Shailaza's Blog

Category: Alternate history

  • The Day The Desert Held

    They stood not to conquer, but to remember who they were.
    Not a single sword rose in haste, yet an empire halted in doubt.
    This is the story of the day the Rajputs didn’t win the war—
    but made history flinch.

    The message came at dawn.

    Not from a spy. Not from a deserter. From a child.

    A shepherd boy, no older than ten, barefoot and red-eyed, arrived at the southern gate of Chittorgarh. In his hand, he held a pouch wrapped in gold thread. When the guards opened it, they found a chess piece—an ivory king, split down the center.

    And beneath it, a letter in Babur’s hand.

    “I offer you no threat. Only choice. Stay fractured. Or kneel together. My road is open. Close it, or welcome me in full.”

    Signed not as Emperor, but as Babur Mirza, son of Timur.

    The Rajput Sangh gathered before the second bell.

    The letter was read. No voice rose in anger. No sword was drawn. Only breath—the kind held just long enough to mark a moment as irreversible.

    It was Rao Maldeo who spoke first.

    “Then let us do what we’ve never done. Let us decide who we are.”

    That day, the Sabha did not argue. They spoke. They listened. Each king stood—one by one—and declared not their allegiance, but their fear.

    Of irrelevance. Of betrayal. Of losing sons to wars that never end.

    When Amar rose, his voice was quieter than usual.

    “I once thought strength was silence,” he said. “But silence makes orphans of men who are still alive.”

    He turned to Sanga.

    “I’m not asking for your command. I’m asking to stand where I am not half-seen.”

    Sanga nodded. Not as ruler—but as kin.

    Then he turned to the hall.

    “This is not about Babur,” he said. “This is about whether we can remain Rajputs when no one is watching. Whether we can hold each other up without needing an enemy to justify our union.”

    He raised the ivory king in his hand.

    “We were not carved to kneel.”

    And he shattered the piece against the marble.

    That night, the Rajput Sangh signed a new pact. Not written in scrolls. Written in presence.

    And across the desert, Babur received no reply.

    Only the silence of gates that no longer waited for visitors.

    Historical Anchoring

    In early 1527, in real history, the Mughal emperor Babur prepared for a decisive confrontation with Rana Sanga of Mewar. Babur had already captured Delhi after defeating Ibrahim Lodi at the First Battle of Panipat in 1526, and Sanga had emerged as the foremost Rajput leader, uniting over thirty Rajput kings to challenge Babur’s claim to northern India. The two forces met at the Battle of Khanwa on March 17, 1527—a fierce and pivotal encounter. Despite the numerical strength of the Rajput army, Babur’s superior use of artillery, mobile cavalry tactics, and strategic positioning led to a Mughal victory. Sanga was wounded in battle and the Rajput confederacy began to disintegrate. He died the following year in 1528, under mysterious circumstances, possibly poisoned by his own nobles who feared renewed war. Sanga’s death, whether from war wounds or from betrayal within, remains one of the great tragedies of Rajput valor—proof that even lions fall when their own lose faith. The defeat at Khanwa marked the end of large-scale Rajput resistance to the Mughals and cemented Babur’s hold over north India.

    This article reflects a pivotal emotional possibility—an India where the Rajputs chose unity not through fear, but through confession and shared humanity. Babur’s diplomatic messaging often walked a fine line between threat and invitation. The image of Babur’s chess-piece ultimatum in this article is fictional—but drawn from the psychological strategies he often employed. Symbolic messages, indirect warnings, and emotional manipulation were tools of statecraft in that era, used to provoke surrender without engaging in immediate bloodshed.This alternate outcome isn’t based on fantasy—it’s based on the one thing history never gave enough room for: what if they had stayed together just a little longer?

    The reality that could have been

    The Mughals came before sunrise.

    No fanfare. No elephants. Just silence broken by hoofbeats and cannon wheels dragged over rock and sand.

    Babur was tired. The years had begun to lean into his bones. But failure, he knew, aged a man faster than time.

    He was not here for conquest.

    He was here to end the one place that would not kneel.

    The Rajputs met them outside Chittorgarh—beneath the orange sky of early March.

    It was not a siege. It was a warning.

    Rao Maldeo held the western flank, Prithviraj guarded the rear, Amar rode with the front guard, eyes steeled and unreadable.

    And Sanga?
    He did not sit behind walls.
    He stood before his army in blood-red rajputi armor, scars on full display.
    He did not roar. He did not threaten.

    He simply raised a sword he had not drawn since the day he shattered the ivory king.

    Babur watched them from the ridge.

    “They are not scattered,” he murmured.
    “They are waiting.”

    His general asked, “Do we attack?”

    Babur, facing an unfamiliar unity and unfavorable terrain, chose delay over defeat. He ordered a halt.

    The terrain was brittle, the winds unpredictable. And Babur—strategist before conqueror—calculated cost, not in cannon but in morale. And as the desert wind stirred the banners on both sides, a single hawk circled above and flew east.

    The Rajputs did not chase.

    They held position for three more days.

    By the fifth, the Mughal camp had vanished—leaving only broken cart tracks and the bitter perfume of burned rosewood.

    When news reached Chittorgarh, no festival was called.

    Instead, the Rajput Sangh met once more—quiet, weathered, whole.

    No man stood alone. No voice rose above another. Amar stood at the edge of the courtyard, watching the fading light. “They won’t sing songs of us,” he said quietly.
    Karnavati, passing behind him, paused. “Then let them sing of what we saved.”

    They had not won a kingdom.

    They had held a line.

    And in Agra, days before his death, Babur wrote one last line in his memoir:

    “Of all the lands I walked, it was Rajputana that did not bend. I did not defeat them. And perhaps that is why their silence still stings.”

    In classrooms across Rajasthan, that silence would become a song. In courtyards and kitchens, grandmothers would whisper of a time when kings knelt only to each other. And every time the desert wind moved without warning, someone would look east and say—
    “That was the day the Rajputs held.”
    Not with swords. But with each other.

    Historical Anchoring

    In real history, Babur defeated Rana Sanga at the Battle of Khanwa in 1527, using advanced artillery and disciplined cavalry formations. It marked the turning point in Mughal consolidation of power in North India. Sanga died a year later, and Rajput unity dissolved in the wake of defeat.

    This alternate article imagines what might have happened if the Rajput confederacy had not fractured—if they had held their position, not through aggression, but resilience. Babur’s strategic mind often avoided wasteful war when outcomes were uncertain. A united, battle-ready Rajputana may have forced him to retreat.

    History remembers conquest.
    But sometimes, survival itself is rebellion.

    This alternate series was not written to replace history—but to imagine its breath held for a moment longer. To wonder—what if valor had been matched by vision?

    Concluded

    This article by Shailaza Singh was published in Rashtradoot Newspaper’s Arbit Section on 23 April 2025

  • The Breaking Point

    Every kingdom carries its own silence. Some silence is obedience. Some, doubt. But when silence starts to echo louder than loyalty, even the most sacred alliances must ask: are we still one—or just many holding our breath together?

    That night, Sanga did not sleep.

    The moon hung like a blade over Chittorgarh, and the fort breathed with the weight of unspoken things.

    He sat in the outer courtyard, wrapped in a thick woolen shawl, his left leg stretched out stiff from old wounds. Beside him, Karnavati poured warm spiced milk, her silence softer than the wind.

    “You sent for Amar,” she said. It was not a question.

    Sanga nodded slowly.

    “I don’t want to,” he confessed. “But the wind from Sirohi has changed.”

    Karnavati looked out at the stars. “It’s not a wind,” she said. “It’s a boy trying not to drown.”

    Sanga’s brow furrowed. “And we are the river?”

    She met his gaze. “No. We’re the ones who taught him to swim—and then stopped watching.”

    A letter had arrived earlier that day. Written in Amar’s hand. Polite. Precise. Empty.

    He thanked them for the opportunity to host the annual harvest emissaries. He reported troop morale as “high.” He offered blessings to the Sabha.

    But nowhere in the ink was Amar.

    Not a question. Not a joke. Not even a memory.

    Karnavati folded the letter slowly, pressing her thumb into the seal.

