Where Indic wisdom meets global strategy. Reflections on culture, power, memory and the forces shaping civilizations past and present.
Saturday, 4 June 2022
Lord Macaulay’s View of the Marathas
Friday, 3 June 2022
Panipat: The Fatal Miscalculation That Undid an Empire
The Third Battle of Panipat, fought on January 14, 1761, was not merely a clash between two great powers—it was a cataclysm that reshaped the subcontinent’s destiny. On one side stood the formidable Maratha Confederacy, commanded by Sadashivrao Bhau, with an army of 50,000 cavalry and 15,000 infantry. Opposing them was the Durrani Empire under Ahmad Shah Abdali, fielding 60,000 cavalry and 40,000 infantry. But numbers alone did not decide the outcome. The Marathas had vanquished larger forces in the past. What doomed them at Panipat was geography, logistics, and strategic oversight.
Panipat, lying deep in the northern plains, was friendly terrain for Abdali. He had access to local allies, supply chains, and fresh reinforcements from the northwest frontier. The Marathas, in contrast, were stranded in hostile territory. From the moment they arrived on the outskirts of Panipat, their supply lines were compromised. Local merchants refused to trade. Provisions grew scarce. Despite this, Sadashivrao pressed forward—believing that a decisive victory would open the road to Delhi and secure access to loyal allies across Central India.
But Abdali refused to oblige. He entrenched his forces within a fortified camp, refusing to be lured into open battle. From November 1760 onwards, both armies dug into a siege-like standoff. Skirmishes and sorties became routine, with both sides testing each other’s defences. In early December, a contingent of Abdali’s Rohilla allies attempted to storm the Maratha camp. The attack failed. Over 3,000 Rohilla troops perished, and their commander, Najib ad-Dawlah, barely escaped. Yet this tactical success for the Marathas brought no strategic reprieve. Among their own dead was Balwant Rao Mehendale, a key leader. Worse, the broader crisis of supplies remained unresolved.
Abdali quickly adjusted his strategy. Realizing the futility of direct confrontation, he tightened the noose around the Maratha camp. With ruthless efficiency, his allies severed all routes through which the Marathas could receive food, fodder, and ammunition. The Durrani siege lasted over three harrowing months. With each passing day, the condition in the Maratha camp deteriorated—food ran out, horses starved, diseases spread, and morale withered.
On December 17, Govind Pant Bundela, a senior Maratha officer, was slain while attempting to deliver supplies. Caravans sent from Central India were intercepted and destroyed. Although the Marathas launched daring assaults to disrupt Abdali’s camp—inflicting casualties and briefly unsettling their opponent—Abdali remained composed. He kept his army restrained, refusing to engage, knowing that time itself would be his most lethal weapon.
By early January, the Maratha army was in a state of collapse. Meanwhile, Abdali’s forces, bolstered by fresh reinforcements from Afghanistan, were in better shape than ever. The Marathas were unaware of this crucial development. On January 13, in an atmosphere of desperation, Sadashivrao convened his war council. The decision was unanimous: the Marathas would break the siege and launch an all-out assault the following day. It was a final gamble—better to die in battle than starve in camp.
The Marathas charged at dawn on January 14, 1761. Gaunt, weary, and depleted, they fought with the ferocity of men who knew the stakes. For hours, the outcome hung in the balance. Abdali, rattled, was forced to commit his reserves. Then came the slaughter. Tens of thousands perished. Abdali’s losses exceeded 20,000—nearly a third of his force—but the Maratha army was annihilated. Sadashivrao and Vishwasrao, heir to the Peshwa throne, were both killed. When the news reached Pune, the Peshwa Nana Saheb is said to have been overcome by grief. He died just months later, on June 23.
It was a calamity not only of numbers but of planning. The Marathas, despite their martial prowess and imperial expanse, had chosen the wrong battlefield. Panipat was a logistical trap. Sadashivrao had failed to anticipate that Abdali, a seasoned commander, would resort to siege tactics instead of immediate engagement. Crucially, the Maratha army was burdened by nearly 100,000 civilians—including pilgrims and families of soldiers—who had accompanied them north. These non-combatants became victims of one of the most horrific massacres in Indian history. For two days, Abdali’s forces butchered the survivors, turning Panipat into a field of blood and ashes.
Yet the Maratha spirit proved resilient. By 1770, barely a decade after the disaster, they had reconstituted their strength. In 1772, they seized Delhi and installed Shah Alam II as a puppet emperor. Their resurgence culminated in the First Anglo-Maratha War (1775–1782), which ended in a Maratha victory and reasserted their dominance over vast swathes of India. For nearly another half-century, they remained the preeminent power on the subcontinent—until their eventual defeat in the Third Anglo-Maratha War in 1818.
Panipat remains a defining episode in Indian history—a moment when tactical brilliance, logistical foresight, and geopolitical awareness could have altered the fate of an empire. Instead, a proud army, caught in a place it could not sustain, was consumed by starvation, miscalculation, and the cold precision of an adversary who knew how to wait.
