• Did you know that Bakhtiyar Khilji, destroyer of revered centres of education like Nalanda and Vikramshila wanted to invade Tibet. Route was through Assam. However, Raja Prithu of Assam denied him access and defeated him in battle. Tibetans should be grateful to the Assamese.  

Excerpt from book ‘Land of the Eastern Light – Assam before the Ahoms’. The author N Barooah is kind enough to share chapter on Bakhtiyar Khilji, the man who is said to have destroyed Nalanda, (Bihar) but was defeated in Assam.

To read author’s interview in the Hindustan Times. “Bhaskaravarman’s story tells us that Assam was anything but peripheral to Indian politics. When Sasanka of Gauda and Devagupta of Malwa captured Kannauj, overthrew Grahavarman and imprisoned his wife Rajyashri, Harshavardhana’s sister, Bhaskara offered Harsha his support. Harsha advanced from the west, while Bhaskara brought his formidable war elephants from the east. Their campaign against Gauda propelled the Kamarupa king onto the wider political stage.  

Bakhtiyar Khilji marched through Kamarupa towards Tibet, only to suffer a disastrous defeat on the banks of the Brahmaputra, near present-day North Guwahati, at the hands of the ruler of Kamarupa.”

2. ASI Board states final closure came around 1200 A.D. due to invasion of B Khilji.

We now share verbatim excerpts from relevant chapter in book. For the sake of brevity deleted some parts that do not have significant historical value. The writing is crisp and kept me engaged all through. Book is a must read. Author given permission to eSamskriti to share. - Editor.

Kamarupa’s Sword 

The story of Kamarupa’s decline and eventual disintegration is one steeped in complexity, marked by shifting power dynamics, external invasions and the eventual fall of its once-mighty kingdom. At the heart of this turbulent chapter is Prithu, the last ruler of Kamarupa, whose dramatic confrontation with Bakhtiyar Khilji in the early thirteenth century remains one of the most underexplored and enigmatic episodes in the region’s history. It is a tale that deserves more attention as it encapsulates not just the military might of Prithu but also the cultural and political currents that shaped Assam during that era.

Moments later, we found ourselves crossing the Saraighat Bridge, an engineering marvel that stretches across the Brahmaputra. This very river, which had borne witness to the fierce naval battles between Lachit Barphukan and the Mughals, had also seen the violent clash between Prithu’s forces and the invading Bakhtiyar Khilji’s army centuries earlier. 

By 3.45 p.m., we arrived at the heart of Prithu’s capital in Rajaduar, north Guwahati, the ancient capital city of Pragjyotishpura. It was here, amidst the ruins of old fortifications and temples, that we sought to uncover the traces of two of Assam’s greatest victories.

Somewhere near Amingaon, we stopped for tea at a wayside shack, where the owner, a wiry old man with the sun-tanned skin of someone who had lived in this land long enough to read the seasons like a script, asked me what business brought me to this forgotten bend of the map.

When I told him I had come in search of Raja Prithu, his face crinkled into a knowing smile, the kind only memory or myth can provoke. ‘Ahh, Prithu Raja,’ he said, drawing out the name as if tasting it. ‘People don’t ask about him much these days. He was a lion, they say. A king who faced Bakhtiyar head-on. You’ll want to go to Rajaduar. That’s where the story begins.’

The story of Raja Prithu—at once a real ruler and a spectral figure of resistance—is one such story, located at the confluence of myth, regional memory and the relentless current of imperial ambition. 

By the time we reached Rajaduar, the clouds had settled in with finality. The town stood still in the afternoon quiet, the Brahmaputra wide and slow beside it, stained brown with the run-off of distant Himalayan storms. I walked down to the river’s edge, where boatmen were idling under makeshift tarpaulin roofs, mending nets and sipping tea. I asked one of them if he had heard of Raja Prithu. He nodded without hesitation. 

‘Of course,’ he said. ‘They say he ruled from here, back when this was the capital of Kamarupa. When Bakhtiyar came riding from the west, burning and conquering, it was Prithu who made him stop. The only king in the east who didn’t run.’