    “It’s like holding a sword and finding the steel gone,” she whispered.

    Later that night, Sanga stood alone in the Sabha Hall. He looked at the great mural on the far wall—Rajput kings standing shoulder to shoulder, blades drawn, eyes fierce.

    One face had once reminded him of Amar. Now, he wasn’t sure.

    Karnavati entered quietly.

    “What do you see in him?” he asked.

    She took a long breath before answering.

    “The man he might become,” she said. “And the boy who already knows he won’t.”

    Sanga closed his eyes.

    “Tomorrow,” he said, “we send the call.”

    But that night, the hawks refused to fly.

    Historical Anchoring

    While this moment is fictional, the emotional dynamics mirror real Rajput court politics—deeply tied to legacy, expectation, and the weight of loyalty passed down through blood. The relationship between Sanga and his nobles, and between elder and younger generations, was fraught with tension and silence more than confrontation. This article honors the quiet heartbreak of leaders who sense they are losing something they cannot yet name.

    The Boy and the Blade

    The summons came with red wax and black thread.

    It was not a command. It was a reminder.

    Kunwar Amar stared at the scroll for a long time. He didn’t open it immediately. He didn’t need to. He had known it would come—from the moment he locked the letters away, from the moment he said nothing in the temple.

    He read it three times. Each word was distant and formal, yet underneath the politeness, he could hear the voice that once taught him how to grip a sword.

    The voice of Rana Sanga.

    The road to Chittorgarh was lined with early mustard blooms and quiet watchers. Amar rode alone, refusing the escort offered by his father. His armor was polished, his turban simple, his blade tied not to his waist—but across his back.

    He arrived at dusk.

    Karnavati saw him first—from the jharokha above the Sabha gate. He dismounted slowly, looking smaller than she remembered, older than he should have been.

    She didn’t smile.

    She simply turned and sent word to the council.

    Inside the Sabha Hall, Amar stood straight, but he did not raise his eyes. He knelt before Sanga.

    “Kunwar Amar of Sirohi,” Sanga said, “you have been silent.”

    Amar lifted his gaze—not defiant, not broken. Just… tired.

    “I have been listening,” he replied.

    “To what?”

    Amar’s voice did not waver.

    “To the part of me that was never spoken to.”

    The hall fell still.

    Sanga rose slowly, approached him, and drew Amar’s sword from its sheath.

    He studied the blade.

    “This is sharp,” he said. “But so is silence.”

    He handed it back.

    “Now speak.”

    Amar took the sword, sheathed it, and said:

    “I don’t know what I am yet. But I am here. Not for the crown. Not for my name. Just… to be asked.”

    Sanga nodded once.

    “That,” he said, “is more honest than loyalty forced.”

    Later, Karnavati found Amar alone in the courtyard.

    “You carried letters,” she said.

    He looked at her, startled.

    “I carry nothing now.”

    “Good,” she said. “Because if you had, I would’ve let you kneel—and never rise.”

    They stood in silence.

    Not trust.

    But something near it.

    Historical Anchoring

    While Amar is fictional, this moment mirrors countless historical reconciliations where younger sons or nobles, seen as potential threats, were confronted not with force—but with clarity. Rana Sanga’s leadership was marked by an ability to draw strength from honesty, not submission. This article reflects that tradition—the quiet reweaving of a thread once thought severed.

    The Gathering Winds

    News travels faster than banners.

    By the time Amar sat for his evening meal in Chittorgarh, word had already reached Agra.

    Not through spies. Not through letters. Through merchants. Through birds. Through the way silence changes in tone when a man expected to fall, rises instead.

    Babur sat in his private garden when the report came. He was pruning a rose.

    He had grown thinner in recent months. The physicians said nothing, but the circles beneath his eyes deepened each week. Time, once his ally, had begun to whisper at his shoulder.

    He did not curse. He did not rise. He clipped the bloom with precision.

    “Ah,” he said. “The boy turned back.”

    His vizier, cautious, replied, “He may still be useful.”

    Babur nodded.

    “Even a loyal dog still dreams of wildness.”

    In the Rajput Sangh, Amar’s return brought both relief and recalibration.

    Rao Maldeo observed him with narrowed eyes. Prithviraj offered a curt nod. The smaller kings whispered, testing new theories. Maldeo had known Amar since his youth. He recognized the silence in Amar—not as rebellion, but as restlessness. Yet even he did not know how far that silence had traveled.

    Sanga said nothing about Amar’s silence. But in his next council, he made one change.

    Amar was assigned not to Sirohi—but to Bundi.

    Close enough to watch.

    Far enough to choose.

    Karnavati met his gaze across the court once. He bowed his head. She did not nod. But she did not look away.

    Beyond the fort, the winds began to change.

    In Bikaner, a trusted lieutenant vanished.

    In Jalore, grain caravans from the south were ambushed—not stolen, but burned.

    In Malwa, one of the princes sent to Chittorgarh fell ill. The message that followed carried no threats—just a single word, in Persian:

    “Soften.”

    Babur was not sending armies.

    He was loosening bindings.

    The Rajput confederacy held—but it did not breathe easily.

    Sanga knew the winds were gathering. But no storm arrives without warning.

    And he had begun to read the sky.

    Historical Anchoring

    Babur’s real victories were not only in battle but in psychological warfare—targeting weaker links, seducing nobles with promise, and disrupting supplies or morale. Rajput alliances held under pressure but often frayed in moments of doubt. This article reflects the realism of subtle destabilization: not through war—but erosion.

    The winds have not broken yet.

    But they are no longer still.

    The Breaking Point

    It began in Bundi.

    Not with a declaration, not with a sword drawn in court—but with a delay.

    A grain shipment meant for the northern garrisons arrived nine days late. No explanation. No apology. Only a sealed note from Amar’s second-in-command: “Roads impassable due to weather.”

    Sanga knew it hadn’t rained in Bundi for a fortnight.

    He said nothing. Not yet.

    But in the Sabha, voices rose.

    Rao Balwant demanded Amar’s reassignment. Prithviraj supported him. Karnavati watched Amar closely—but said nothing either.

    Amar didn’t defend himself. He bowed. He listened. He stayed.

    That night, a rider from Bikaner arrived in secret. Dust-covered, half-starved, his horse lame. He carried no emblem—only a bloodied piece of fabric and a single word, inked in Rajputani shorthand:

    “Split.”

    Bikaner had fractured. One of the lieutenants had declared independence—claiming Babur had promised recognition.

    It was the first open fissure.

    The Rajput Sangh met in emergency council. Tempers flared. Old grievances returned like unwelcome guests.

    “We were never meant to last,” one of the minor kings said. “We are too many thrones under one sky.”

    It was Amar who stood.

    Not with defiance. With weariness.

    “This is not a storm from the outside,” he said. “It is a mirror. We are breaking where we have always been weak.”

    Sanga rose then. His voice was quiet.

    “Then let us name the cracks before they split us further.”

    One by one, each kingdom listed its resentments, its fears, its demands.

    It did not heal them.

    But it bled the wound clean.

    Outside, in the courtyard, a hawk circled once—then vanished into the dusk.

    Babur, reading the reports in Agra, placed a piece on his shatranj board.

    “Now,” he said, “they begin to see each other clearly. The moment before unity breaks is the one where it might finally be real.”

    He smiled.

    And ordered his generals to wait.

    To be continued

    This article by Shailaza Singh was published in Rashtradoot Newspaper on April 22, 2025.

  • A Door Cracked Open

    Power doesn’t always shatter with betrayal—it frays with silence.
    After the victories and alliances, came the harder war: one of doubt, desire, and the ache of being unseen. As Babur’s blades rested, his words moved. Whispers became weapons, and loyalty began to erode—not with rebellion, but with longing. This is the story of the second silence—the one that doesn’t scream, but changes everything.

    Historically, after any failed alliance or perceived betrayal, Rajput coalitions grew increasingly cautious. Trust was delicate. The Mughals often used subtle diplomacy—offering titles, land, and non-aggression in return for loyalty. This article reflects that historical strategy: less brute force, more emotional calculus. The unraveling has begun—not with battle, but with doubt.