Wednesday, 1 June 2022
A Silly First Paragraph in Tunzelmann’s Book
Tuesday, 31 May 2022
Conquering National Culture by Transforming the Places of Worship
Monday, 30 May 2022
The Achievements of the Gupta Age
Sunday, 29 May 2022
The Battlefield of History
Saturday, 28 May 2022
The Discussion of Religions in Mahatma Gandhi’s Autobiography
Friday, 27 May 2022
The Founders of the Philosophy of Kashmiri Shaivism
Wednesday, 25 May 2022
The French Revolution’s Impact on Marriage and Divorce
Tuesday, 24 May 2022
Napoleon’s World Historical Blunder
Monday, 23 May 2022
The Sun Temple of Multan
Kashmir: In the Ancient and the Medieval Periods
Saturday, 21 May 2022
The Utilitarian and Evangelical Alliance Against Hinduism
Friday, 20 May 2022
The Rise of Islam: The Contest Between the Orthodox and the Roman Catholic Churches
Polytheism Versus Monotheism
Thursday, 19 May 2022
Rise of Islam: The 700 Years of Separation Between India and Europe
The Grand Western Plan to Dismember Russia
Tuesday, 17 May 2022
British Missionaries And Their Sati Propaganda
Monday, 16 May 2022
Marx: The Philosopher King
Sunday, 15 May 2022
Voltaire’s Prayer and My Prayer
The Original Ancient Texts Versus The Interpretations
Saturday, 14 May 2022
The Reforms of Lenin and Deng Xiaoping
Friday, 13 May 2022
Polytheism Versus Monotheism
Thursday, 12 May 2022
On Afghanistan’s Buddhist Past
One Nation’s Funeral, Another Nation’s Festival
Wednesday, 11 May 2022
On History and Culture
Tuesday, 10 May 2022
Hinduism and Gnosticism
One Thing That An Empire Cannot Do
Monday, 9 May 2022
From cross to crusade: The birth of holy wars & religious imperialism
The European Christians were the first to conceive a doctrine that sought nothing less than the conquest of the human soul. They proclaimed that all of mankind must believe in one God—their God—and that every other deity was false, unworthy of worship, and destined for destruction. It was they who first systematized the use of missionaries—Jesuit priests sent to every corner of the world to preach, persuade, and convert. And it was they who first fused theology with empire, wielding political and military power to make whole peoples abandon their ancestral faiths and bow before the Christian cross.
Before the rise of Christianity in Europe in the fourth century, during the reign of Constantine the Great, wars had been waged for countless reasons: to seize territory, to capture slaves, to control resources and trade routes, to plunder treasuries. But wars were not waged in the name of God, nor were conquered peoples forced to renounce their religion. Alexander the Great, after toppling the Persian Empire, did not impose Greek gods on the Persians. Instead, he adopted Persian customs, even presenting himself as a devotee of their deities. When he entered Egypt, he proclaimed reverence for the Egyptian gods and allowed himself to be crowned as Pharaoh, earning the admiration of Egyptian nobility.
Rome, too, in its pagan age, never compelled religious uniformity. Across its sprawling empire, from Gaul to North Africa, the gods of the conquered peoples were tolerated, often integrated into the Roman pantheon. India’s Hindu kings likewise practiced a culture of extraordinary tolerance. Hinduism gave birth to Buddhism, which spread peacefully across Asia—flourishing in China, Japan, Mongolia, Sri Lanka, Burma, and beyond—through monks, travelers, and teachers, not armies. Even Genghis Khan, remembered for his ruthlessness in battle, never sought to impose his personal faith on the multitude of peoples under Mongol rule.
Even Islam, whose armies carved out empires across Asia, Africa, and Europe, did not always demand mass conversion. In Spain, under the rule of Muslim monarchs from 711 to 1492, the population of Al-Andalus remained overwhelmingly Christian. Jews, who formed nearly ten percent of the population, dominated finance and international trade. As Maria Rosa Menocal notes in The Ornament of the World, Al-Andalus was remarkable for its cultural pluralism, even under Islamic sovereignty.
It was Christianity that broke with this civilizational pattern. In 1095, Pope Urban II launched the Crusades, summoning Christendom to reclaim the Holy Land. Ironically, at that time Christians were the majority in the Middle East and North Africa; the Byzantine Empire was over 90 percent Christian and remained the region’s most powerful state. Yet the violent zeal of the crusaders alienated local populations, driving them into the embrace of Islam. By the end of the thirteenth century, the crusaders had been expelled from the Levant, and by the fifteenth century, Constantinople—the jewel of Christendom—had fallen to the Ottoman Turks.
By the nineteenth century, Christianity had achieved the conversion of one-third of humanity. Yet this imperial triumph concealed the seeds of its decline. Rationalist thinkers of the European Enlightenment subjected Christianity to a withering critique. By the twentieth century, as Ram Swarup observed, “Christianity had had its teeth knocked out in the modern West.” Its dogmas, stripped of their intellectual prestige, no longer captivated Europe’s own children. Swarup believed that once the rational critique reached India in full force, Christianity’s appeal to the Indian masses would likewise wither. He saw Islam and communism as the true proselytizing powers of the twentieth century—aggressive, ideological, and relentless, carrying forward the monotheistic impulse to subdue and homogenize the plural world.
The story, then, is not simply of Christianity versus other faiths, but of Christianity as the inaugurator of a new kind of imperialism: the imperialism of religious exclusivity. It turned conquest into conversion, and politics into theology. And in doing so, it transformed the history of the world.
