Tracing The Footsteps Of A Forgotten King With Sanjeev Sanyal

I had long harboured the idea of tracing the steps of one of Assam's most enigmatic kings, Prithū, whose dramatic encounter with Bakhtiyar Khilji in the early thirteenth century remains one of the region’s most underexplored chapters.

At exactly 3 pm, we picked up Sanyal from his hotel. The cold winter wind gusted across the city as we navigated the labyrinthine streets of Guwahati, a city where history and modernity constantly collide.

In moments, we found ourselves crossing the iconic Saraighat Bridge, its metal frame stretching over the mighty Brahmaputra River — the same river that had once witnessed not only the fierce battles between the Lachit Barphukan’s navy and the Mughals but also centuries earlier, Prithū’s forces and Bakhtiyar Khilji’s army.

There, the river appeared serene, almost too still, as though it kept the stories of a thousand battles hidden beneath its placid surface.

By 3.45 pm, we arrived at the heart of Prithū’s capital in Rajaduar, North Guwahati, the ancient capital city of Pragjyotishpur. 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.

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

As we stood before it, reading the text that told of the Turks’ demise at the hands of Prithū’s forces, I could almost hear the voices of the past. The inscription reads:

शाके तुरगयुग्मेशे मधुमासत्रयोदशे ।

कामरूपं समागत्य तुरुष्काः क्षयमाययुः ।।

In Śaka 1127,  

On the 13th day of the Month of Honey (Chaitra),  

Upon arriving in Kāmarūpa, the Turks perished.

The second and third inscriptions are dated four and six years before the Battle of Saraighat and confirm the construction of two ramparts here in preparation for an upcoming war against the Mughals following the slaying of Syed Sana and Syed Firoz.

As Sanyal spoke, 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.

His most infamous attack came in 1197 CE, when he ransacked Nalanda University, setting it ablaze and slaughtering thousands of monks. His goal was not just territorial expansion but the destruction of intellectual and religious symbols of the Indic faith.

After his conquest of Bengal, Khilji’s ambitions turned towards Tibet. He sought to secure a direct route through Assam, and for this, he cultivated the support of a converted chieftain named Ali Mech.

Khilji’s plans were clear: to invade Tibet via Kāmarūpa. In 1206 CE, he sent a letter to the Rai of Kāmarūpa, requesting safe passage through the kingdom. But Prithū was not one to bow to external threats. He rejected Khilji’s request, urging the general to reconsider. Despite this, Khilji pressed forward with a formidable force of 10,000 cavalry, determined to conquer the kingdom.

The Tabaqat-i-Nasiri recounts how, desperate and hungry, Khilji’s men were forced to kill and eat their own horses to survive during this long and harrowing march. Despite repeated warnings by his generals, Khilji crossed a stone bridge that brought him straight inside Prithū’s capital. This bridge was our next destination.

We left the inscriptions behind and headed for the Silsako Bridge site, a place that had witnessed Khilji’s retreat. The modern concrete bridge, stark and functional, stood in sharp contrast to the one it replaced — a vital crossing point for Bakhtiyar 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 that must’ve been a huge river in that day) mentioned in the Tabaqat-i-Nasiri, offering a 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, a sad reflection of environmental degradation. One local even commented that a government contractor had blocked the entry point of the tributary, which is why today it has become a garbage drain.

When Khilji, advancing further into Kāmarūpa, faced an onslaught by the guerrilla fighters of Prithū, he had no option but to retreat. Upon turning back, he discovered that the Silsako bridge — the only route of escape across the Begmati River — had been destroyed. Stranded and desperate, Khilji and his remaining troops were forced to swim across the river. Even after crossing, however, they were relentlessly pursued by Prithū’s forces.

In a final act of desperation, Khilji sought refuge in a Hindu idol-temple. Although there are many temples around Rajaduar, historian Raktim Patar concludes that it must’ve been the Madan Kamdev Temple, which is perhaps the most ancient among all in North Guwahati. This was our next destination.

Khilji, accustomed to open battlefields, was ill-prepared for the guerrilla tactics of Prithū’s forces. Prithū had mobilised a diverse coalition of local tribes, each familiar with the land and skilled in its defence. Together, they launched a relentless assault on Khilji’s army. The invaders, struggling with hunger and the unfamiliar terrain, suffered heavy casualties. Prithū’s forces, masters of bamboo spears and stealth, engaged in guerrilla warfare, taking full advantage of the landscape to launch ambushes.

After a 40-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 realised 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. It was easy to imagine Khilji’s men, defeated and desperate, seeking refuge in these hills, every shadow a potential ambush, every tree a hiding enemy.

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 Kāmarūpa.

This final siege pushed Khilji to his limits. The bamboo palisade that Prithū built around the temple, though hastily constructed, proved an effective trap. But after a period of relentless pressure, Khilji managed to break through the defences and escape — crossing the river once again, fleeing for his life with only a handful of his surviving men.

In the same year, Khilji was assassinated by his own general, Ali Mardan, in Devkot.

We continued on our way back. Thanks to Google Maps and a navigational detour, courtesy of Manas, we ended up on a narrow, rocky path deeper into the forest. The air thickened with humidity, and the sounds of wildlife punctuated the stillness.

Sanyal, ever the optimist, chuckled nervously, "I hope we’re not entering ULFA territory."

We stumbled upon a half-broken wooden bridge that creaked ominously under our weight. After a brief hesitation, we decided against crossing it. Sigh. Sanjeev claimed, “Had we fallen here today, it would’ve been the Revenge of Bakhtiyar.”

We turned back and retraced our steps. By the time we returned to the main road, the sun had dipped behind the hills, casting long shadows over the landscape. We made our way back to the hotel, dropping Sanyal off before the night truly settled in. Over a quiet dinner, we reflected on the journey we had just undertaken.

"You know," Sanyal mused, taking a slow sip of his tea, "there’s a powerful lesson in this history — about resilience, about strategy, and about the role of place in shaping history. Prithū’s defence of Kāmarūpa 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."

And as I left Sanyal to rest, I couldn't help but wonder: how many other stories lie hidden in the folds of time, waiting for those brave enough to trace their paths?