Our first stop was the Kanhai Boroxi Bowa Xil inscription. Etched in stone, this inscription, dated to 1206 CE (Shaka Era 1127), commemorates Prithu’s victory over Khilji’s forces, marking the invader’s retreat from Kamarupa. 

शाक ११२७

शाके तुरगयुग्मेशे मधुमासत्रयोदशे ।

कामरूपं समागत्य तुरुष्काः क्षयमाययुः ।।

[In Shaka year 1127, on the thirteenth day of the Month of Honey (Chaitra), upon arriving in Kamarupa the Turks perished.3]

5 Kanhai Barashi Rock Inscription 1. Courtesy swarajyamag.com

Sanyal, as always, was fascinated by this lesser-known corner of history. ‘This inscription,’ he said, carefully examining the stone, ‘isn’t just a record of a battle. It’s an assertion of a kingdom’s resilience, a challenge to the conventional narrative of a weakened India under foreign rule. Prithu’s victory here is often overshadowed by the more dramatic tales from the north and west.’

Now I wanted to know more. What did Kamarupa look like in the twelfth century, when the great Islamic conquerors began to pour into the Gangetic plains? Who was Prithu to his people, and how did he come to bear the burden of being the last line of resistance against one of the most ambitious campaigns of early medieval India?

To begin answering that, we must pull back—far back—from the rain-slicked road to Rajaduar, from the boats bobbing on the Brahmaputra, from the oral fragments that cling to the name of Prithu like barnacles to a forgotten ship. We must look at the geopolitical fabric of eastern India in the twilight of the first millennium, when kingdoms rose and fell in the margins of greater empires, and when the land that would later be known as Assam was a crossroads of cultures, faiths and military ambitions.

By the time of Prithu, the political landscape of Kamarupa had grown increasingly fractured. The earlier Palas of Kamarupa had seen their power diminished, and local chieftains had begun asserting autonomy. The western frontiers of Kamarupa, particularly the area around present-day Dhubri and Cooch Behar, had come under the rule of independent feudal lords, one of whom would eventually emerge as Vishwasundara Deva or Prithu, the successor of Vallabha Deva.

Despite his pivotal role in defending the region against external invasions, Prithu’s legacy has largely been overshadowed by the scarcity of contemporary historical sources. These gaps in historical evidence have contributed to his neglect in both regional and broader South Asian historiographies. For example, the evidence for the name Prithu/Britu is notably thin, considering it is nowhere to be found in local sources. The Gostol pillar inscription of Nagaon only mentions Vishwasundara Deva who ruled around Shaka Era 1146 or 1225 CE. 

The Tabaqat-i-Nasiri mentions someone named Britu/Bartu who was from Awadh and not Kamarupa, although the stories point towards a ruler of Kamarupa. The name Prithu first appears in the work of colonial-era gazetteers who conducted research in Rangpur and Panchagarh in present-day Bangladesh. The Scottish geographer Francis Buchanan-Hamilton found this figure revered as a mythical hero by the people in this region.

Hence, what we know of Prithu does not come from Assamese inscriptions and chronicles—there were few written in that era—but from the records of his enemies. Chief among them is the Tabaqat-i-Nasiri, written in Persian by Minhaj-i-Siraj, a thirteenth-century historian and courtier of the Delhi Sultanate. In that text, Prithu appears not just as a name, but as a figure of resistance, the last significant ruler to challenge Bakhtiyar Khilji’s eastern campaign.

Bakhtiyar Khilji’s Reign of Terror

My mind wandered back to the invader whose forces had been decisively defeated here—Bakhtiyar Khilji. A formidable Turko-Afghan general, Khilji’s campaigns across northern India were marked by brutal acts of destruction. He was notorious for targeting centres of learning and cultural heritage, particularly those associated with Buddhism and Hinduism.

Khilji emerged as one of the most prominent military figures during the early thirteenth century in the Indian subcontinent. His name is etched in the annals of history not just as a conqueror, but as a symbol of brutality, his campaigns marked by wanton destruction and ideological conquest. Khilji’s journey to prominence began in an almost unremarkable manner, in the shadow of the Ghorid empire. 

