(By Aparna Gupta, Researcher at Pathbeat)
On June 18, 1576, in the narrow, turmeric-hued mountain pass of Haldighati, a brief but epochal confrontation unfolded between two visions of India—one imperial, the other fiercely independent. Fought from dawn till noon under the sweltering sun, the Battle of Haldighati has since transcended the pages of history to become a symbol of valour, resistance, and enduring pride for the Indian consciousness.
At stake that morning was more than just terrain or titles. It was Emperor Akbar’s expansionist ambition clashing with Maharana Pratap’s unwavering stand for the freedom and self-rule of the land and its people. While much of Rajasthan, including the formidable fort of Chittor, had already succumbed to the Mughal juggernaut, Pratap stood defiant—unbending, undefeated, and unwilling to be reduced to a vassal king in someone else’s court. It was this stand for self-rule and dignity that made Haldighati more than a military event—it became an assertion of identity.
Commanding the Mughal forces was Kunwar Mān Singh of Amber, merely 26, leading the campaign of his 34-year-old emperor. On the opposing side stood the 36-year-old Maharana Pratap, already a legend in the making. Known reverently as Kika, Pratap was no ordinary warrior. Born on May 9, 1540, to Maharana Udai Singh, he was forged in the crucible of royal discipline and wilderness exposure. Towering and resolute, with a high brow and commanding presence, his eyes sparkled with the fire of unshaken courage.
What distinguished Pratap, however, was not just his royal lineage or martial prowess, butthe life he led in exile and the kinship he forged with the rugged tribes of his realm. His childhood, spent amidst the jagged hills and thorny bushes of Mewar, shaped a sovereign who understood the land and its people. His affinity with the Bhils—a tribal community known for their climbing skills, loyalty, and bushcraft—would prove to be a decisive asset in
his guerilla campaigns against the Mughal forces. Their unflinching loyalty, born of mutual respect and shared struggle, transformed them into more than allies; they became Pratap’s extended family in arms.
The battle lines drawn at Haldighati were not just military formations, but the outcome of diverging historical trajectories. In the decades preceding the fateful encounter, the fortunes of the Mughals and Mewaris had been on an opposite arc. From exiled fugitives, the Mughals had clawed their way back to power, cementing their presence across northern, central, and western India. In contrast, Mewar—once the proud vanguard of the Rajput confederacy—found itself increasingly isolated, defending its shrinking independence against a surging tide of imperial expansion.
Yet even in the shadow of this Mughal ascendancy, the path to war was neither impulsive nor unprovoked. There were repeated efforts at peace, many rounds of parley where the imperial court attempted to sway Maharana Pratap through persuasion rather than pressure. Emissaries such as Jalal Khan Qurchi, Prince Mān Singh, Raja Bhagwant Das, and Raja Todar Mal were dispatched to Mewar between 1572 and 1573, bearing terms of alliance and appeals for submission.
But Pratap, resolute in safeguarding Mewar’s sovereignty, rebuffed all offers. He refused to accept the symbolic subjugation that came with the Mughal alliance, where his kingdom would be reduced from a sovereign state to a provincial jagir.
One encounter from this diplomatic dance has endured in folklore with all the vividness of theatre and all the tension of a political thriller. Kunwar Mān Singh of Amber—representing the Mughals and himself once a vassal of Mewar—was sent to negotiate an alliance. The chosen venue was the tranquil banks of Lake Udaisagar. A grand feast was laid in honour of the emissary, yet Rana, invoking illness, declined to attend and instead sent his son Amar
Singh. The gesture was deliberate—symbolic of Pratap’s unwillingness to treat Mān as an equal.
Offended, Mān Singh demanded the Rana’s presence in person. When denied, he stormed away from the feast with a parting threat—“Abide then in peril, if such be your resolve; but remember—I shall come again and if I do not humble your pride, my name is not Mān!” As chronicler James Tod records, Rana replied coolly, “He (Pratap) should always be happy to meet him.” Yet it was a voice from the background—attributed by Kesri Singh to the loyal Dodiya Bhim—that drove home the insult with earthy Rajput bluntness: “Don’t forget to bring your Phoopha (Akbar) with you!”
This exchange, wrapped in honour and edged with sarcasm, encapsulated the deeper tension between the two powers. Akbar, despite his political finesse, was not content with merely possessing the forts and provinces of Mewar. He sought complete submission—a symbolic gesture from the Rana that would finalise Mughal dominance over the region. It was not merely conquest that Akbar envisioned; it was consolidation. His policy was strategic, aiming to choke Mewar through a complete economic and military blockade, isolating it from allies and resources, and pressuring its ruler into submission.
Simultaneously, this tactic served a dual purpose—securing Mewar while laying the foundation for enhanced westward connectivity through strategic corridor-building into Gujarat.
