The thrilling odyssey of Babur’s Quest for Hindustan

Aabhas Maldahiyar’s biographical sequel presents a clear, thoughtful, and deeply personal portrait of the founder of the Mughal Empire

GN Bureau | August 11, 2025


#Delhi   #Culture   #Babur   #History  
A portrait of Babur, from the Late Shah Jahan Album (Image: Courtesy Smithsonian Collections via WikiMedia/Creative Commons)
A portrait of Babur, from the Late Shah Jahan Album (Image: Courtesy Smithsonian Collections via WikiMedia/Creative Commons)

Following the success of his first book, ‘Babur: The Chessboard King’, Aabhas Maldahiyar returns with a sequel, ‘Babur: The Quest for Hindustan’ (Penguin India) — a meticulously researched, powerfully written exploration of one of the most complex figures in South Asian history.
 
Drawing from the original Persian manuscript of the ‘Baburnama’, the new presents a clear, thoughtful, and deeply personal portrait of Babur — not just as the founder of the Mughal Empire, but as a man caught between different worlds. It brings to light revealing findings on the destruction of the Ram Mandir, questions the idealized narrative of Ganga-Jamuni Tehzeeb, and uncovers the unequal nature of interfaith marriages under Timurid rule.
 
At its heart, the book delves into Babur’s inner struggles, his poetic and military strengths, and his search for belonging in a foreign land. It also reveals how his conquests led to the transfer of wealth from Hindustan to Central Asia, reshaping the region’s economy and culture. Clear, insightful, and well-researched, ‘Babur: The Quest for Hindustan’ promises to be essential reading for anyone interested in understanding the true legacy of Babur and the foundations of the Mughal Empire.
 
Here is an excerpt from the book:

Occupation of Dillī

Bābur had seized power and the strings of the future were in his hands. Humāyūn Mīrzā, a pawn in the game of kings, was beckoned forth, his steed galloping like thunder through the night. With him rode Khwāja Kalān, Muḥammadī, Shāh Manṣūr Barlās, Yūnas-i-‘alī, ‘Abdu’l-lah and Treasurer Walī, their silhouettes etched against the moon, harbingers of doom.

Their mission was shrouded in secrecy, akin to a viper’s whisper in the dark—to seize the jewel of Āgra, to pluck its treasures like ripe fruit from the vine, and to enslave its people under the weight of tyranny’s yoke. Meanwhile, Mahdī Khwāja, a serpent coiled in the grass, led his band of brigands towards Dillī’s gates, their eyes gleaming with a hunger for plunder and power.

As the sun cast its golden rays upon the earth, they marched onward, their footfalls a dirge upon the barren soil. Two miles hence, they halted, their horses finding respite on the banks of the Jūn, a river stained with the tears of the oppressed.

After dispatching the light troop against Ghāzī Khān, Bābur, the cunning usurper, placed his foot in the stirrup of ruthless ambition, set his hand on the rein of trust in fate and advanced like a storm against Sult̤ān Ibrāhīm, son of Sult̤ān Sikandar, grandson of Buhlūl Lūdī Afghān. At that time, the throne of the Dillī capital and the dominions of Hindūstān were under his control, guarded by an army of 1,00,000 and 1000 mighty elephants.

At the end of their first stage, Bābur, like a tyrant distributing the spoils of war, bestowed Dībālpūr on Bāqī Shaghāwal and sent him to aid Balkh. He also dispatched gifts, tainted with the success of Milwat, to his younger children and various attendants in Kābul. After they had made one or two marches down the Jaswān dūn, Shāh ‘Imād Shīrāzī arrived from Araish Khān and Mullā Muḥammad Maz̤ hab, bearing letters soaked in the flattery and falsehoods of those who wished for Bābur’s complete victory. In response, they sent, by a footman (pīāda), royal letters dripping with Bābur’s dark favour. They then marched on, like a relentless shadow creeping over the land.

On the night of 24 April, like wraiths emerging from the mist, they descended upon Dillī, the city founded by Anangpal Tomar. Before I continue to tell the tale and the disaster brought upon by Babur, I must take you through the historical past of Dillī.