    The Map of Desires

    In the private tent of a Mughal envoy outside Jalore, a map was being redrawn—not with ink, but with whispers.

    On its surface, it looked like any other map of Rajputana—cities, forts, rivers. But beside each kingdom’s name, a symbol had been carved in gold leaf. Not military strength. Not trade output. But desire.

    For Bikaner, it was ‘Recognition.’

    For Bundi, ‘Autonomy.’

    For Jalore, ‘Legacy.’

    And for one princeling near the hills of Sirohi, the word was simply: ‘Vengeance.’

    Babur’s spies had done their work well. Every ruler, no matter how loyal in public, had been studied for what kept them awake at night. Their griefs, their dreams, their wounds. Babur wasn’t looking for enemies. He was looking for ache.

    And he had found it.

    In Sirohi, a door cracked open.

    Kunwar Amar, youngest son of Rao Lakha, had grown up in shadow. Overshadowed by elder brothers. Denied command. Denied land. But never denied vision.

    When the Mughal scroll arrived, he read it thrice.

    It offered no insult. No bribe. Only validation.

    “You were never invisible. You were merely waiting.”

    That night, Amar walked alone to the family shrine and lit a diya. Not for guidance. But for resolve.

    He would not defect. Not openly. But he would listen.

    And sometimes, listening is the first betrayal.

    Meanwhile, in Chittorgarh, another map was taking shape.

    Sanga gathered his most trusted scribes. Not to redraw borders—but to chart trust.

    Not all kingdoms were equal in arms—but all had weight. Some bore grain. Others, roads. Some, memory.

    “Power,” Sanga told them, “is not just steel and stone. It’s knowing who will stay when the fire rises.”

    They began assigning emissaries not by rank—but by temperament.

    The quietest man in the court was sent to Bundi.

    A laughing, sharp-tongued soldier rode to Bikaner.

    To Sirohi, they sent no one.

    Not yet.

    Historical Anchoring

    In Mughal strategy, emotional leverage often proved more effective than force. Babur understood the inner landscape of rulers—their hunger for recognition, legitimacy, or revenge. This article builds on that historical realism, mapping not terrain but intention. Amar of Sirohi is fictional, but emblematic of the many lesser royals history forgot—whose silences shaped greater wars.

    In the hills of Sirohi, where the nights smelled of cedar and rain, Kunwar Amar sat by his window, watching the shadows curl around the palace pillars.

    He had not answered Babur’s letter.

    But he had not burned it either.

    It remained hidden beneath his sword belt—a scroll that said nothing treasonous, and yet everything unforgivable.

    “You were never invisible. You were merely waiting.”

    Amar hadn’t meant to listen. Not truly. But silence, once planted, grows like a root inside a man.

    His elder brother, Kunwar Jawan, was away—sent to Chittorgarh for an engineering council. Their father, Rao Lakha, was still loyal to the Rajput Sangh, still proud of Amar’s horse drills and court attendance. Still blind to what Amar had not said.

    Each evening, Amar attended the war room. He bowed. He nodded. He said nothing.

    But at night, he walked.

    To the old granary. To the edge of the outer wall. Past sleeping guards and whispering trees.

    He had begun to memorize the shift rotations. The blind spots. Not to plan—but because his mind had started needing to know.

    The second letter arrived hidden in a chessboard.

    Delivered by a traveling merchant from Agra, the board had carvings of Timur and Alexander. Amar turned it over slowly. Inside the hollowed base: a folded note and a single gold coin.

    The note read:

    “A future king does not wait for permission. He makes his own mirrors.”

    Amar did not tremble.

    He placed the note beside the first. He held the coin to the candlelight and watched the fire bend around it.

    He did not respond.

    But neither did he destroy it.

    That week, his younger cousin asked him to recite the Rajput Sangh oath at a temple ceremony. Amar smiled, took the script, and walked out before the prayer began.

    The priest waited. The crowd whispered.

    And Amar, in the shadows of the shrine, closed his eyes and tried to remember when he had last believed in the words.

    He couldn’t.

    That night, he placed both letters into an iron box and locked it.

    Not out of guilt. But to delay a truth he could no longer outrun.

    The second silence had begun.

    Like Prince Salim before he became Jahangir, or countless younger sons in Rajputana who rode out not for war—but for a name of their own, Amar was not planning treason. He was planning to be seen.

    Historical Anchoring

    Throughout history, rebellions have often been seeded in forgotten sons—those passed over, underestimated, or silenced. Amar is fictional, but his journey reflects a deeper truth: betrayal rarely comes from hatred. It comes from being unseen. This article grounds that emotional reality, showing how silence itself can be a rebellion in slow motion.

     Sanga’s Scent of Smoke

    Chittorgarh, February 1527

    The mornings were colder now. Not the biting cold of the north, but the kind that settled in the bones of old warriors.

    Rana Sanga had begun waking earlier—before the fort stirred, before the sun hit the marble floor of his private hall. He walked in silence, his footsteps echoing along corridors that had once rung with the voices of princes and war chants.

    Now, he listened for what was missing.

    The laughter of Amar, the restless questions of younger nobles, the old songs sung without fear of being overheard—these had faded. Not vanished. Just… thinned.

    It wasn’t just the silence that disturbed Sanga.

    It was the kind of silence that tried to stay quiet.

    In the council chamber, reports came from every border. Trade routes held. Sirhind remained fortified. Malwa sent their tributes and their princes. On paper, the confederacy had never been stronger.

    But on stone, on voice, on breath—it had shifted.

    He could feel it in the way Rao Maldeo spoke more with his eyes than with his mouth now. In the way Prithviraj Singh of Amber paused a second longer before offering agreement.

    In the way Karnavati’s hand lingered a little longer on his shoulder when she passed behind his chair.

    That morning, Sanga stood at the ramparts, gazing toward the hills of Sirohi. He said nothing aloud, but beside him, his hawk shifted on his gloved wrist.

    “Send for Amar,” he said finally.

    The wind carried the words into the distance.

    Historical Anchoring

    By early 1527, tensions within the Rajput confederacy would have naturally begun to grow under the weight of success, pride, and external pressure. Rana Sanga’s leadership held them together, but cracks are inevitable in coalitions this large. This article imagines a leader’s quiet realization—not through rebellion, but through atmosphere. Sometimes, the body senses infection before the wound appears.

    To be continued

    This article by Shailaza Singh was published in Rashtradoot Newspaper’s Arbit Section on 21 April 2025.

  • THE CRACKS IN THE MARBLE

    Unity demands more than swords. It demands that we confront the fractures inside ourselves—before someone else exploits them.

    The Rajput Sangh’s Dilemma

    Victory, when stretched too long, begins to feel like a question.

    Months had passed since the Accord of Malwa. Trade flourished. Southern and northern engineers built together. Children from Malwa had arrived in Hampi and Chittorgarh, learning two tongues and two ways of pride.

    But in the Rajput Sangh, restlessness stirred.

    Rao Balwant of Bundi grumbled that Vijayanagar’s presence in the northern war council was growing too strong. Raja Prithviraj of Amber, now bolstered by his role in the Malwa negotiations, wanted greater control over troop rotations. In Bikaner, smaller kingdoms began asking—when would they get more than garrison duty and grain?

    The unity, once forged by fear, was now strained by ambition.

    At the center of it all stood Maharana Sanga. He had become more than a leader. He was a myth still breathing. His wounds were legends, his silences policy. Even the Deccan allies deferred to him. And perhaps that was the problem.

    The Sabha did not fear each other. They feared losing him.

    And far away, in Agra, Babur knew it.

    He no longer attempted to breach borders. He now studied hearts. And every empire has one heart that holds it together.

    So he sent not armies—but whispers.

    To a mercenary from Kabul, he gave a dagger made of Persian steel. To a court musician traveling to Mewar, he gave a scroll hidden in a sitar’s hollow. To a disillusioned Rajput noble with debts and rage, he gave gold—and the illusion of purpose.

    Someone, somewhere, would betray.

    And in Chittorgarh, the protectors around Sanga tightened. Rao Maldeo placed his own men at Sanga’s side. The women of the zenana—queens, sisters, daughters—began carrying coded messages between regions, their palanquins now bearing the weight of strategy.

