India’s long and complex history is filled with eras of glory, resilience, and also deep struggle. One of the darkest stretches came during a time when Delhi—the heart of India—was ruled by a succession of Islamic dynasties. During these centuries, Hindus, the original inhabitants of the land, were reduced to second-class citizens in their own country. Among the many foreign dynasties that came and went, the Mughal Empire endured the longest, leaving behind a legacy that continues to stir debate even today.
The Mughals, who traced their lineage to the fearsome conquerors Timur and Genghis Khan, are often portrayed by a section of historians, especially those influenced by Marxist or left-leaning ideologies, as enlightened patrons of art, architecture, and culture. While it’s true they built grand monuments and supported some cultural pursuits, this romanticized version conveniently ignores the oppressive nature of their rule, especially under Aurangzeb, the last truly powerful Mughal emperor.
Aurangzeb Alamgir ruled for nearly half a century, from 1658 to 1707, and his reign marked a sharp departure from the relatively tolerant policies of his predecessors, like Akbar. While earlier emperors had attempted to find a balance between religious communities, Aurangzeb’s rule was unapologetically driven by a hardline Islamic agenda. His reign wasn’t just about expanding territory—it was about reshaping the religious landscape of India, often through force.
One of his most infamous actions was the re-imposition of the jizya tax—a discriminatory levy imposed on non-Muslims. Abolished by Akbar in a gesture of inclusion, its revival under Aurangzeb sent a strong signal: non-Muslims would once again be treated as second-class citizens. But that was just the beginning.
Aurangzeb’s policies toward Hindu temples were particularly aggressive. Under his orders, numerous sacred sites were desecrated or destroyed. The Kashi Vishwanath temple in Varanasi, one of the holiest shrines for Hindus, was demolished in 1669. On its ruins was constructed the Gyanvapi Mosque. Similarly, the Krishna Janmabhoomi temple in Mathura, believed to be the birthplace of Lord Krishna, was also razed, and the Shahi Eidgah mosque was erected in its place. These were not isolated incidents—they were part of a larger, deliberate campaign to assert Islamic dominance and diminish Hindu identity.
This period, however, was not without fierce resistance. From the Sikh Guru Gobind Singh in Punjab to the valiant Maratha king Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj and his son Sambhaji, the spirit of rebellion against Aurangzeb burned bright. In Bundelkhand, Maharaja Chhatrasal raised arms; in Assam, Lachit Borphukan delivered a stinging defeat to Mughal forces at the Battle of Saraighat. The Jats near Delhi also challenged Mughal authority, making life difficult for Aurangzeb in his backyard. These leaders weren’t just defending their kingdoms—they were fighting for religious freedom, cultural preservation, and civilizational survival.
Despite the growing resistance, Aurangzeb was relentless. He spent the last 25 years of his life trying to conquer the Deccan region in southern India. The campaign became an obsession, draining the empire’s finances, exhausting its military, and ultimately accelerating its decline. His fixation on conquest over governance weakened the empire’s core and set the stage for its eventual fragmentation.
Leftwing historians defend Aurangzeb’s religious zealotry
In recent years, some modern historians, particularly from Western academia, have attempted to present a softer image of Aurangzeb. Authors like Audrey Truschke argue that the destruction of temples was driven by political pragmatism, not religious zealotry. Others claim he spared many temples and even employed Hindus in his court. But these arguments fall flat when confronted with primary sources from Aurangzeb’s own time. The Maasir-i-Alamgiri, a Persian chronicle of his reign, explicitly states that the emperor destroyed temples with the intent to promote Islam and eliminate what he considered heretical teachings.
Aurangzeb didn’t just target temples—he turned his wrath toward Hindu educational institutions as well. India’s ancient tradition of learning, encompassing astronomy, mathematics, medicine, philosophy, and economics, was under threat. Just as Bakhtiyar Khilji had centuries earlier burned down the great library of Nalanda, Aurangzeb issued edicts to demolish schools and gurukuls in cities like Varanasi, Multan, and Thatta, accusing them of spreading “false doctrines.” He saw Hindu knowledge systems as a threat to Islamic orthodoxy and sought to wipe them out.
Critics often ask: if Aurangzeb wanted to destroy Hinduism, why did so many temples survive? The answer lies not in his mercy, but in political and logistical limitations. Many of his soldiers and administrators were themselves Hindu. He needed the support of powerful Rajput allies like the rulers of Jaipur and Amer, who wielded considerable influence in his court. Openly attacking every temple would have risked widespread mutiny. So he opted for a more symbolic approach: targeting prominent temples to send a message and cow the population into submission.
Mughals collected jizya from non-Muslims, taxed Hindu pilgrim sites
There was also an economic angle to Aurangzeb’s strategy. Major pilgrimage sites generated immense revenue. The Kumbh Mela, for example, was a source of substantial income through pilgrim taxes. Temples were often landowners and employers in their regions. Rather than destroy all of them, Aurangzeb selectively attacked sites that held strategic, religious, or political importance, while allowing others to function under heavy taxation.
One legendary example of resistance comes from Ellora, where the magnificent Kailasa Temple was targeted by Aurangzeb’s forces. He reportedly deployed an entire army to destroy it. For three years, they tried to bring it down. But due to the temple’s sturdy rock-cut architecture and fierce opposition from locals, the efforts failed. The temple still stands today—a timeless testament to India’s architectural brilliance and the unbreakable spirit of its people.
From Kalkaji to Somnath, Aurangzeb had ordered a blanket demolition of temples
Aurangzeb’s demolition orders were far-reaching. In 1667, he sent troops to destroy the Kalka Ji Temple in Delhi. According to Mughal records, a Brahmin priest even drew his sword to defend the shrine, managing to kill one attacker before being captured and executed by stoning. In 1706, just a year before his death, Aurangzeb once again ordered the destruction of the Somnath Temple in Gujarat—a temple that had already been desecrated multiple times by earlier invaders. Fortunately, his death halted the execution of that decree.
In Jagannath Puri, local resistance combined with strategic bribery prevented the destruction of the famed temple. In some cases, idols were hidden, rituals suspended, and temple doors sealed until the political storm passed. These acts of subterfuge helped preserve many sacred sites, though others were not so lucky.
Aurangzeb even forbade the restoration of damaged temples. His hardline interpretation of Islam viewed the mere act of gazing at a temple as sinful. He extended this view across his empire, hoping to suffocate Hindu practices out of existence. His goal wasn’t just to rule India—it was to Islamize it.
But history had other plans.
After Aurangzeb died in 1707, the Mughal Empire began to disintegrate. The Marathas, emboldened and well-organized, began to reclaim lost ground, eventually even entering Delhi. In the south, new Hindu kingdoms began to flourish. The very forces Aurangzeb had sought to suppress rose stronger than ever, reclaiming space, culture, and confidence.
Aurangzeb’s legacy is not one of splendor, but one of scars. He left behind an empire weakened by religious fanaticism and overextended wars, and a nation deeply wounded by destruction and division. But his failure to extinguish India’s spiritual and cultural fire stands as a powerful reminder: civilizations built on truth and resilience cannot be broken by tyranny.