In the face of growing pressure and narrowing options, Maharana Pratap stood alone—yet unshaken. Haldighati was thus not born of aggression but as the last resort of a sovereign who valued self-respect over submission, honour over expediency. Fully aware of the consequences, Maharana Pratap prepared with grim determination. He shifted his capital from Gogunda to the more secure Kumbhalgarh, scorched the fertile plains of central Mewar to deny sustenance to the enemy, and rallied the Bhils and other
loyal clans to fortify his defences. Strategic outposts were set up across his realm.
Akbar, frustrated by failed diplomacy and emboldened by the momentum of conquest, turned to war. From the Mughal court at Ajmer, he appointed Mān Singh—among his most trusted and valiant generals—to lead the expedition. In a symbolic gesture at the Dargah of Khwaja Moinuddin Chisti, he honoured Mān Singh with a robe and a steed, entrusting him with the mission to subdue the defiant Rana.
As the summer set in during 1576, a considerable Mughal force of nearly 20,000 strong troops marched into Mewar and camped at Mandalgarh. The imperial command structure was formidable: Asaf Khan served as second-in-command, and the army featured seasoned veterans like Ghazi Khan Badakshi, Syed Ahmad and Hashim Barha, Qazi Khan, Mihtar Khan, and Ali Murad Uzbek, as well as Rajput commanders Lonkaran Kachhwa, Madhav Singh, and Jagannath Kachhwa. Against this might, stood Maharana Pratap with barely 3,000–4,000 Rajput warriors, determined to defend their land—not just with arms, but with unyielding will.
Though heavily outnumbered, Maharana Pratap’s army brimmed with valour and unwavering loyalty. A formidable coalition of noble houses and warrior clans rallied under his banner—each bringing legacy, grit, and deep personal stake in Mewar’s freedom. Among those who joined the resistance were Jhala Mān Singh of Badi Sadri, Krishnadas Chundawat of Salumbar, Rawat Netsi and his son Mān Singh, Jhala Mān Singh Sajjawat of Delwara, and Dodiya Bhim Singh of Lava. They were joined by Raja Ramshah Tomar of Gwalior, the grandson of the illustrious Raja Mān Singh Tomar, along with his sons Salivahan Singh, Bhan Singh, and Pratap Singh. The Rathors too were represented—Sankar Das and his son Narhari Das, as well as Keindas and Ramdas, and Ramdas of Badnor, whose father Jaimal had famously defended Chittor.
The poet-soldiers of Mewar, including the Charans—Rama Sandu, Barhat Jaisa, and Barhat Keshav of Soniyana—lent not only their swords but also their voices to the cause of honour. The Bhil tribal chief Rao Poonja, whose people were native to the rugged terrain of Mewar, brought the advantage of guerrilla expertise and unwavering loyalty.
Perhaps the most intriguing figure in this mosaic of resistance was Hakim Khan Sur, reputedly a descendant of Sher Shah Suri. Motivated by ancestral enmity toward the Mughals, Hakim Khan joined the Mewar forces in a freelance capacity.
At daybreak, the Mewar forces launched a fierce assault near the mountain pass. The rugged terrain and ensuing chaos caused Mughal-allied Rajputs to flee and collide into their own ranks. Badayuni notes that friend and foe became indistinguishable, prompting Asaf Khan to order indiscriminate slaughter—leading to devastating friendly fire.
Amidst the confusion, Maharana Pratap stormed down the pass, breaking through the Mughal left flank and scattering key commanders like Qazi Khan. Despite resistance, even hardened fighters retreated under pressure, invoking religious sanction to flee overwhelming odds. As the battle spilled from the uplands to the plains of Khamnor—later named Rakht-tal or “Field of Blood”—the combat intensified in deadly earnest.
As the battle descended into a bloodied frenzy in the plains near Khamnor, it was time for the most formidable beasts of war to enter the fray. Towering war elephants, trained to charge through formations and strike fear into the enemy, became the next instruments of chaos. Jamal Khan Faujdar led forward the Mughal elephant Gajmukta, countered swiftly by Mewar’s mighty Lona, famed for breaking enemy ranks. In a brutal engagement, Lona mauled Gajmukta, forcing it to retreat. But just as the tide turned, a bullet felled Lona’s mahawat (handler), sending the riderless beast wandering aimlessly out of the battlefield.
Then came the battle’s most storied and poignant moment—Ram Prasad, the iconic elephant of Maharana Pratap’s army, entered the field. Revered for his immense strength and intelligence, and often spoken of with awe even within the Mughal court, Ram Prasad was the symbol of royal loyalty. Led into battle by Pratap Singh, the youngest son of Raja Ramshah Tomar of Gwalior, the mighty elephant rampaged through the Mughal lines. According to contemporary records, Ram Prasad struck down thirteen Mughal war elephants and inflicted devastating losses upon the enemy.