Dillī, a city shrouded in myths and legends, carries a name steeped in the whispers of time. One tale traces its origin to Dhillu or Dilu, a king who, in BC 50, crafted a city and crowned it with his own name. Another story weaves through the fabric of Prakrit, where the word ‘dhili’ (loose) reflects the city’s tentative beginnings—the Tomaras christened it thus, lamenting the weak foundation of an iron pillar that once stood uncertain. In the chronicles of Panjab Notes and Queries, Dillī in the era of King Prithvīrāj was known as Dilpat, a name that echoed the old Hindī word ‘dil,’ meaning ‘eminence’. Alexander Cunningham, former director of the Archaeological Survey of India, noted the evolution of the name to Dihli or Dehli.

Some scholars suggest that the Tomaras minted coins known as Dehliwal, further embedding the city’s name in commerce and culture. In the ancient verses of the ‘Bhaviṣya Purāṇa’, it is said that King Prithvīrāj of Indraprastha built a new stronghold in today’s Purāṇa Qilā, for the ease of all in his realm. He commanded the crafting of a grand gateway, later calling the fort ‘Dehali.’

To some, Dillī or Dhillika remains the city’s true origin, while others whisper of its connection to ‘dehleez’ or ‘dehali’—Hindustānī words for ‘threshold’ or ‘gateway’—painting Delhi as the grand entrance to the Gangetic Plain, a threshold between realms.

Seven ancient cities thread through the mists of Dillī’s storied past, the earliest being Indraprastha, whispered in the Sanskrit epic Mahābhārata (considered Itihasa). Perched on a rise by the Yamunā’s sacred flow, Indraprastha’s description brushes against the contours of Purāna Qilā, a fourteenth-century stronghold of the Dillī Sultanate, as noted by art historian Catherine B. Asher. Yet, the resemblance fades like a mirage in the sun. The Mahābhārata sings of a city adorned in splendour and guarded by mighty walls, but the excavations yield only faint echoes—uneven shards of painted grey pottery, relics of a humbler past, rooted to more than 3000 years ago.

The earliest architectural vestiges (found so far) trace their roots to the Mauryan epoch (fourth century BC). In 1966, an inscription of Emperor Aśoka (BC 273–35) surfaced near Śrīnivaspurī, etched like a whisper of antiquity in stone. The remnants of bygone cities linger across Delhi, each one a spectral monument to the march of time. The first such city unfurled its legacy in the southern expanse of modern-day Delhi, where Tomara Rājput King Ānang Pāl laid the foundation of Lāl Koṭ, accompanied by the reverence of temples in AD 1052. In the mid-twelfth century, the Chauhān Rājputs, under the rule of Vigrahārāja-IV, seized Lāl Koṭ and christened it Qila Rāi Pithorā—a fortress reborn under the shadow of new rulers.

In the year 1052, the city of Dhillikā was woven into existence by Anangpāl Tomar, a scion of ancient dreams. An inscription, marked VS 1383, whispers from the halls of the Delhi Museum, where it declares:

"In a country called Haryānā, which is equivalent to heaven on earth, Tomars built a city called Dhillikā."

The venerable iron pillar, a sentinel of time, also bears testimony to Anangpāl Tomar as Delhi’s progenitor. Alexander Cunningham deciphered the inscription as:

“Samvat Dihali 1109 Ang Pāl bahi”
In Samvat 1109 [1052 CE], [Anang] Pāl peopled Dilli.

The name ‘Delhi’ finds its roots tangled in the word ‘Dhillikā’. Vibudh Shridhar, a bard of Apabhramsha, through his verses in Pasanaha Chariu (VS 1189–1230), first spun the tale of how Dhilli came to be:

"There are countless villages in Haryānā country. The villagers there work hard. They don’t accept the domination of others and are experts in making the blood of their enemies flow. Indra himself praises this country. The capital of this country is Dhilli."

The epic of Prithvīrāj Rāso too chronicles this tale of the Tomars and the enduring legend of the loosened nail:

"Anangpāl established the ‘Killi’ (nail) in Dhilli.
This tale cannot be removed from history ever."

The story of Dillī (Delhi) can be narrated for hours and days. Such is the intense past of the ground where Mahabharat transpired.

But now, I move towards narrating Bābur’s annexation of Delhi.

Delhi’s ancient walls trembled in fear. The tomb of Shaikh Niz̤āmu’d-dīn Auliyā bore witness to their dark deeds, its silent stones mourning the loss of innocence. But was it really a loss of innocence? Hadn’t Shaikh Niz̤āmu’d-dīn arrived in Bharat to robe away its peace and condemn the Kafirs to death?

[The footnotes in the original text, providing more explanation and references, are not included here. The excerpt reproduced with the permission of the publishers.]

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