Initially, he sought to join the army of Qutb ud-Din Aibak, the founder of the Delhi Sultanate. However, Aibak refused to grant him a position in his army, and Khilji found himself wandering the vast subcontinent in search of opportunity. His travels eventually took him south-east from Delhi to the Awadh region, where he met the Sultan of Awadh in 1193 CE. With the Sultan’s help, Khilji settled around two villages in Mirzapur, from where he would launch his raids into the eastern territories, targeting the regions of Bengal, Cooch Behar and Kalinga (modern-day Odisha). These early forays, however, were not mere skirmishes but marked the beginning of Khilji’s pattern of ruthless warfare. 

His raids into these areas were characterized by extreme violence and terror. Villages were systematically destroyed, homes set ablaze and wealth plundered. But perhaps the most appalling aspect of Khilji’s conquests was his treatment of women. Capturing them during these raids, Khilji’s forces would often take them as sex slaves, a brutal reflection of his total disregard for the lives and dignity of those he subjugated. 

These early years of Khilji’s military activity were not just about expanding his influence but also about enforcing a vision—one in which Islam would dominate the lands he conquered, while the symbols and institutions of the indigenous cultures were systematically eradicated.

3 Dargah modern day, at Odantapura University ruins.  

This vision was most clearly manifest in his attacks on the great centres of learning and religious institutions that dotted eastern India. Among his most notorious conquests were the Buddhist and Hindu universities of Odantapuri and Vikramashila in Bengal. These institutions, once vibrant centres of scholarship and religious thought, were reduced to rubble under Khilji’s forces. 

The Tabaqat-i-Nasiri records the scale of the destruction, stating: ‘They captured the fortress, and acquired great booty. The greater number of inhabitants of the place were Brahmans, and the whole of those Brahmans had their heads shaven; and they were all slain.’5

In 1197 CE, Khilji’s military machine turned its focus to the famed Nalanda University, one of the world’s oldest and most prestigious centres of learning. By 1200 CE, Nalanda was no more. The university, once home to thousands of scholars and monks, was razed to the ground. According to historical accounts, the campus was set ablaze, and its intellectual and religious community was slaughtered by the invading forces. The destruction of Nalanda is often cited as one of the most significant cultural losses in the history of India. 

1 Main Stupa, Nalanda University ruins. 2012

After the destruction of Nalanda, Khilji turned his attention further east, to the rich lands of Gauda, Nadia and Devakot, regions that were centres of power and culture in the Bengal area. His forces captured these territories one after another, with the same ruthlessness that had characterized his previous campaigns. In 1203 CE, Khilji advanced to Lakhnauti, where his forces destroyed the idols of temples and erected masjids and other Islamic structures. The chronicler Juzjani notes: ‘They destroyed the idols of temples of the infidels and erected masjids and other buildings, and built a capital in his own name which is now called Gaur.’6

The destruction continued in 1204 CE when Khilji turned his attention to the city of Nadia. The siege of this city is described in chilling detail by Juzjani: ‘He drew on his sword and commenced an onslaught on the unbelievers. The Rae fled barefooted by the back part of his palace; and the whole of his treasures, his wives, and females, his domestics and servants, his particular attendants, were taken . . .’7 The imagery here is vivid, portraying Khilji’s forces as relentless in their pursuit of victory, sparing neither treasure nor human life. As with other cities, Nadia was subjected to a cultural and religious transformation, with its Hindu temples destroyed and replaced by Islamic structures. 

Khilji’s conquests eventually brought him to the banks of the Brahmaputra, to the kingdom of Kamarupa (modern-day Assam). By this time, he had already established himself as the Amir of Bengal, having overthrown the ageing Lakshmanasena of the Sena dynasty. With Bengal securely under his control, Khilji set his sights on Tibet, seeking a direct route through Kamarupa. He began cultivating the support of local Assamese leaders, including a chieftain whom he converted to Islam and named Ali Mech. With Mech’s assistance, Khilji sent letters to the Rai of Kamarupa in 1206 CE, informing him of his plans to invade Tibet via the region. 

These correspondences, preserved in the Tabaqat-i-Nasiri, provide valuable insight into the political dynamics of the time. Prithu, the ruler of Kamarupa, refused to grant Khilji passage, urging him to reconsider his plans. Prithu’s decision to stand firm in the face of Khilji’s expansionist ambitions marked a significant moment in the history of the region.