    It was Rani Karnavati of Mewar who noticed the falcon. Karnavati had long sensed that the empire’s enemies would not come with banners, but with gifts and glances.

    A hunting bird sent from Delhi, bearing a golden tag and a ring unfamiliar to the royal stables. She intercepted it. Hidden inside the bird’s feather wrappings: a map of Sanga’s chambers, marked with a crescent moon.

    “The night he prays,” the note read. “That is when the blade must fall.”

    She did not scream. She simply walked into the war council and placed the ring before them.

    “Kings can be targeted,” she said. “But no one sees a queen coming.”

    Legend holds that the women of the zenana, often underestimated, became key players in silent resistance.

    Assassins were hunted. Traitors exposed. The zenana turned into a command post no man dared underestimate again.

    One evening, in the moonlit palace courtyard, Sanga stood beside Rani Karnavati.

    “You saved my life,” he said.

    “I protected a future,” she replied. “A life is only part of it.”

    He looked at her—not as ruler to queen, but as warrior to equal. “You’ve become the blade I never saw coming.”

    “And you,” she said softly, “have become the cause I’ll never let fall.”

    In the palace gardens, where once poetry echoed, Sanga now walked with shadows trailing him—not ghosts of enemies, but warriors in silk, women with knives in their sleeves.

    Unity was not perfect. But it was now protected by something deeper than fear.

    It was protected by love.

    Historical Anchoring

    Historically, Rani Karnavati was known for her political influence and eventual defense of Mewar. Though no recorded instance places her in espionage, women often played invisible but pivotal roles in Rajput resistance—through alliances, coded communication, and protective diplomacy. This article reimagines that power, giving form to what history often overlooks: the silent strength that holds nations together.

    This is no longer just the Sabha’s dilemma.

    It is everyone’s war.

     The First Betrayal

    It did not come with thunder.

    It came with a smile.

    A minor noble from Marwar, Kunwar Raghav Singh, had long felt invisible. He had fought at Khanwa. He had bled beside Rao Maldeo. But at court, he was offered no post, no title, no land. Only thanks.

    And thanks, he believed, was the coin of fools.

    He had debts. Enemies. A wife who would not speak to him, and a father who had once called him “excess baggage.”

    So when the silver came—stacked in a caravan chest under false sandalwood—he took it.

    Not out of greed.

    Out of hunger.

    He slipped into the corridors of Chittorgarh with a message from Agra. A small thing: maps of supply routes, false alarms planted in war council scrolls. But the damage was quiet and deep.

    A Mewar garrison moved too late. A Deccan supply chain was ambushed near Khandwa. Four commanders died. And for a moment, the Sabha turned on itself.

    Rao Balwant blamed Vijayanagar intelligence. Prithviraj of Amber accused Maldeo of withholding men. Voices rose. The Sabha fractured into words sharper than steel.

    But then came the letter.

    An anonymous scroll, slipped beneath Rani Karnavati’s chamber door. Not from a spy. From a maid who overheard Kunwar Raghav speaking too loudly to a drunk court musician.

    The letter named him. Described the coin. Even listed the crest carved into the sandalwood.

    He was arrested within the hour.

    But when they found him, he was already dead—poisoned. Babur’s agents were not just planting betrayal. They were erasing evidence.

    Sanga stood over his body, eyes unreadable.

    “We are not betrayed because they hate us,” he said. “We are betrayed because we forget who still feels forgotten.”

    The Rajput Sangh convened that night in silence.

    No grand declarations. No vengeance.

    But from that day forward, no member sat unguarded. Every minor noble was given voice in weekly forums. Every soldier’s letter home was read, archived, remembered. Even the servants of the palace were honored with coded tokens—to remind them: you are seen.

    The Sabha had tasted betrayal.

    It would not forget again.

    The silence

    It began not with a sword—but with silence.

    In the border town of Kumbharia, where the Aravallis dip into the salt plains of Gujarat, a patrol caravan vanished. No signs of blood. No cries. Just the echo of hoofprints ending in sand.

    Three days later, a trader loyal to Bikaner was found outside a garrison—tongue cut, hands bound in silk.

    A message.

    In Chittorgarh, the Rajput Sangh convened in urgency. Maps were unfurled. Messengers dispatched. Rao Maldeo believed it was a Mughal test. But Prithviraj  disagreed.

    “No imperial coin was found. No Mughal pattern in the binding. This wasn’t Babur. This was one of us.”

    Sanga said nothing at first.

    He knew. The whisper had become a wound.

    The first betrayal had come not from a sword across the border—but from a soul within the Sabha.

    That night, under the flickering oil lamps of his private chamber, Sanga stood beside Karnavati. Her presence was quiet, but constant.

    “It begins,” he said.

    “Then so shall we,” she replied.

    By dawn, ten emissaries were riding. Not to the enemy—but to allies. Not to command—but to listen.

    And in the shadows, the hunt for the traitor had begun.

    They began with the fringe.

    Bikaner, Jaisalmer, and the desert outposts were watched closely. Letters were read in mirror ink, alliances tested over ceremonial wine. The Deccan lords were interrogated not with questions—but with absence. Invitations stopped arriving. Silence spoke volumes.

    It was not long before suspicion fell on Raja Udaykaran of Dungarpur.

    He had long been bitter about his seat in the Sabha—a minor vote among giants. His coffers had been strained from months of unpaid troop upkeep. And two months earlier, his second son had vanished under mysterious circumstances. Some said the boy was taken to Agra.

    Rao Balwant wanted immediate action.

    “Strip him of command,” he said. “Let one betrayal be punished in full sight.”

    But Sanga raised his hand. “If we punish a brother without proof, we sow more fear than unity.”

    It was Karnavati who proposed a different path.

    “Invite him to Chittorgarh,” she said. “Honor him. Let him taste the power he thinks he’s denied. And then… let him speak.”

    A royal invitation was sent.

    When the scroll arrived from Chittorgarh, he nearly burned it. But men who have crossed a line rarely stop walking—unless someone offers a way back.

    And so, under banners of peace, Raja Udaykaran arrived in Chittorgarh. The fort welcomed him with garlands and music—but its walls watched with sharpened silence.

    On the third day, as the Sabha gathered in the Hall of Mirrors, Sanga turned to him and asked only one question.

    “Why has your silence grown louder than your voice?”

    Udaykaran trembled.

    It was not the question.

    It was the fact that he had no lie ready.

    He had not meant to betray them—only to be seen. But somewhere between silence and ambition, he had wandered too far from his own voice.

    Historical Anchoring

    Rajput alliances were deeply susceptible to pride and perceived slights. Smaller kingdoms often felt marginalized, and betrayal in the form of secret talks, defections, or withheld support was not uncommon. Dungarpur was historically a minor power often caught between loyalties. This fictionalized betrayal mirrors real tensions that existed among the fractious Rajput states.

    This is the first tremor.

    The war has not broken.

    But the walls have started to whisper.

    Shifting Shadows

    Betrayal does not echo like thunder. It seeps like damp into stone.

    The Rajput Sangh did not fall apart. Not yet. But something unspoken settled between its members—a hesitation, a second glance, the quiet weighing of every word.

    In the weeks that followed Udaykaran’s unmasking, no ruler resigned. No kingdoms withdrew. Yet in the corridors of Chittorgarh, the old laughter dulled.

    Scribes began keeping two ledgers—one official, one private.

    Meetings grew shorter. Eyes met less.

    Sanga watched it all. He did not rage. He did not command. He simply began walking the fort each night—pausing by the barracks, the kitchens, the outer ramparts. Listening.

    Karnavati walked with him on most nights. On others, she remained in the zenana, coordinating quiet inquiries of her own.

    One evening, she found Sanga staring at the moonlit tiles of the Sabha Hall.

    “The wound isn’t the betrayal,” he said. “It’s that I look at old friends and wonder who else is waiting to be seen.”

    Karnavati sat beside him, unwrapping a parcel. Inside were handwoven anklets from a Rajputani widow in Kumbharia—the same village where the patrol disappeared.

