The Fall of a Conqueror: Khanwa, Babur and Betrayal

The Fall of a Conqueror: Khanwa, Babur and Betrayal

From his ascension to the throne until 1526, Maharana Sanga stood as a towering chieftain at the pinnacle of Rajputana. His sword was stained with the blood of sultans, his alliance – building had forged a united front of clans under Mewar’s banner. His victories had brought Delhi, Malwa, and Gujarat to their knees, elevating the Mewar empire to its zenith. It was said of him that Rana Sanga was a force that clashed with the mightiest empires of northern India. Yet, nothing endures forever except valor, and a new shadow loomed on Mewar’s horizon. This was not the shadow of old foes but of a conqueror from beyond the Hindu Kush, one who cast aside morality to build dominion through destruction. A descendant of Timur and Genghis Khan, the Timurid prince Babur stepped into India with modern artillery and weaponry. His cannons shattered Ibrahim Lodi’s army at Panipat on April 21, 1526. The Mughal surge had begun, but the lion of Mewar, Maharana Sanga, saw in it both a threat and an opportunity. On March 17, 1527, the Battle of Khanwa pitted Rajput valor against Mughal innovation. On that soil unfolded a war destined to shape Hindustan’s fate. It was Sanga’s greatest challenge – a test of his courage and the beginning of a tale of internal rebellion that led to his downfall. Betrayal strikes deepest in war, and it was this betrayal that imbued Mewar’s heroic legacy in that battle with tragic glory.

The Rise of a New Foe

Babur’s triumph at Panipat was a thunderclap that echoed across Hindustan. Delhi’s influence had always cast a positive or negative shadow over every Indian empire. But now, Delhi’s character had changed – Ibrahim Lodi, Rana Sanga’s old adversary, lay dead, his dynasty extinguished. The Delhi Sultanate was no longer Lodi but had fallen into Mughal hands. Babur’s martial prowess stood apart, driven more by ruthless heart than sharp intellect. He brimmed with a brigand’s cruelty, bolstered by modern artillery, yet Delhi’s misfortune was that he was no mere raider. His aim was to forge an empire, his gaze fixed on Hindustan’s wealth, fame, and splendor. After establishing his new capital at Agra, he began surveying a fractured land divided among warring kings, ripe for conquest. Yet, it was not as simple as he thought, for one power stood tallest – Mewar under Rana Sanga, a king whose might surpassed even the sultans Babur deemed formidable. In the Baburnama, Babur praised Sanga, calling him India’s greatest ruler. He wrote of Rana as a man who fought hundreds of battles and bore the scars to prove it. To Babur, Sanga was not just a rival but a prize – a foe in that era who matched his strength.

Rana Sanga viewed Babur’s rise with a mix of caution and ambition. He had defeated Ibrahim Lodi twice, at Khatauli and Dholpur, pushing the Lodi Sultanate to the brink of collapse. Indeed, historians argue that Panipat was Babur’s indirect victory; he merely finished what Sanga had started. The Mughal presence in Delhi awakened Sanga’s grand dream. Delhi had always been India’s capital, and seizing this ancient seat was both his aspiration and resolve. He sought to resurrect the Hindu empire lost since the Pratihara days and, through his unification efforts, secure Hindustan’s throne for Rajputana. But perhaps Sanga underestimated Babur, dismissing him as a foreign marauder who would retreat to Kabul with a filled treasury. This misjudgment, born of Rajput disdain for outsiders and contemporary arrogance, proved a fatal error – one that could shatter Mewar’s dream.

Both kings circled each other, probing for victory and opportunity in a political game. Rana Sanga sent an envoy demanding Babur leave India, stating that if he relinquished Delhi’s throne, he could live in peace. This envoy was Raja Shiladitya, a Tomar chieftain known as Silhadi – a figure who would later turn the tide. Babur, stung by the audacity of this challenge amid his triumph, rejected the offer. He saw Sanga’s defiance as a threat to his nascent empire, a king whose courage and might could crush his lofty ambitions at their outset. Sanga’s diplomacy morphed into defiance, and war became inevitable. The prelude to battle remained uncertain, but war was now essential. With conflict at his doorstep, Rana Sanga rallied his forces, summoning his united clans – estimated at 100,000 strong – Sisodia, Rathore, Kachhwaha, Hara, and other Rajputs marched forth. Their advance was a sea of steel and banners. Babur encamped at Khanwa (near modern Bharatpur’s Fatehpur Sikri), his smaller army armed with cannons and gunpowder – weapons unfamiliar to the Rajputs at the time. The plains of Khanwa set the stage for a battle that would reshape India’s destiny.