Undeterred, Khilji decided to invade Kamarupa. He gathered a force of 10,000 cavalry and advanced along the banks of the Brahmaputra, preparing for a campaign that would bring him into direct conflict with Prithu. The stage was set for one of the defining battles of the early thirteenth century—a battle that would not only shape the future of Kamarupa but also influence the trajectory of Islamic expansion in the northeastern subcontinent.

Khilji’s determination to conquer Kamarupa is a testament to his ambition and military prowess. Yet, it is also a reminder of the turbulent and violent nature of the times. In his wake, he left a trail of destruction—of broken temples, massacred scholars and cultural erasure. But, as with all such conquerors, Khilji’s empire would be fleeting. His ambitions may have been vast, but the resistance he encountered, particularly in places like Kamarupa, would prove that even the most formidable of invaders could be thwarted by local forces.

Prithu, the determined and astute ruler of Kamarupa, was acutely aware of the gravity of the situation as Bakhtiyar Khilji’s army advanced towards his kingdom. Khilji, having conquered vast swathes of land in the east, was now setting his sights on Kamarupa, and Prithu recognized that he had little time to prepare. 

However, rather than waiting for Khilji’s forces to arrive and confront them head-on, Prithu employed a strategy that would test the very limits of Khilji’s resolve: the scorched-earth tactic. With his kingdom’s resources hanging in the balance, Prithu gave orders to destroy everything in the path of the advancing army—food stores, weapons and infrastructure were set ablaze or rendered useless. The goal was clear: Deprive the invaders of sustenance and force them to navigate an increasingly hostile and barren terrain. 8

Khilji, undeterred and perhaps too confident in his military prowess, pressed forward, but the results of Prithu’s tactics soon became evident. Khilji’s army, accustomed to swift victories and plunder, was forced to march through difficult terrain where their usual methods of foraging for provisions were rendered ineffective. As they advanced, the lack of resources soon took its toll, leading to severe shortages. According to the Tabaqat-i-Nasiri, ‘Khilji’s men killed and ate their own horses to feed themselves during this long march.’9 This account highlights the desperation of Khilji’s forces, who were unprepared for the realities of warfare in such a remote and unforgiving land. 

In the face of mounting difficulties, Khilji’s forces reached the Brahmaputra River. Historically, the river had been an insurmountable obstacle for many would-be conquerors of Kamarupa, and it became clear to Khilji’s advisors that crossing it would be an immense challenge. Despite warnings from his local guides, Khilji, eager to push on, made the decision to attempt a crossing via a stone bridge. This bridge, identified by historian Raktim Patar as the Silasaku Bridge, connected the northern and southern banks of the Brahmaputra in what is now the region of Guwahati.10 However, the choice to rely on this bridge would prove to be a fateful one.

This bridge was our next destination.

We left the inscriptions behind and headed for the Silasaku Bridge site, the place that had witnessed Khilji’s retreat. The modern concrete bridge, stark and functional, stood in sharp contrast to the one it had replaced—a vital crossing point for Khilji’s forces during their ill-fated invasion of Assam.

Once, this bridge had connected the northern and southern banks of the Begmati River, a tributary of the Brahmaputra mentioned in the Tabaqat-i-Nasiri, and appears to have offered crucial passage for Khilji’s army. Today, however, the river that once flowed here with such ferocity had dwindled to little more than a trickle. 

Upon entering the southern plains of Kamarupa, Khilji’s army encountered the full force of Prithu’s preparedness. The local tribes of the region, including the Koch, Bodo and Keot peoples, had been mobilized by Prithu and were ready to confront the invaders. These tribal groups, familiar with the terrain and expert in the use of bamboo spears, made a formidable opposition. The Tabaqat-i-Nasiri describes how these local forces, united under Prithu’s leadership, employed guerrilla tactics to strike at the heart of Khilji’s army. The invaders, unprepared for such a coordinated and relentless assault, found themselves on the back foot, suffering heavy casualties. 11 These tribesmen, though not a professional army, proved to be a tenacious and effective fighting force, harrying Khilji’s forces with a combination of speed, stealth and knowledge of the land. 