    “No one noticed her,” Karnavati said. “But she noticed everything.”

    They pored over the beads and knots, finding coded threads. It was not treason—but it was warning.

    The whispers had not stopped. They had simply shifted.

    In the shadows, Babur waited.

    He had learned what he needed. That the Sabha was strong—but not uncrackable.

    He changed tactics. No more assassins. No more messages.

    Now, he sent envoys to smaller courts with promises of autonomy. He promised poets land, generals glory, and exiles forgiveness. He played on longing.

    “Tell them,” he said, “that the road back to Delhi is paved not with war—but with forgotten songs.”

    And in Bikaner, in Jalore, even in parts of Bundi, the seeds took root.

    Not all would bloom.

    But Babur knew this: sometimes shadows move before the storm.

    And in Rajputana, the winds had begun to shift.

    To be continued

    This article by Shailaza Singh was published in Rashtradoot Newspaper’s Arbit Section on 20 April 2025.

  • The Silent Blockade

    Empires do not always fall with thunder. Sometimes, they are undone by hesitation, by doubt, by the silence that follows when swords are sheathed. This is not the story of war—it is the story of restraint. Of a fragile alliance learning to breathe, while a conqueror finds himself haunted not by armies, but by an idea he cannot destroy.

    Babur had failed to fracture them. His gold had returned to him untouched. His letters unanswered. The Rajput Sangh had held—but only just.

    Because unity is not forged once. It must be reforged daily, in every court, every camp, every whisper of ambition.

    And Babur knew this. Which is why he shifted from persuasion to pressure.

    His new strategy was to tighten the ring—not through direct attack, but by turning the map into a noose. Punjab was fortified. New cannon-foundries in Lahore. Strategic towns near the Yamuna were reinforced with garrisons. He courted the Sultan of Malwa, sending emissaries to Ghiyas-ud-Din Khalji of Malwa, promising him territorial autonomy in exchange for alliance against the Rajputs.

    Meanwhile, the Rajput Sangh faced its greatest internal test.

    Amber was restless. Its ruler, Raja Prithviraj Singh, chafed under Mewar’s central authority. In closed chambers, he questioned he questioned why Amber’s seasoned forces were relegated to static duties while Marwar’s cavalry commanded the dynamic southern flanks.

    In Bundi, young Balwant voiced concerns over the growing influence of Vijayanagar’s advisors in the Sabha’s war council. “What have southern poets to do with northern war?” he muttered.

    The cracks were real.

    And then—one nearly split the foundation.

    At the Rajput Sangh assembly in Chittorgarh, Prithviraj rose mid-council. “If Amber’s warriors are only good for border patrol,” he said, voice rising, “then let Mewar defend Malwa without us.”

    Silence fell like steel.

    Before tempers could erupt, Sanga, seated quietly beneath the carved arch of the Sabha chamber, spoke. “The last time Rajputs walked away from each other, we wrote Khanwa in blood.”

    He rose, his limbs still stiff from old wounds, and unrolled Babur’s intercepted letter for all to see. The room grew colder.

    “This was meant for you,” Sanga said to Prithviraj. “He knew your worth. So do we. The only question is—do you?”

    Prithviraj did not respond. But he sat down. Later that week, he rode beside Maldeo on patrol. No words were spoken. But something shifted.

    The Sabha responded not with suppression—but with renewal.

    They expanded the Sabha, granting equal voice to the minor states. They rotated garrison duties to ensure no faction felt slighted. And in a rare moment of political brilliance, Rao Maldeo offered joint command of the Malwa frontier to Raja Prithviraj Singh of Amber.

    The message was clear: unity was not enforced—it was negotiated, preserved, and earned.

    In the north, Babur was preparing for his next move.

    On the walls of his Agra tent, Babur had pinned every fort, every route, every raja’s name. He didn’t see a kingdom—he saw a blockade, tightening with time.

    He had secured the Khyber passes and summoned artillery experts from Herat. But something had shifted in Hindustan.

    He was no longer marching into fragments.

    He was facing an idea.

    And ideas, Babur would come to learn, cannot be crushed by cannon.

    In the bazaars of Ajmer, rumor outran reason. Traders whispered of invasion. Mothers clutched their sons tighter. “If Delhi rises again,” they asked, “will we burn first or last?”

    And far from palace halls, in a blacksmith’s hut outside Mandu, a boy watched his father sharpen blades—not for war, but for parade. “Will they march this time?” he asked.

    His father smiled. “If they do, it won’t be for one king. It’ll be for all of us.”

    The silence grew not weaker—but deeper. Stronger. Wiser.

    They did not win a kingdom. But they held a line.

    Historical Anchoring

    In reality, Ghiyas-ud-Din of Malwa was often caught between Mewar and Delhi. The real Babur did attempt to extend influence toward Malwa and the Deccan, but was limited by internal instability and his early death in 1530. Rajput states remained fragmented.

    This article imagines a world where the cracks in unity were acknowledged, not ignored—and filled not with ego, but with effort. Because even the strongest empires fall when their foundations rot in silence.

     The Turning of Malwa

    The fort of Mandu stood like a crown over the Vindhyas—imposing, ancient, and coveted. Mandu was the gateway between the North and the Deccan—a plateau that watched every road, every ambition.

    It was here, in the summer of 1527, that the pressure nearly broke into battle.

    Ghiyas-ud-Din of Malwa, swayed by Mughal promises and Rajput pressure alike, delayed his allegiance. Babur’s emissaries came bearing gifts and warnings. The Rajput Sangh sent letters, not threats. Mandu sat at a crossroads—caught between two rising empires.

    The people of Malwa waited.

    And then, the Mughals moved.

    Instead of open siege, a Mughal general from Babur’s camp arrived at the borders of Malwa with a force meant not to attack—but to demonstrate. They camped near Dhar, displayed Ottoman-style cannons, and pressured Ghiyas-ud-Din to align openly with Delhi.

    But the Rajput Sangh anticipated the move. Rao Maldeo of Marwar and Prithviraj Singh of Amber rode south—not to war, but to diplomacy backed by readiness. With them came engineers from the South—some from Vijayanagar, others from Ahmadnagar—united for the moment, if not always in loyalty. It was a display of unity, not conquest.

    At the riverfront of the Gambhir, under torchlight, Ghiyas-ud-Din received both parties.

    The Mughal general Mudasir Khan offered him sovereignty in name, subservience in truth. The Rajputs offered autonomy, education, and alliance.

    He made his choice.

    Ghiyas-ud-Din did not declare war. He declared neutrality—but signed an accord that gave the Rajput Sangh full rights to trade, fortify, and station advisors within Malwa. In exchange, his sons would be educated in Chittorgarh and Hampi.

    He paused long before choosing.

    One will call me coward, the other will call me traitor, he thought. But only one will let my sons live to rule.

    He made his choice.

    Babur’s fury was private. But when the news reached Agra, it is said he looked at the chessboard in his tent, paused, and stared at the board for a long time. Not at the pieces—but at the empty square where his knight should have been. Then he whispered:

    “Shatranj.”

    Chess.

    He had not lost land. But he had lost position.

    In the villages that bordered Malwa, the farmers saw soldiers arrive—and not fight. Traders from the city of Dhar returned with news of alliance, not annexation. A potter in Ujjain crafted lamps with symbols of the allied states—Mewar’s sun, Marwar’s horse, Amber’s lotus—tentatively calling it a Sabha crest, unsure whether to sell them as pride—or prophecy.

    And in the stone courtyards of Mandu, children once hidden during cannon drills now chased each other past open gates.

    One stopped and looked up at the Rajput flags fluttering in the breeze.

    “Will they stay?” he asked.

    His grandfather, sharpening a sickle under the banyan tree, nodded slowly.

    “They will—if we remind them why we stood beside them.”

    Historical Anchoring

    Historically, the region of Malwa was a point of contention between Mewar and the Delhi Sultanate. Ghiyas-ud-Din was known for his shifting loyalties. Babur never laid a formal siege to Mandu, and there is no record of a military campaign there in 1527. The region’s strategic volatility, however, is well documented.

    This article remains loyal to the truth: no battle was fought—but a turning point was imagined. A choice that could have changed the game—not through bloodshed, but by choosing where one stood.