So coveted was this elephant that Akbar had long yearned to possess him. After the battle, Ram Prasad was captured—not through submission, but as a war trophy claimed through sheer attrition. Renamed Peerprasad in the Mughal camp and treated with royal indulgence, the loyal elephant refused both food and water in captivity. His fast unto death over 18 days became legendary—a silent yet stirring symbol of allegiance to his master, Maharana Pratap. Akbar himself is said to have remarked, “The one whose elephant didn’t bow before me—how could I ever defeat the master?”
As the battlefield erupted in chaos and elephants clashed, a distinct roar rose above the rest—Maharana Pratap, hearing the call of his embattled chiefs, surged forward with the determination of a leader defending his motherland. Mounted on his legendary steed Chetak, the Maharana carved a blazing path through enemy lines, scattering Mughal guards before making a bold charge at Kunwar Mān Singh himself, who was mounted high atop a war elephant.
Chetak, the valiant Marwari horse, is remembered not just for speed and strength, but for unparalleled loyalty. According to tradition, he had been brought to Mewar with two other stallions, Atak and Natak, but it was Chetak who galloped into legend. Donning a mask shaped like a baby elephant to confuse Mughal mounts, he reared onto his hind legs in a feat of daring agility, enabling Maharana Pratap to strike Mān Singh with his lance. Though the attack missed its primary target, it fatally wounded the mahawat and damaged the howda, forcing Mān to seize control of his terrified beast mid-battle—a moment even chroniclers like Abu Fazl and Badayuni acknowledged for its drama and danger.
As Mughal fighters including Madhav Singh rushed to protect their commander, Pratap came under heavy arrow fire. He was shielded by the indomitable Raja Ramshah Tomar of Gwalior, who—alongside his three sons—fought to his last breath defending the Maharana. Their bravery was so immense that even Mughal historians recorded it with awe. In parallel,
Mewar folklore recounts Pratap’s fierce duel with the giant Bahlol Khan, whom he split in half along with his horse in a single devastating blow.
Just as the tide of war seemed to tilt toward Mewar, a deceptive maneuver from the Mughal rear altered its course. Mihtar Khan, observing the disarray among his ranks, ordered the kettle-drums to beat, falsely signaling the arrival of Emperor Akbar himself with fresh reinforcements. The psychological stroke worked—the demoralized Mughal contingents found renewed courage, while uncertainty rippled through the Mewar ranks.
Amid this sudden reversal, Maharana Pratap, wounded by both arrow and spear, realized the futility of further bloodshed against such overwhelming odds. He chose a strategic withdrawal, a decision marked not by defeat, but by the valor with which it was executed. His loyal steed Chetak, though grievously injured, summoned its final strength to carry the Maharana away from danger before collapsing in death—its legacy forever etched in Rajasthan’s collective memory.
In a supreme act of self-sacrifice, Jhala Mān Singh of Sadri—or Bida Jhala as some accounts name him—took up Pratap’s royal insignia and rode into the thick of battle, drawing enemy fire upon himself by deliberately presenting the illusion that he was the Maharana. His heroic deception, along with the stand of 350 warriors who remained to face the Mughal onslaught, bought precious time for Maharana to retreat. The remnants of the Mewar force, shielded by the Bhils and possibly aided by Pratap’s estranged brother Shakti Singh, dispersed safely into the Aravalli hills.
Despite the tactical withdrawal of the Mewar forces, the Mughal army—shaken by the day’s events—chose not to pursue. Deep in unfamiliar terrain, with severed supply lines and the looming threat of Bhil ambushes from the dense hills, they found themselves stranded. The hills echoed with silence, but the fear of unseen arrows and catapults rendered any forward movement perilous. Reduced to subsisting on local mangoes and animal flesh, the morale of the imperial army plummeted. What began as a confident march into Gogunda soon turned into a logistical and psychological quagmire.
Man Singh, caught in the thick of uncertainty, did not—or perhaps could not—communicate effectively with the imperial court. The gravity of the situation only reached Akbar when Mahmud Khan arrived with firsthand reports. Even then, skepticism surrounded Mughal claims of victory. When Badayuni paraded the captured elephant Ram Prasad through Amber as a war trophy, his tales of triumph were met with disbelief by the populace—perhaps reflecting a deeper understanding of the ground reality.
By September’s end, Akbar recalled Man Singh, and the Mughal forces withdrew. Though the battlefield remained in imperial hands, the campaign was far from a success. The Mughal objective—to subjugate Mewar—remained unfulfilled. With hundreds of soldiers lost and morale eroded, even Akbar’s trusted generals bore the brunt; Man Singh and Asaf Khan faced temporary exile.
In the years that followed, Pratap, the unwavering defender of his motherland, recaptured most of his kingdom through relentless guerrilla warfare. Until his death in 1597, he ruled Mewar as a sovereign, unconquered by the might of the empire. The Battle of Haldighati, thus, stands not as a tale of communal confrontation, but as a testament to undying resistance, valor, and the indomitable spirit of freedom.