Khilji, in response to the mounting resistance, ordered a retreat. Yet, his situation grew worse with every passing moment. As his forces tried to withdraw, they found that their only means of escape—the stone bridge—had been destroyed. Accounts vary as to how this occurred, but local legend and folklore suggest that it was the work of powerful local magic. The regions of Guwahati and nearby Nilachal and Mayong have long been associated with esoteric practices and tantra, and it is said that local shamans or practitioners of black magic destroyed the bridge to prevent Khilji’s retreat. Some still attribute the destruction of the bridge to mystical forces, though the historical record remains unclear. The Tabaqat-i-Nasiri simply states that Khilji’s retreat was hindered by the collapse of the bridge, marking a pivotal moment in his campaign.12

Now trapped, Khilji had no choice but to make a desperate bid for survival. His forces were scattered and demoralized, and the destruction of the bridge left him no clear path of retreat. In this moment of crisis, Khilji sought refuge in a Hindu temple. The Tabaqat-i-Nasiri describes how Khilji and his remaining men took shelter in the temple, hoping for some respite from the relentless pursuit of Prithu’s forces. Although there are many temples around Rajaduar, historian Raktim Patar concludes that it must have been the Madan Kamdev temple, which is perhaps the most ancient among all in north Guwahati.13 This was our next destination.

6 Madan Kamdev Mandir board.

From here, we took the trail that Khilji’s retreating forces would have followed—a path that winds through dense forest, undulating hills and steep terrain. This was one of the most thrilling parts of our journey.

Khilji, accustomed to open battlefields, was ill-prepared for the guerrilla tactics of Prithu’s forces. Prithu had mobilized a diverse coalition of local tribes, each familiar with the land and skilled in its defence. The invaders, struggling with hunger and the unfamiliar terrain, suffered heavy casualties.

After a forty-minute drive, we reached the Madan Kamdev temple, perched in a remote and quiet region that appeared almost untouched by time. As we arrived, we realized it was too late—the temple had closed for the day. But the silence and darkness of the surroundings lent the place an eerie atmosphere.

Sanyal, looking into the shadowy outline of the temple, remarked, ‘Imagine being a commander, on the run and defeated, seeking shelter in these remote hills. Every shadow would have felt like an ambush. Every tree a potential enemy.’ His words brought to life the terror and uncertainty Khilji’s forces must have felt in their final days in Kamarupa. 

This final siege pushed Khilji to his limits. Prithu, undeterred by the religious sanctity of the temple, knew that Khilji’s defeat would require every ounce of determination. Rather than allow the invader to escape once again, Prithu thought of a trap. The Tabaqat-i-Nasiri paints a vivid picture of this siege: ‘Prithu ordered a spiked-bamboo palisade to be constructed around the temple, effectively trapping Khilji inside.’14 This fortification, designed to entrap Khilji and his men, was a clear sign of Prithu’s tactical ingenuity. He had turned the very structure Khilji sought for protection into a prison. 

Yet, in a final desperate act, Khilji managed to break free. After enduring a period of siege, the general, with only a handful of his surviving soldiers, managed to escape the temple. But his victory was fleeting. Khilji fled across the river once again, his army shattered and his plans in disarray. The Tabaqat-i-Nasiri concludes that he escaped with only a few men, an ignoble end to a campaign that had seemed so promising at the outset.15

Khilji eventually reached Bengal, severely diminished and fatigued, with only a few hundred men remaining. His failure to conquer Kamarupa shattered his earlier confidence, and he withdrew from active military campaigns, never to engage in battle again. In the same year, Khilji was assassinated by his own general, Ali Mardan, in Devkot.

The defeat of Bakhtiyar Khilji in Kamarupa was a turning point not only in his campaign but also in the history of the region. Prithu’s success demonstrated the power of local resistance, the effectiveness of guerrilla warfare, and the importance of understanding and utilizing the terrain. This marked the end of Khilji’s ambitions in the east and sent a powerful message to other would-be conquerors. 

‘You know,’ Sanyal mused, ‘there’s a powerful lesson in this history—about resilience, about strategy, and about the role of place in shaping history. Prithu’s defence of Kamarupa wasn’t just about fighting off invaders—it was about using his intimate knowledge of the land and its people to his advantage. It was about creating a narrative where the invaders, no matter how mighty, could be turned into the hunted, not the hunters.’