    Sometimes, in history, the absence of war is the greatest shift of all.

     Babur’s Reckoning

    The air in Agra was thick—not with smoke, but with silence. A silence that pressed against the sandstone walls of the Mughal court, as if the empire itself was holding its breath.

    Babur had known defeat before. In Samarkand, in Fergana, he had lost cities, kin, and pride. But never had he been denied—not by sword, but by silence. This denial struck deeper. He had expected war, even loss. But not irrelevance. The silence of Rajputana unnerved him more than resistance. It told him he was no longer shaping the story—only reacting to one he had not authored.Ghiyas-ud-Din’s refusal to align, wrapped in the guise of neutrality, was more than a diplomatic insult. It was a crack in Babur’s perception of power.

    He summoned his generals. Mirza Kamran sat beside  Mudasir Khan, still bruised from his retreat at the Malwa border. No one spoke of failure. But the chessboard remained untouched since that night.

    “What do they offer these men that we do not?” Babur asked.

    “Something we cannot,” Kamran murmured. “A dream. One that belongs to them.”

    Babur stood by the jharokha, overlooking the Yamuna. Below, the city pulsed with merchants, caravans, and whispers. Always whispers. Of Rajput unity. Of Malwa’s accord. Of children learning in Hampi and Chittorgarh, instead of Kabul or Delhi.

    “If they want dreams,” Babur said, “let them learn how quickly dreams can be crushed.”

    He ordered a tightening of the northern passes. Garrisons along the Sutlej and Beas were fortified. Letters were sent to Kabul, to Balkh, to the remnants of the Timurid loyalists in Central Asia. He would not fight them yet—but he would surround them.

    He also turned inward. Scholars, poets, and architects were brought to Agra—not for beauty, but for narrative. The empire needed a story. One that could rival the Sabha’s promise of pride.

    “We will build,” Babur said. “And they will wonder whether they chose war—or missed the greater world.”

    But in his private diary that night, Babur wrote only one line:

    “They play like I once did—before I wore a crown.”

    Historical Anchoring

    Babur’s real strategy following Panipat and Khanwa involved fortifying Mughal control in the north and maintaining diplomatic channels with regional rulers. This article imagines a psychological shift—where Babur, frustrated by stalled expansion, begins to craft a cultural counterweight rather than immediate retaliation. Babur’s ambitions for deeper expansion into Malwa and the Deccan were historically curtailed by internal concerns and his death in 1530. This article imagines what might have evolved had his plans matured.

    The battle has not begun. But the reckoning had.

    And sometimes, a king loses more to silence than to steel.

    To be continued

    This article by Shailaza Singh was published in Rashtradoot Newspaper’s Arbit Section on 19 April 2025

  • The Battle that Never Was

    Before Babur could redraw the map of Hindustan, the Rajputs did something no historian had predicted—they united. Not as heirs of pride, but as architects of resistance.
    This is not the story of a single battle. It is the moment strategy replaced chaos—and silence learned to speak in formation.

    The spring of 1526 bloomed with blood.

    As Babur advanced into Punjab with his matchlocks, field artillery, and Ottoman tactics, he expected to face fragmented resistance. But instead of complacent sultanates and bickering thakurs, his scouts returned with unsettling news…the Rajputs had gathered. And they were not as he had known them.

    At the fortified plains of Sirhind, the first test of the Rajput Sangh’s resolve began.

    The army was unlike anything seen before in Rajputana. Spearmen from Amber stood alongside cavalry from Marwar. Bikaner’s camel corps patrolled the edges while archers from Dungarpur coordinated with musketeers—men trained by Deccan artisans and renegade Afghan gunners, including one Abdul Qasim, a fictional but plausible defector once trained under Babur’s Ottoman gunners, who had turned against him for reasons of vengeance and coin.

    At the center of it all, beneath a golden banner bearing the sun and twin swords, stood Thakur Viram Dev of Marwar, but for timing.

    Maharana Sanga was not on the field—his wounds still healing—but his presence lingered in every command. Rao Ganga rode with the left flank, his son Maldeo watching closely, absorbing every tactic like a student of war. Ratan Singh guarded the right.

    Babur’s vanguard arrived swiftly, assuming it would be a matter of hours before the Rajput force collapsed in familiar chaos. But what he found was a wall of discipline. Artillery pits had been dug. Rajput engineers, guided by Deccani masters, had constructed fire-retardant shield carts of wet jute and mud-packed timber to absorb cannon fire. Cavalry used the “crescent retreat,” an Ottoman maneuver adapted by Viram Singh, luring Mughal riders into ambush zones where spiked barricades and camouflaged trenches awaited.

    The Rajputs had not only watched—they had learned.

    The Battle of Sirhind raged for two days. On the third, Babur attempted a feigned retreat to draw the Rajputs forward. But Bhim Singh held the line. No chase. No impulse. Only calculation.

    By dusk, Babur’s rear lines had crumbled. His soldiers, unfamiliar with such resistance, began to fall back. Sirhind held.

    Babur withdrew, stunned.

    It was not a rout. But it was enough to shatter the myth—that India’s warriors would never adapt. That valor could not learn strategy.

    Back in Chittorgarh, a torn Mughal banner was laid at Sanga’s feet.

    He did not smile. He only said, “Now they will know—we are no longer fighting for kingdoms. We are fighting for time itself.”

    The news traveled like monsoon wind. In temples, priests lit lamps of ghee for the fallen. In bazaars, women wept and sang songs not of defeat, but of awakening. A bard in Udaipur composed the first lines of Veeram Sutra, a poem that would outlive even the kings:

    “Where swords failed, minds rose. Where pride faltered, unity stood. And on the plains of Sirhind, fire learned to fight fire.”

    Khanwa, in another time, would have been the grave of Rajputana. But in this one, it was the battle that never was—erased not by forgetting, but by rewriting fate at Sirhind.

     The Southern Accord – Allies Beyond the Vindhyas

    While the smoke of Sirhind still curled into the skies of history, another wind stirred—south of the Vindhyas. Word of the Rajput victory had reached the courts of Vijayanagar, Ahmadnagar, Bijapur, and Golkonda. In the carved granite halls of Hampi and the marbled durbars of the Deccan Sultanates, curiosity turned to calculation. A ripple of unease spread, for if the North had united under sword and banner, the fragile equilibrium of peninsular India could no longer stand detached.

    Krishnadevaraya, emperor of Vijayanagar and the mightiest monarch south of the Krishna River, received the missive from Chittorgarh in the spring of 1526. Known for his brilliant campaigns against the Bahmani remnants and his literary court of eight famed poets—the Ashtadiggajas—he read the scroll twice, then summoned his council.

    The letter bore the seal of the newly formed Rajput Sangh. It was not a plea—it was a proposition. The Rajputs proposed a Southern Accord. Not a political annexation, but a defensive confederation—a loose military pact to share intelligence, trade in weaponry, and mutually resist Turkic and Persian expansionism. Such a pact was unprecedented. Rajput tradition, for centuries, had valued personal valor and lineage over federation. Each clan guarded its sovereignty like a jewel. The Sangh was not just a military arrangement—it was a reimagining of Rajput identity

    The emissaries arrived weeks later—led by Rao Hariram of Bundi, flanked by Brahmin scholars from Mewar and Bikaner. They carried not gold, but maps, blueprints of artillery designs adopted at Sirhind, and scrolls detailing Babur’s formation tactics.

    At Golconda, Sultan Quli Qutb-ul-Mulk, founder of the Qutb Shahi dynasty, received the news with interest. He had recently broken from the Bahmani Sultanate to establish his own state, and his court—rich in Persianate culture—viewed the Rajputs with caution. But when he learned that the Rajputs had repelled Babur’s artillery using Ottoman-inspired tactics, he remarked:

    “The swords of the past have forged minds of the future. Perhaps unity is not just for the ulema.”

    Ahmadnagar’s ruler, Burhan Nizam Shah I, whose mother was Persian and court multilingual, welcomed the idea cautiously. The city had a long-standing rivalry with Bijapur, but the specter of a pan-Islamic Mughal invasion looming over the North compelled him to listen. He agreed to send artillery master Muhammad bin Yusuf, a seasoned gunner formerly employed by the Ottomans, to Rajputana for training exchange.

