Latest / Aurangzeb: The Emperor Who Expanded and Broke the Mughal Empire — Fexingo History / Aurangzeb's War Elephants: Behemoths of Mughal Battlefields
Transcript
- Lucas: We've talked a lot about Aurangzeb's wars—the sieges, the Maratha campaigns, the Deccan quagmire. But one thing we haven't really touched on is the role of war elephants. They were everywhere in Mughal warfare, and Aurangzeb's reign was probably the peak of their use. Luna: We saw them at Samugarh, right? With the fil i jang? Lucas: Exactly. The fil i jang, or 'war elephant,' was basically a mobile fortress. At Samugarh, Dara Shikoh rode one, and when it was wounded, the whole battle turned. Aurangzeb himself wasn't on an elephant—he fought on horseback—but he understood their psychological impact. The maasir i alamgiri describes how he'd station elephants at key points to terrify the enemy. Luna: So they were like tanks before tanks existed. Lucas: Pretty much. But they were also incredibly expensive to maintain. The Mughal empire had a dedicated department called the pilkhana, which managed hundreds of elephants. Each elephant needed about 600 pounds of fodder a day—grass, sugarcane, rice. The cost was enormous, but the empire considered it essential. Luna: Where did they get them? Did they breed them in captivity? Lucas: Not really. Captive breeding was rare. Most war elephants were captured from the wild, especially in the forests of the Deccan, Bengal, and Assam. The Mughals organized massive hunting expeditions called kheddahs, where they'd drive entire herds into stockades. Aurangzeb's Deccan campaigns gave him access to some of the best elephant territories—the forests around the Godavari river. Luna: That must have been dangerous. Wild elephants aren't exactly cooperative. Lucas: It was incredibly risky. The maasir i alamgiri records that in one expedition, several hunters were killed. But a well-trained elephant was worth a fortune. They'd use tame decoy elephants to lure the wild ones, then noose their legs. The training process took months, using food rewards and constant handling. Aurangzeb had a personal stable of about thirty elephants for his own use, and the imperial pilkhana held over a thousand. Luna: A thousand elephants? That's a lot of hay. Lucas: And a lot of dung. But they weren't just for war. Elephants were status symbols. Aurangzeb would give decorated elephants as gifts to loyal nobles, or parade them during festivals like Eid. The court chronicles describe how he'd ride an elephant in processions, seated in a silver howdah, with attendants holding fly-whisks. It was all about projecting power. Luna: Did he have a favorite elephant? Lucas: He did. One named Rajmahal. The maasir i alamgiri mentions that Rajmahal was a massive tusker, extremely intelligent, and served Aurangzeb for decades. When Rajmahal died, Aurangzeb reportedly mourned—something he rarely did for people. He ordered a tombstone placed over the elephant's grave near Aurangabad. You can still see the site today. Luna: An elephant with a tombstone. That's surprisingly touching. Lucas: It shows how much these animals meant. But there was a darker side. Elephants were used for executions—trampling criminals or prisoners of war. Aurangzeb's justice system sometimes employed elephants to crush rebels. And in battle, elephants could turn on their own side if panicked. Wounded elephants would run amok, trampling friend and foe alike. Luna: That happened at Samugarh, didn't it? Dara's elephant got hit and bolted. Lucas: Exactly. And it's one reason why, by the late 17th century, artillery was starting to replace elephants. Cannons didn't panic. But Aurangzeb's campaigns in the Deccan still relied heavily on elephants for siege work—they could batter down gates, carry supplies through rough terrain, and act as moving watchtowers. At the siege of Bijapur in 1686, elephants were used to ram the city gates. Luna: Did they breach them? Lucas: Eventually, yes. But the defenders used flaming projectiles and spikes to drive the elephants back. The maasir i alamgiri tells us that several elephants were killed by cannon fire during that siege. It was a sign of things to come. Within fifty years of Aurangzeb's death, war elephants had become ceremonial relics in most Indian armies. Luna: So the Mughal empire's decline sort of paralleled the decline of elephant warfare? Lucas: It's not a direct cause, but there's a correlation. The empire's financial troubles made it harder to maintain thousands of elephants. And as European powers—especially the British—introduced more advanced artillery and infantry tactics, the elephant's battlefield role shrank. But during Aurangzeb's time, they were still a formidable weapon. Luna: It makes you wonder about the environmental impact. Capturing so many wild elephants must have devastated local populations. Lucas: That's a great point. We don't have precise numbers, but the Mughals captured thousands of elephants annually from the Deccan and Bengal. Over Aurangzeb's 49-year reign, that could mean tens of thousands removed from the wild. It likely contributed to the decline of elephant herds in central India, though we don't have ancient census data. The British later noted that wild elephants were much rarer in areas that had been heavily hunted by the Mughals. Luna: Speaking of the British, did they use elephants too? Lucas: They did, but mostly for logistics and ceremony. The East India Company maintained its own elephant stables. But by the 19th century, elephants were more about prestige than combat. The last recorded use of war elephants in India was during the Sikh Empire's battles in the 1840s. After that, they became purely ceremonial. Luna: It's amazing how such a powerful symbol of empire could become obsolete so quickly. Lucas: Technology changes everything. But for a moment—under Aurangzeb—the elephant was the ultimate weapon. And it's worth remembering that these weren't just tools; they were intelligent beings with their own histories. Rajmahal's tombstone is a reminder that even an emperor could form a bond with an animal. Luna: You know, when you talk about something like the bond between Aurangzeb and his elephant, it makes history feel more human. Or more than human, maybe. And that's partly why this show matters to me—because it brings these stories to life. Lucas: Yeah, I feel the same way. And I know our listeners do too. That's actually something I've been thinking about. This show is ad-free, and it's only possible because of listeners who support us directly. If you've been enjoying these deep dives into Mughal history—whether it's elephant tactics or temple politics—and you want to keep them coming, there's a way to help. Luna: It's a simple thing that makes a big difference. Lucas: You can go to buy me a coffee dot com slash fexingo. That's buymeacoffee.com/fexingo. Even a small contribution helps cover research, transcription, hosting costs—everything that keeps us independent and ad-free. No pressure, but if you're able, it means the world. Luna: And it lets us keep exploring stories like Rajmahal the elephant. Lucas: Exactly. So, back to that bond—there's one more story about Rajmahal. According to the maasir i alamgiri, when the elephant grew old and could no longer march, Aurangzeb ordered that he be retired to a lush grove near Aurangabad, with his own mahout and a daily ration of sugarcane. Not many emperors did that for their animals. Luna: That's surprisingly humane. Given Aurangzeb's reputation as a stern ruler. Lucas: Right. And it shows that even in a harsh reign, there were moments of compassion. Whether it was genuine affection or just practical care for a valuable asset, we'll never know. But the story survives because the chroniclers thought it was worth recording. These small details—like a retired elephant—paint a fuller picture of the man and his empire. Luna: I wonder what happened to the rest of his elephants after he died. Lucas: The pilkhana was dispersed among his sons during the succession war. Many were killed in battle or sold off to pay soldiers. Within a few decades, the imperial elephant stables were a shadow of what they'd been. But for a time, under Aurangzeb, they were the largest in the world.