Prithu’s story, long relegated to the shadows of history, had somehow come alive for us in the wilds of Assam.

But his story doesn’t end here.

8 Lachit Borphukan, another brave Assamese who defeated the Mughals centuries later.

The Second Invasion of Kamarupa

The Tabaqat-i-Nasiri recounts the invasion of Bengal (Bang) and Kamarupa (Kamrud) by Ghiyasuddin Iwaj Khilji in 1127 CE. This military campaign is often framed as a continuation of the earlier incursions led by Bakhtiyar Khilji into the eastern territories of India. However, Ghiyasuddin’s approach marked a significant departure from Bakhtiyar’s tactics. Whereas Bakhtiyar had relied primarily on land-based military strategies, Ghiyasuddin opted to deploy a naval force, an innovation that would have considerable implications for the course of the invasion.16 This strategic shift suggests a calculated attempt to navigate the complexities of the terrain, particularly the river systems that dominate the eastern landscape, and to exploit the growing importance of naval power.  

British historian Edward Gait, in his work on the history of Assam, posits that Ghiyasuddin’s naval expedition likely reached the easternmost stretches of the Brahmaputra River, possibly near Sadiya, without encountering substantial resistance. 17 The Brahmaputra, with its wide and unpredictable currents, presented a formidable natural barrier to invaders, but Ghiyasuddin’s naval fleet, perhaps bolstered by local expertise in navigating these waters, was able to make significant progress. Gait’s interpretation highlights the initial success of Ghiyasuddin’s forces, suggesting that they were able to approach the heart of Kamarupa’s territory with relative ease. Yet, as the Tabaqat-i-Nasiri also makes clear, this initial success was short-lived. Despite Ghiyasuddin’s ability to navigate the riverine landscape and reach the fringes of the Brahmaputra, the narrative suggests that the campaign ultimately faltered, and invaders forced to retreat. 

The reasons for this retreat are not fully elaborated in the Tabaqat-i-Nasiri, but the text offers some insights into the challenges that Ghiyasuddin faced. According to the chronicler, Ghiyasuddin’s forces were eventually compelled to retreat due to unforeseen circumstances, though the exact nature of these circumstances remains unclear. One significant factor that contributed to the failure of the invasion was the simultaneous threat posed by Sultan Nasiruddin Mahmud of Delhi, who launched an invasion from the north. Ghiyasuddin found himself facing a two-front war, with his attention divided between defending his northern territories and maintaining control over the eastern campaign. The Tabaqat-i-Nasiri notes that Ghiyasuddin’s forces were ‘forced to retreat due to the pressure from the unexpected invasion by Sultan Nasiruddin Mahmud’.18

While the Tabaqat-i-Nasiri provides a general overview of Ghiyasuddin’s invasion, local sources from Bengal and Kamarupa offer additional perspectives that help fill in the gaps in the historical narrative. One such source is the Gostol pillar inscription, which records:

श्रीमत् विश्वसुन्दरदेव (रा) ज्ये

शक ११४६

सीमा एरिया यवन डवाकत गयत । [शक] १२८४ वेदास्त राशि गणन।

इति श्रीविष्नुवासधर शैलकार। शकत म्लेच्छ इथान उयासाँ। देखहुँ शतात्रिश वईर वङाल वहुकार्य (त) इहात फण्ड । वहाख जल ।तोसभ सञ्जात यास । दिजल श्री। पंञ काथ्य वाद्य रोल जल-सेनाइ वैरीक भाथि जलान्तशेक खदावि।

[Srimat Vishwasundara Deva’s regnal year. Shaka year 1146.