    In Vijayanagar, Krishnadevaraya, though deep in campaigns against the Gajapatis of Odisha, paused to respond with his own hand. His response came in the early months of 1526—before the weight of war and declining health drew him back to the southern front. He sent his chief minister, Timmarusu, with a ceremonial cavalry escort to signal goodwill and symbolic support.

    He also penned a Sanskrit verse in his own script:

    “Those who do not bend to fear, rise through fire. Let us build not just walls, but wisdom between us. Let Deccan and Dilli rise not in conquest, but in clarity.”

    The Southern Accord was thus born—not as a signed doctrine but as a shared awakening. Rajput cavalry patrolled the borders of Berar. Deccan gunners set up forge stations outside Ajmer. Vijayanagar’s scribes documented Rajput battle formations for southern training manuals.

    This wasn’t just diplomacy—it was preparation for a united resistance.

    seated in the fort of Agra, recently won through blood and diplomacy, Babur stood and watched the reports flow in.

    “So, they have finally learned to speak as one,” he whispered. “Then I must find a way to divide the silence.”

    He began with the old art of empire—gold.

    Babur sent envoys in secret to smaller Rajput chieftains—those who had not been invited into the core of the Rajput Sangh. Offers of land, mansabdari positions, and Persian silk flowed quietly into courts at Nagod, Orchha, and Bundelkhand. Some listened.

    In Gwalior, where the legacy of Man Singh Tomar still echoed in crumbling palaces, Babur promised the return of ancestral lands. In exchange—intelligence, sabotage, betrayal.

    But the Sabha had anticipated this.

    Maharana Sanga’s spies intercepted messages. Rao Ganga sent envoys under Maldeo’s quiet supervision, grooming his son in the subtle arts of diplomacy and trust-building. “Do not sell your soil for silk,” he told them. “For gold can only buy silence, not honor.”

    The Sabha offered them something Babur never could—respect, recognition, and a future written in Rajput ink.

    In a gesture symbolic and bold, the Rajput Sangh offered a permanent seat to the Thakur of Orchha, who had once considered Babur’s proposal. At the induction, Ratan Singh declared:

    “Unity is not made of bloodlines, but of choices. Today, you have chosen your land.”

    Babur’s gold was met with loyalty. His whispers dissolved in a land now echoing with one sound—the silence of division resisted.

    Babur traded in coin. The Sabha countered with conviction.

    Frustrated but far from defeated, Babur shifted tactics.

    He returned to Delhi under the pretext of consolidating his hold over the recently acquired northern territories. But behind palace doors in Agra, his frustration boiled.

    “This is not how it was supposed to unfold,” he muttered, pacing before a map carved with bloodlines and borders. “They were supposed to fight each other, not stand together.” He hurled a goblet against the wall, shattering silver across sandstone. “If they have forged unity, I must forge encirclement.”

    He opened new lines of diplomacy with the rulers of Kabul and Balkh and invited reinforcements from Central Asia under the guise of pilgrimage protection. Simultaneously, he began fortifying Punjab, Babur expanded artillery stockpiles in Lahore, calling in more Ottoman gunsmiths from Herat and Kabul, and strengthening outposts along the Yamuna to block any further southern expansion by the Rajput Sangh. These moves, while never escalating into full-scale campaigns due to his early death in 1530, laid the groundwork for deeper Mughal entrenchment

    He also began fostering rebellion in Malwa, hoping the Sultanate there—long wary of Rajput influence—could be manipulated into becoming a proxy front.

    Even within the Rajput Sangh, debates ran long. Amber wanted greater influence over southern garrisons. Bundi hesitated at Vijayanagar’s expanding role. But none dared risk undoing what unity had begun to weave.

    Babur’s war was no longer just on the battlefield—it became a war of containment, attrition, and indirect destabilization.

    The Rajput Sangh, sensing the shift, began preparing accordingly. But a storm was building—one that would soon test not just swords and strategy, but patience, perseverance, and vision.

    Historical Interlude:The Road Not Taken

    In truth, history did not unfold this way.

    The Rajputs did not unite in time. Babur’s victory at Panipat in 1526 was followed by another at Khanwa in 1527, where a fragmented Rajput confederacy, led by the valiant Maharana Sanga, was defeated. The Mughals, armed with superior artillery and matchlock firearms, cemented their power in northern India.

    The Deccan Sultanates remained preoccupied with their own rivalries, and Vijayanagar, under Krishnadevaraya, never entered the northern theatre. The idea of a Rajput Sangh or a Southern Accord never materialized. Historically, Krishnadevaraya died in 1529. His support here is imagined as brief but crucial, occurring in 1526–27 before he refocused on Odisha and internal court challenges.

    But this story dares to imagine:

    What if the wounds of pride had been soothed by foresight? What if diplomacy had arrived before desperation? What if the Rajput swords had been sharpened by unity, not ego?

    This tale is not a denial of the past, but a tribute to the path untaken. A whisper from a parallel history, born not of fantasy, but of possibility.

    To be continued

    This article by Shailaza Singh was published in Rashtradoot Newspaper’s Arbit Section on 18 April 2025

  • The Pact of Chittorgarh: A Rajputana That Held

    History remembers the fall of Rajputana—kingdoms divided, betrayed by pride, broken by gunpowder. But what if Khanwa never happened—not because it was avoided, but because it was pre-empted by unity? This is not fantasy. It is the alternate heartbeat of a nation that almost rose together. Where blood feuds paused, swords crossed at the center, and silence dared to resist the roar of cannons.
    This is the India that could have been—if one pact had held.

    What you’re about to read is not fiction—but a historical reimagining.

    Based on real people, real battles, and real choices, this seven-part series dares to ask: What if the Rajputs had chosen unity before Babur crossed the Yamuna?

    We follow not myths but possibilities—where Maharana Sanga does not stand alone at Khanwa, but beside Rao Ganga and a young Maldeo learning at his father’s side,  Prithviraj, Karnavati, and forgotten nobles like Amar of Sirohi.

    There is no magic here. Only history, refracted through the mirror of imagination.

    This is a world where strategies evolved, pride bent to purpose, and silence resisted gold.

    This is the India that could have been—if we had held the line.

    The Turning Point – Mewar in Peril (1519)

    The sky over Chittorgarh burned red that night—not from fire, but from a bloodied sunset that followed three days of mourning. Maharana Sanga had returned from another exhausting campaign, his body weary, his resolve unshaken. Rumors whispered of growing threats—fractured loyalties, shifting alliances, and the slow approach of Babur’s thunder from the northwest.

    Across Rajputana, kingdoms stood proud but fractured—Mewar, Marwar, Amber, Bikaner, Jaisalmer—each entrenched in rivalry, blind to the northern shadow gathering force. Babur, the Timurid prince from Fergana, had crossed the Khyber. His cannons, his cavalry, his ambition—they spoke a language the Rajputs had not yet learned to counter. The thunder of gunpowder had echoed through Central Asia, but in the deserts of Rajasthan, the art of war still rode on horseback, drawn swords gleaming in the sun.

    But amid the mourning, Rao Ganga of Marwar moved with unexpected clarity. The seasoned ruler, often overlooked in broader politics, had begun listening to younger voices within his court—one of whom was his own son, Maldeo, barely a boy but already perceptive beyond his years. Though just a boy, Maldeo had already begun training in diplomacy and warcraft. His sharp mind was noted by court tutors, and Rao Ganga often said, ‘He sees what others ignore.’ Though still untested, Maldeo’s questions often stilled even veteran commanders. He was young, untested, but far from blind. He had heard whispers—of cannons that could breach fortresses, of matchlocks that could kill from afar, and of new formations that turned even small armies into immovable machines.

    Watching the flames dance atop Chittorgarh’s walls, Rao Ganga sent urgent missives across the land. His message was clear:

    “Let us not wait for Delhi to fall. Come to Chittorgarh. Bring no armies, only your word. Or we will die—not as warriors, but as relics.”