The Battle of Khanwa: A Clash of Valor and Fire

The morning of March 17, 1527, dawned cold and clear. The fields of Khanwa lay ready as the backdrop for the impending clash. Sanga’s army stretched across the horizon – cavalry in the vanguard, infantry at the center, archers on the flanks. Mewar’s force, a host of 100,000 warriors, roared a war cry that was a tribute to their ancestors. Leading them rode Sanga himself – a wounded warrior astride his horse, his single arm gripping a sword, his crippled leg braced in the stirrup. His presence was a beacon in the chaos of battle. Scarred, one – eyed, unyielding, he embodied Rajput courage, pride, might, and valor. His sole creed was to fight to the last breath, to die before yielding. Beside him rode his allies – Rao Ganga of Marwar, Prithviraj Kachhwaha of Amber, Medini Rai of Chanderi, and countless chieftains whose loyalty had been forged in a decade of victories.

Babur’s army was smaller, perhaps 20,000, yet armed with modern cannons and ferocious intent. He arrayed his troops in a defensive line, linking wagons into a makeshift fortress, cannons positioned between them, archers and gunners stationed behind. His strategy was unconventional – a blend of Central Asian tactics and Ottoman innovation, proven in wars far from India’s shores. He knew the Rajputs’ strength lay in their charge, their courage a honed weapon that could cleave weaker foes. But against numerical odds, his cannons – tufang and zarb – zan – were his trump card. The roar of foreign – made artillery was a terror the Rajputs had never faced. Fighting cannons was an entirely new experience for their army. Some say that as the sun rose, Babur prayed before battle, vowing to forsake wine if Allah granted him victory – a rare glimpse, perhaps, of the man within the sultan.

The battle began with a Rajput charge – a wave of cavalry thundered toward Babur’s lines. Rana Sanga led the assault, his voice cutting through the din: “For Mewar! For honor!” Forty thousand horsemen surged, the earth trembling, their lances piercing Mughal outriders, their swords flashing in the morning light. The initial clash was a triumph – Babur’s front line buckled under the Rajput onslaught, his troops fleeing before their wrath. For a moment, victory seemed near; the Mughal force swayed like reeds in a storm. Sensing the opportunity, Sanga pressed the attack, his army advancing with the force of nature. For an instant, it felt as though his dream would come true, Delhi’s gates opening to his bloodstained hands. But he had not reckoned with the power of cannons, a wholly new form of warfare.

Victory seemed close – then the cannons roared. A sky – shattering blast tore through the air, smoke and flames rising from Babur’s wagons. Iron shot ripped through Rajput ranks, horses screamed and fell, soldiers were shredded in an instant. Trained for close combat – lance, sword, and raw strength – the Rajputs had no answer to this new demon. Their shields were useless against cannonballs, their valor mocked by distance. Yet Sanga’s resolve held firm. He rallied his men, his single eye fixed on the enemy, his sword raised amid the chaos: “Fear not the fire – strike its source!” He roared, urging them toward the cannons. A second wave charged, infantry and cavalry together closing the gap with grim determination. They reached the wagons, cut ropes, slew gunners, silencing some cannons in a frenzy of steel. The sudden assault shook Babur’s line, his archers faltering under Rajput blades.

But no wound cuts deeper than betrayal, an old specter of Rajput history rearing its head at a decisive moment. Silhadi, commanding 30,000 troops from Raisen, switched sides to join Babur. Whether driven by greed for gold, fear of cannons, old enmity with Sanga, or something else, it mattered little. Retreat in battle is not an option, and his treachery tore at the alliance’s edge. The Mughal army leapt from the breach, advancing as their muskets rained death, their cavalry circling to envelop. Sanga’s forces, weakened by betrayal, began to fracture – the Rathores held the left, the Kachhwahas the right, but the center wavered. Babur seized the moment, his cannons pounding, his horsemen ravaging the Rajput rear. The battlefield became a mire of blood and dust, the air thick with the screams of the dying.

Betrayal broke the army, and wounds and deceit battered Sanga’s body. Yet his resolve and might never faltered – he fought like a demon. His horse fell, an arrow pierced his ribs, but he rose, limping, and unleashed a whirlwind on Babur’s troops. As rebellion flared at the center, loyal forces swiftly filled the gap. Around him, his faithful – Prithviraj Kachhwaha, Maldev Rathore, and Jhala chieftains – formed a shield. Countless soldiers fell in the chaos of betrayal, but Sanga stood like a wall against the Mughal tide. His peers witnessed his unparalleled form that day – wound after wound, blood soaking his armor, yet he endured. Some called him a war demon, defying fate. His army’s courage surged; seeing their Rana unbowed, they fought with such ferocity that Babur’s forces reeled. But the odds were now impossible – betrayal’s foundation may have been laid earlier. Otherwise, Babur would not have dared enter battle with just 20,000 men. He had gauged the treachery, weaving his web around it, exploiting the Rajputs’ inability to counter guns and cannons with internal dissent he had foreseen. Victory became unattainable, yet Sanga fought on. As the situation grew dire, he collapsed unconscious, struck by blade or shot, his ravaged body lying amid the carnage. Loyal vassals found him, presuming him dead, and bore him from the field. Prithviraj and Maldev spirited him away as the Rajput lines scattered.