The Yavanas after having crossed the boundary (of Kamarupa) proceed towards Davaka in the Shaka year 1284. The scribe is Vishnu Baasadhara. A strong army of Mlechchhas has started in the eastern direction from this place (Gostol). See the enemy from Bengal numbering 3,000 has been encircled here through various actions. Be it known to you the river (Kapili) has been flooded by the rains in the month of Vaisakha. Let the five musical instruments go on playing and the navy drive away the enemy beyond the waters in the west.19]

The Gostol pillar inscription presents a fascinating but perplexing account of historical events. The inscription begins with a reference to the regnal year of Srimat Vishwasundara Deva, dated to Shaka year 1146, which corresponds to 1225 CE. This is a crucial point, as it sets the temporal framework for the inscription’s contents, which are then detailed in the subsequent lines. However, when the inscription moves to describe the invasion by the Muslim forces and the naval engagement that occurred, the date shifts dramatically to Shaka 1284, or 1363 CE. This 138-year discrepancy presents a significant challenge for historians, as it casts doubt on the precise chronology of the events described.

The most straightforward explanation for this discrepancy is the possibility of an inscriptional error. Scribal errors, or even deliberate alterations to the text, are not uncommon in ancient inscriptions, particularly those that were modified or added to at later dates.

These revisions could have led to confusion in the dating of events, particularly if the inscription was not originally created to commemorate the specific campaign it describes.

If the later date of Shaka 1284 (1363 CE) is taken as accurate, it would suggest that the event described in the inscription occurred much later than previously assumed. The implications of this shift are profound, as it would place the military campaign described in the inscription well after the death of Ghiyasuddin Khilji, a key figure in the early-thirteenth-century military invasions of the eastern regions of India. Khilji’s incursions into Bengal and Kamarupa, as detailed in the Tabaqat-i-Nasiri, are widely regarded as pivotal moments in the history of Muslim military expansion in the subcontinent. If the Gostol pillar inscription is referencing a campaign that occurred in 1363 CE, this would place it in a very different historical context, well beyond the scope of Ghiyasuddin Khilji’s direct involvement. This raises important questions about the accuracy of the inscription and whether the military engagement it describes is, in fact, linked to Khilji’s earlier invasions.

However, it is crucial to note that the inscription commem­orates Vishwasundara Deva’s victory over the Muslim forces, particularly Ghiyasuddin Khilji. The defeat of Khilji is not just a minor event but a defining moment for Prithu’s reign, marking a significant military triumph that solidified his power and ensured the protection of Kamarupa from further invasion.

In light of these potential explanations, scholars must exercise caution when interpreting the available sources. The discrepancy in the dates presents a major obstacle to establishing a clear and accurate historical narrative of the events described in the inscription. While it is tempting to link the military campaign described in the Gostol pillar inscription directly to Ghiyasuddin Khilji’s earlier incursions into Bengal and Kamarupa, the possibility of later alterations to the text requires historians to consider other potential explanations. Nevertheless, the absence of evidence for a similar naval invasion in 1363 CE strengthens the case that the inscription is referring to the same event, with the later date likely being a later commemorative addition. 

The End of Prithu

The fate of Prithu of Kamarupa, particularly the circumstances surrounding his death, remains one of the most debated aspects of his legacy, with two main schools of thought emerging from the available historical accounts. While both offer intriguing perspectives on Prithu’s demise, a closer examination of the evidence and the historical context suggests that the more plausible account is that Prithu chose to commit suicide to avoid the dishonour of being defeated by Nasiruddin Mahmud’s Muslim forces. The involvement of the Kichok tribe, as suggested by Francis Buchanan-Hamilton, seems less likely given Prithu’s historical alliances with various local tribes. Instead, the external threat posed by the Muslim invaders, whom Prithu may have perceived as impure, offers a more coherent explanation for his final, tragic act.

The first account comes from Minhaj-i-Siraj, who records Prithu’s death at the hands of Nasiruddin Mahmud, the Mamluk Sultan of Delhi. According to Minhaj, Prithu, referred to as ‘Britu’, was killed in battle after having caused the deaths of over 1,20,000 Muslim martyrs. Minhaj dramatically describes how Prithu was eventually ‘overthrown and sent to Hell’, highlighting the conflict between Prithu and the forces of the Delhi Sultanate.20

However, a significant issue arises in Minhaj’s account: the location of the battle. Minhaj states that Prithu was slain in Awadh, a region with no historical connection to Kamarupa or Prithu’s territorial holdings. This geographical discrepancy casts doubt on the accuracy of Minhaj’s narrative. Given the lack of evidence supporting Prithu’s involvement in Awadh, local historians from Assam have suggested that Minhaj may have confused the events or misinterpreted the identity of the ruler in question. According to this view, Prithu may indeed have been the king killed in battle, but Minhaj’s account of the battle’s location was likely inaccurate, perhaps due to the imperial perspective from which he was writing.