    It was a bold request. The Rajputs had never truly united. Honor was personal. Swords served lineage, not logic. And yet…

    Perhaps it was the wound in Sanga’s side, or the scent of Mughal ambition. Perhaps it was something deeper—a weariness in the hearts of warriors who had seen too many pyres, too many queens light their own.

    The rulers came.

    Raja Ratan Singh of Amber, Rawal Askaran of Dungarpur, Rao Suja of Bikaner, even the reclusive Jaitsi of Jaisalmer. And most importantly, the  Maharana Sanga himself, propped upon a carved sandalwood seat, his face shadowed but fierce.

    They did not arrive as allies. They arrived as rivals. But as they sat in the Sabha Hall, with dusk folding around them, young Maldeo stepped forward with his father’s permission

    He did not bow. He did not raise his voice. He simply said:

    “Babur does not know your flags. He does not care for your titles. He sees us all as one—divided, distracted, and ripe for conquest. He brings with him not just men, but machines. Weapons that spit fire. Cannons that crumble walls.”

    He looked at each of them.

    “But unity is stronger than any cannon. Strategy sharper than any blade. Let us build a council—a Rajput Sangh. Let us adapt. Let us learn. Let us fight the new war with new minds.”

    Rao Ganga placed his sword at the center of the stone floor but it was Maldeo’s words that had pierced the silence.

    “Let this be the last time we draw blades against each other. And the first time we raise them as one.”

    There was silence.

    Then Sanga spoke.

    “The day the sons of this soil stand shoulder to shoulder, is the day no foreigner will ever plant his flag here again.”

    One by one, the swords followed.

    That night, a pact was forged—not of submission, but of solidarity.

    And history, as we know it, began to split into two.

    The Gathering at Chittorgarh

    The morning that followed bore a rare silence. Not of peace—but of consideration. Of old kings weighing new truths.

    Within the Sabha Hall of Chittorgarh, a place once meant for royal court and council, the air had changed. The walls, heavy with tales of siege and sacrifice, now bore witness to something no bard had ever sung of: possibility—and tension.

    Maharana Sanga sat still, his presence commanded the room. His eyes—those fierce eyes that had once held the gaze of entire armies—watched each ruler like a hawk studying the wind.

    Raja Ratan Singh of Amber spoke first, arms crossed, tone sharp. “Let us not pretend this is noble. If we could unite, we would have done so long ago. Marwar mocks us with sermons. Do you forget the blood spilled between us at Merta, Maldeo?”

    Rao Suja of Bikaner leaned forward, his voice bitter. “And will we now take lessons from a prince still in his father’s shadow? Rao Ganga speaks through you, Maldeo. Do not mistake his wisdom as your own.”

    The Sabha bristled. Hands twitched near sword hilts. Servants held their breath.

    Maldeo, permitted by his father, stepped forward with fire in his eyes—more student than statesman, but sharp beyond his years. “Yes, there is blood between us. But Babur brings more. Blood that won’t distinguish between Marwar or Mewar. His cannons are not concerned with Rajput rivalries. His soldiers will not stop to ask which clan you belong to before they trample your gates.”

    He turned to Ratan Singh. “You fear Marwar leading? Then don’t let anyone lead alone. Form a council. Let it rotate. Let every kingdom hold voice and vote.”

    “And what of our spies? Our tactics? Shall we lay them bare before men we’ve fought all our lives?” asked Jaitsi of Jaisalmer. “What assurance do we have that this unity won’t be our undoing?”

    It was then that Maharana Sanga finally spoke.

    “Because we have already been undone,” he said.

    All turned to him.

    “We are not here because we trust each other. We are here because we do not trust Babur more. That is the only truth binding us today.”

    Silence returned, but this time it was weightier.

    Sanga continued, “If we cannot trust each other, let us trust necessity. Let us create a Rajput Sangh—not of loyalty, but of strategy. We will each keep our autonomy. But we will meet, every three moons, to share intelligence, to fund joint defenses, to prepare for what’s coming.”

    He leaned forward, voice edged with fire. “And if one among us breaks the pact for self-gain—then let all others descend upon him like the very army we now prepare to resist.”

    There were no cheers. Only silence. Then Rawal Askaran of Dungarpur slowly nodded.

    “A trial year,” he said. “A shared treasury. Shared scouts. Rotating leadership. But no oaths. Only action.”

    One by one, the heads began to bow—not in surrender, but in reluctant agreement. Not to each other, but to survival.

    And so, in the heart of an ancient fort, not with drums or fanfare but with grit and hard-won consensus, the first framework of the Rajput Confederation was forged.

    Not a kingdom. Not an empire. But something rarer—a necessity born of pride, transformed by fear.

     The Rajput Sangh – A Council of Swords and Sovereignty

    Three weeks after the gathering at Chittorgarh, the newly proposed Rajput Sangh met again—this time at Kumbhalgarh Fort, known for its impenetrable walls and remote vantage. It was a deliberate choice: isolated, protected, away from court politics and close to the beating heart of Mewar.

    The first agenda: structure. Who would lead? Who would speak? And what exactly would this council do?

    Rao Ganga proposed the outline. “We are not subjects. We are sovereigns. Let this be a rotating leadership—every kingdom to hold the position of Pramukh for three moons. Let decisions be made by majority, not decree.”

    “There must be spies in the north,” said Ratan Singh. “And diplomats sent south—to Vijayanagar, to the Sultanates of the Deccan. If Babur returns, we will not stand alone.”

    Maharana Sanga, despite his wounds, had already commissioned scouts to follow Mughal movements. He now proposed the appointment of a war strategist—a commander-in-chief chosen by the Sabha, not by birth.

    This drew murmurs.

    “A soldier above kings?” asked Rao Suja.

    “A soldier chosen by kings,” added Rao Ganga, with Maldeo nodding beside him, learning still. “One who answers to all of us, not just one of us.”

    Reluctantly, they agreed. And so, after much debate, Thakur Viramdev of Marwar, a fictional but plausible general loosely inspired by commanders of the Rathore lineage, a seasoned Rajput general known for his unconventional tactics and fierce independence, was named the first Commander-in-Chief of the Confederation Army. Merta was a Rathore stronghold. His real name, if ever sung in the bardic epics, is now lost to time—but his battlefield mind lived on in memory, forged in the fires of Merta.

    The treasury came next. Each kingdom would contribute grain, silver, and arms. It would be stored at a neutral location—Nagaur Fort—guarded by a combined battalion of soldiers from Amber, Bikaner, and Bundi.

    Then came the hard truth.

    It was Ratan Singh who voiced it. “For too long, we have feasted while our soldiers train with wooden spears. We have dressed in silks while our forts crumble. We have forgotten the calluses of our ancestors.”

    There was no rebuttal.

    “Babur is not merely stronger,” he continued, “he is prepared. His cannons are not myth. They are strategy. His muskets are not magic. They are metal, discipline, and fear.”

    Maharana Sanga’s voice rose next. “We must find those who understand these weapons. Reach out to the Deccan. To those who’ve already faced fire. Hire deserters from Babur’s own ranks. Let them teach us. Let our blacksmiths learn to cast more than blades. Let us awaken.”

    Maldeo added, “No more palaces without fort repairs. No more dances without drills. The age of idle honor is over. Let our pride be forged again—into readiness.”

    Finally, they agreed on symbols.

    A banner of the sun—Surya, the eternal witness—flanked by twin swords, one raised in defense, one lowered in restraint. The sun was chosen not just for divinity, but for its impartial gaze. The twin swords represented duality—courage and restraint, offense and protection. This was a new kind of Rajput warfare—not for conquest, but for preservation.

    “This flag,” Sanga declared, “does not belong to any one kingdom. It belongs to those who protect—not conquer—this land.”

    That night, they did not feast. They sat in quiet chambers, the weight of history beginning to settle on their shoulders. They had done the unthinkable: not united in affection, but in survival.

    And the wheels of a new future—imperfect, trembling, but resolute—had begun to turn.

    …To be continued

    This article by Shailaza Singh was published in Rashtradaoot Newspaper on 17 April 2025. Next part coming tomorrow—subscribe or follow the blog to read the full 7-part series.