in that sacred blaze. Together, they transformed agony into defiance, despair into deliverance. They taught the world that honour is not born of victory but of choice.

What they left behind was not tragedy, but teaching.

The lesson of purity, of spirit unblemished by fear. The lesson of loyalty, love that endures beyond existence. The lesson of sacrifice, the courage to protect the soul of one’s land, even at the cost of life. The lesson of hope, that fire may consume, but it also purifies. The lesson of faith, that death can be gentler than dishonour.

Outside the fort, silence had fallen over the enemy’s camp. The once-roaring soldiers stood still, unable to grasp the enormity of what they had witnessed. Their banners hung limp against the smoke-laden wind. The conqueror had finally broken into the gates of the inner sanctum; too late. He saw only the aftermath. The dying embers, the fragrance of burnt sandalwood, the veiled stillness of a kingdom that had chosen fire over chains. He did not win. He merely stood near ashes that refused to bow. His army had conquered the stone, but not the spirit. His name would be remembered not for triumph, but for standing before the fire that defeated him without a blade drawn.

The ruins of the fort still stood, dark and hollow, but breathing. From its walls, faint echoes had once drifted, the clang of bangles, the swish of silks, the murmur of prayers. When dawn broke, it fell gently over Chittor’s broken bastions. The wind seemed to carry whispers from the cooled stepwell, circling through the ruins, through the walls, through the very soil. The first ray of sunlight touched the highest spire, and for a fleeting instant, the fort glowed golden again, as if she had returned, veiled in light. 

Her step into the flame was not an end, but an ascent with her will; untouchable. Chittor had been burned, but in its burning, it had become pure again.

She, who had chosen to live without living.

For she had not died.

Death belongs to those who lose something; she had lost nothing.

‘For Rani Padmavati’s Jauhar was Alauddin Khilji’s greatest defeat, and her Chittor’s eternal victory.’

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