While the Tabaqat-i-Nasiri account provides a vivid and dramatic image of Prithu’s death, the second school of thought, put forward by Francis Buchanan-Hamilton, offers an alternative narrative. Buchanan-Hamilton, a Scottish physician and colonial administrator who visited Assam in the early nineteenth century, argues that Prithu did not die in battle but rather chose self-immolation in response to an invasion by the Kichok tribe.21 The Kichok, according to Buchanan-Hamilton, were seen as ‘impure’ according to the Hindu varna system, and their invasion of Jalpaiguri posed not only a territorial threat but also a moral and religious crisis for Prithu and his kingdom. Buchanan-Hamilton suggests that Prithu, unable to face the prospect of being overrun by a tribe deemed impure, chose to end his life by drowning himself in a tank at Bhitargarh. This act of self-sacrifice, Buchanan- Hamilton argues, was driven by Prithu’s desire to preserve his honour and the moral purity of his kingdom.

The idea that Prithu would choose to end his life to avoid the perceived dishonour of defeat by a tribe within the region appears less plausible in light of his historical engagement with local tribes.

The more compelling explanation for Prithu’s death, then, is that he committed suicide to avoid the dishonour that might result from being defeated by Nasiruddin Mahmud’s Muslim forces. Prithu’s previous military strategies had been focused on resisting foreign invaders, especially those from the Delhi Sultanate, which had a long history of conflict with the kingdoms of northeastern India. The invasion by Nasiruddin Mahmud’s forces would have represented a major moral and political crisis for Prithu, who may have viewed the Muslim army as impure and a threat to the religious purity of his kingdom. Prithu, having led his people through several successful defences against Bakhtiyar Khilji and other invaders, may have perceived defeat at the hands of Mahmud’s forces as a violation of his dharma as a ruler. 

The idea of Prithu’s death as a form of self-sacrifice is supported by the local tradition surrounding the site of his death, Bhitargarh. The tank where Prithu allegedly drowned himself, now known as Maharajar Dighi, became a place of local reverence. Buchanan-Hamilton observed a flag still flying at the site during his visit, and the local custom of bowing to Prithu’s spirit further reinforces the idea that his death was seen as an act of spiritual significance. 22

Ultimately, Prithu’s death can be seen as a tragic but heroic act, reflecting the complex intersection of politics, religion and personal honour in medieval India.

Although I could not visit Bhitargarh in Bangladesh, as much as I wanted to, I wandered by the Brahmaputra in Rajaduar and contemplated the end of Prithu.

Surrounded on all sides by the armies of Ghiyasuddin Iwaz, his elephants maimed, his warriors cut down, Prithu stood at the edge of a fate he would not accept. To fall alive into the hands of the invader was to invite humiliation, to be paraded as a conquered king before foreign courts.  

In those final moments, as the dust of battle hung in the air and Bhitargarh’s breeze carried the cries of the dying, Prithu made his choice. He drowned himself in the lake. With one decisive act, he denied his foes the triumph of his capture.

By choosing death, Prithu made his life a testament: that freedom and dignity outweigh the comfort of survival. The chronicles would record only the bare fact of his fall, but the memory of his choice endured in the land. For the Assamese people, he was not a vanquished king but a martyr who kept his sovereignty intact, even in death.

His suicide was the sunset of a dynasty, but like all sunsets, it set the horizon aflame. Even as darkness fell on that battlefield, his spirit entered legend. The Brahmaputra still flows past the plains and hills where he once ruled, carrying with it the whisper of his final act of sovereignty: that he lived, fought and died on his own terms.

To buy book online

To see Lachit Borphukan Memorial album 

To see album Kamakhya Mandir

To see album State Museum Guwahati

To see album Temples and Palace of Sivasagar  

Also read

1. What happened to Universities of Nalanda, Vikramsila, Valabhi, Odantapura

2. Tracing the footsteps of a forgotten king with Sanjeev Sanyal