#79th Indian Independence Day
Venkatesh Rangan’s Bharat’s Military Conquests in Foreign Lands arrives with a mission stitched into every page: to shatter the oft-repeated claim that India’s historical temperament was one of passivity, isolation, and an aversion to foreign adventure.
The sheer scope of his work—a sweeping chronicle of at least 21 overseas and cross-border campaigns undertaken by Indian rulers between 900 BCE and 1680 CE—is an ambitious undertaking.
Yet ambition alone does not make history compelling. What makes this book work, and why it will likely sit on the shelves of both military historians and general readers for years to come, is the combination of meticulous research, narrative energy, and the author’s unapologetic commitment to reframing India’s place in the world’s military story.
Right from the forewords—Vice Admiral A.R. Karve and Anand Ranganathan lending both credibility and ideological framing—the book declares itself part of a larger intellectual project. Karve calls it a “gap-filler” in our understanding of India’s military past, while Ranganathan situates it in the “psychological decolonization” movement, reminding readers that reclaiming historical memory is as much an act of mental liberation as it is an academic exercise. That framing is important because it sets the stage for a reading experience that’s not just about campaigns and conquests, but about challenging the narratives that have shaped modern Indian identity.
The first thing that strikes you as you dive into Rangan’s accounts is the geographical breadth. This is not a book about India fighting within India.
These are campaigns that pushed beyond the subcontinent’s shores and mountain passes—into Persia, Arabia, Central Asia, Java, Burma, and beyond. The idea that Indian rulers were once active players in controlling choke points like the Malacca Straits or projecting power into the Isthmus of Kra may come as a revelation to readers accustomed to hearing only of India as a land of sages, scholars, and passive trade.
Rangan doesn’t deny India’s philosophical and cultural legacies, but he insists they existed alongside a sophisticated and often aggressive strategic calculus.
The chronological span—nearly 2,600 years—is daunting, but Rangan handles it with a craftsman’s sense of pacing. Each of the 21 campaigns gets its own arc, with enough political context to understand why it was launched, enough military detail to feel its drama, and enough aftermath to see its historical consequences. While the early chapters occasionally feel introductory (a point noted by Reviews in History), the later ones gain in density and confidence, layering primary-source detail with an eye for how to connect seemingly distant episodes into a larger strategic pattern.
One of the standout qualities of the book is the way it draws from both indigenous and foreign sources. Inscriptions and classical Sanskrit literature like the Raghuvaṃśa sit alongside Persian chronicles and Southeast Asian records. This cross-referencing not only strengthens Rangan’s claims but also provides a rare multi-perspectival view.
When describing Chandragupta Vikramāditya’s ventures or Kunāla Maurya’s campaigns, Rangan avoids the easy trap of simply repeating nationalist hagiography; he juxtaposes Indian inscriptions with foreign accounts, allowing the reader to see how these figures were perceived outside the subcontinent.
The Chola and Pallava naval expeditions, for instance, are painted in vivid detail, not merely as acts of military dominance but as expressions of economic strategy—securing trade arteries that linked India to China, Southeast Asia, and the Arab world. The Isthmus of Kra and the Malacca Straits, strategic maritime chokepoints, become characters in their own right, their control shaping the flow of wealth, culture, and influence. Rangan’s skill here lies in showing that these were not raids for plunder but calculated moves to protect and expand civilizational reach.
In another vein, the book rescues from obscurity figures like Govindachandra of the Gāhaḍavāla dynasty, a ruler barely remembered in popular history. Through primary sources, Rangan reconstructs not just the facts of his campaigns but the geopolitical chessboard he was navigating. By placing such rulers alongside more familiar names, the book builds a layered understanding of how political and military agency was distributed across the Indian subcontinent.
Where the book falters slightly—though this is more a matter of style than substance—is in presentation. The reliance on long block quotations, sometimes running over a page, can disrupt the narrative rhythm. While the intention is clearly to let the primary sources speak in their own voices, the effect can be that of pausing mid-battle to listen to a lecture. That said, for the academically inclined reader, these quotations will be a treasure trove, and Rangan’s habit of annotating them with careful commentary ensures they’re not dead weight.
One of the most rewarding aspects of the book is how it reframes the so-called “Indic strategic mindset.” Far from being a defensive or isolationist posture, Rangan argues it was outward-looking when the stakes demanded it, capable of integrating naval prowess, diplomatic maneuvering, and logistical ingenuity. His analysis suggests that India’s military reach was neither haphazard nor purely reactive, but often the result of deliberate, long-term planning aimed at safeguarding trade, expanding influence, and asserting cultural identity.
The tone throughout is firmly “myth-busting.” Rangan is aware that his core thesis—that India was historically an active military player abroad—runs against decades of received wisdom shaped by colonial historiography and, in some cases, postcolonial romanticization of India as purely spiritual. This is why the book is not just history but counter-history, challenging what people think they know and replacing it with a vision grounded in inscriptional evidence, foreign records, and contextual analysis.
Yet what keeps it from descending into propaganda is its refusal to flatten complexity. Victories are celebrated, but failures and overreaches are acknowledged. Campaigns are situated within their broader geopolitical environments, meaning that Indian rulers are not portrayed as lone protagonists but as actors in a densely interconnected world. The result is a work that feels both proudly rooted in the Indic tradition and intellectually honest enough to invite debate.
The book’s concluding chapters, moving into the 17th century, serve as a bittersweet reminder of how geopolitical shifts, internal fragmentation, and the rise of European colonial powers altered the arc of India’s overseas ambitions. While Rangan stops short of turning the narrative into a lament, there is a quiet undercurrent of “what might have been” running through these final pages—a sense that understanding the assertive, expansive side of India’s past is crucial if the country is to imagine a confident future.
Reading Bharat’s Military Conquests in Foreign Lands is like walking through a museum of forgotten victories and strategic brilliance, each gallery curated with the care of someone who knows the stakes of remembering. By the end, you are left not just with a list of campaigns, but with a recalibrated mental map of India itself—not as a passive recipient of history, but as a shaper of it, projecting its will across seas and mountains for nearly three millennia.
It is, ultimately, a book that invites re-reading—not because it is dense or inaccessible, but because its revelations are the kind that linger and demand to be re-examined.
The combination of narrative energy, evidentiary rigor, and ideological purpose makes it a rare contribution to the growing field of Indian military history. If Rangan intended to ignite curiosity, restore pride, and complicate the simplistic images of India’s past, then he has succeeded with strategic precision.
[Kolkata, August 15, 2025]