So close to triumph, Rana Sanga’s unyielding resolve was undone by betrayal’s dagger. Wounded, he was carried from the field, but the battle was lost. The defeated army faced no mercy – Babur’s forces slaughtered thousands, and Khanwa’s plain became a grave for countless dreams due to Rajput betrayal. The Mughals claimed victory, securing their empire – perhaps fulfilling Babur’s vow to Allah or shifting his fate through treachery. In Sanga’s absence, his army, believing their king dead, dispersed. The defeat at Khanwa crushed not only Rajputana’s ambition for Delhi but also the dream of unity Sanga had forged. The battle ended, and with it, his hope for Delhi faded.

Return and Oath

Rescued from Khanwa’s field, Rana Sanga regained consciousness near Dausa at Baswa, where his loyalists sheltered him from the Mughals. His wounds were deep – physical and mental. Some say a dozen new scars joined the eighty old ones, yet his spirit burned brighter than ever. News of Khanwa’s loss, Silhadi’s betrayal, and the deaths of thousands struck him hard. A lesser man might have broken under such wounds, but Sanga was no ordinary soul. As he awoke, he swore an oath: he would not return to Chittor until he defeated Babur and seized Delhi. Born of Rajput honor, it was a defiance against a fate that mocked his broken body. His wounds took time to heal, but upon regaining strength, he began rebuilding his army, summoning his scattered allies once more. His voice was a clear call amid Khanwa’s ashes. The effort to unite had staggered but not shattered. Word of Sanga’s survival spread through Rajputana, and his resilience drew men back to him – his courage unbroken even by defeat.

After Sanga’s loss, northern India fell under Babur’s sway. Crowned sultan of Delhi, Babur shifted his capital from Kabul to Agra, tightening his grip on the land Sanga had sought to claim. His courtiers hailed Khanwa as a greater triumph than Panipat, for it crushed Rana Sanga’s Rajput renaissance – the strongest voice of Rajputana. Yet Babur learned Sanga lived, though he did not pursue him – perhaps out of respect, or fear of facing that one – eyed lion again. Sanga’s retreat was no surrender – it was a pause, a gathering of strength for a war or dream he could not fight to its end in life.

Glory: A Beginning in the End

History records two conflicting dates for Rana Sanga’s passing – January 30 or perhaps May 20, 1528, at Kalpi. Months after Khanwa, he departed, but accounts of his end vary, shrouding it in mystery. The cause remains veiled – whispers of poison by chieftains, names like Banbir or Maldev Rathore, whose ambition grew in his father’s shadow, men who feared pursuing Babur would ruin them alongside Sanga. Others say decades of war exhausted his body, over eighty wounds too much even for his iron will. Whatever the truth, he died as he lived – a rebel for his homeland, crippled yet strong, his gaze fixed on Delhi until death, his oath unfulfilled but unbroken.

Khanwa was a defeat for Rana and Mewar, yet it crowned Sanga’s legacy with tragic splendor. Plainly seen, he fell not to weakness but to a new age he could not halt. The change Babur brought – cannons and gunpowder – was novel to India’s traditional warfare, a shift the Rajputs lacked an answer for in time. Historian André Wink argues Khanwa, more than Panipat, solidified Mughal rule, breaking Sanga’s Rajput revival. Had Silhadi stood firm, had the guns fallen silent, Sanga might have rewritten India’s fate. Instead, his fall paved the way for Babur’s successors – a dynasty that would reign for centuries. The betrayal at Khanwa bore the blame for every crime Babur committed.

Sanga’s body departed, but his great spirit and resolve endured. His resolve was a fire whose spark flared again in his grandson, Maharana Pratap, who challenged Akbar with that same blaze, resolve, might, and pride. Khanwa was not the end but the start of a flame that coursed through Mewar’s blood. It was a harsh trial where Sanga’s valor shone brightest amid the direst odds. He fell from a throne not in shame but in glory. His name remains a roar, echoing through ages in the soul of every proud Rajput forever.

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