The Maratha Who Fought 25 Years Against Aurangzeb — And Died Unknown

When Chhatrapati Shivaji died in 1680, he left behind more than an empire — he left behind an idea. The idea of Swarajya, or self-rule, ignited the imagination of millions. But as soon as he was gone, that flame was threatened. In the years that followed, the Mughals would rain down the full force of their empire on the Marathas, determined to extinguish their rebellion. The emperor Aurangzeb, now aging and obsessed, led a 27-year campaign to crush the Deccan. He succeeded in capturing forts, killing generals, and executing Shivaji’s eldest son, Sambhaji. But what he couldn’t destroy was the quiet resistance led by a younger son — a boy-king named Rajaram, who outlasted Aurangzeb himself in the longest war the Mughal Empire would ever fight.

Today, Rajaram is a forgotten name in Indian history — but without him, the Maratha Empire would have died in its infancy. Here is the incredible story of the man who didn’t conquer, but preserved. The king who didn’t win by glory, but by endurance. When Sambhaji was captured by the Mughals in 1689, the Maratha cause appeared doomed. His brutal execution — tortured for forty days before being publicly dismembered — was meant to send a message: resistance is futile. Raigad Fort, the capital of the Maratha Empire, fell soon after. With the heir dead and the royal family under siege, many believed the dream of Swarajya had died with him. But in the chaos, a daring escape was orchestrated. Shivaji’s second son, Rajaram, just nineteen at the time, was smuggled out of the fort with his pregnant wife. This escape, though barely noticed then, would alter the course of Indian history. Instead of heading deeper into Maratha territory, Rajaram traveled south — over a thousand kilometers away — to Gingee Fort in present-day Tamil Nadu. There, from one of the most impenetrable forts in the country, he declared himself Chhatrapati, the new Maratha ruler. It was an astonishing move. No Indian ruler had ever governed a kingdom so far from its heartland. Mughal forces, believing the Marathas to be finished, were caught off guard. For eight years, Gingee would stand as the symbol of Maratha survival. Even as Mughal generals laid siege to it, they couldn’t capture Rajaram. When Gingee finally fell, he had already slipped away, continuing the fight from the Western Ghats. While Rajaram could not match the Mughal army in open battle, he understood that he didn’t have to. Inspired by Shivaji’s legacy, he decentralized command and empowered generals like Santaji Ghorpade and Dhanaji Jadhav to lead guerrilla attacks across the Deccan. These commanders harassed Mughal convoys, burned their supply lines, and launched sudden ambushes that shattered imperial morale. They became legendary not for their numbers, but for their unpredictability. Mughal officers described them as “ghosts on horseback,” impossible to corner. This strategy exhausted the Mughal treasury and forced Aurangzeb to remain in the Deccan for decades — far from Delhi, where his empire slowly began to rot. The war in the Deccan became an obsession for Aurangzeb. By some accounts, he spent over one-third of his entire reign fighting the Marathas. Despite initial victories, he found himself in a quagmire — unable to crush the decentralized Maratha resistance that Rajaram had nurtured. Forts would be won and lost repeatedly, but the spirit of Swarajya remained. As the Marathas regrouped in Satara and the western hills, Rajaram shifted power back home, ensuring continuity. His model of distributed leadership allowed the war to continue — even as Mughal generals grew old, sick, and demoralized. Aurangzeb himself died in Maharashtra in 1707, never returning to the capital he left behind. In 1700, after more than a decade of leadership in exile and constant movement, Rajaram fell ill and died at the age of just 30. He passed away quietly at Satara Fort — a moment that could have ended the fragile resistance he had built. But his death was not announced immediately. For weeks, his generals and advisors kept it hidden from both the Mughals and the Maratha people, fearing collapse. Eventually, his wife Tarabai declared their infant son king and took command herself — a testament to the resilience of the institution Rajaram had protected. The Marathas didn’t fall. In fact, they would soon rise stronger than ever. Rajaram was not a conqueror. He did not command vast armies or ride into battle with fanfare. What he did was far rarer. He preserved hope. He kept alive a resistance that, by all logic, should have died with Sambhaji. He transformed a collapsing kingdom into a movement — a cause that outlived its enemies. His legacy is not carved in stone but written in the survival of the Maratha Empire itself.

When we remember the Marathas, we rightly honor Shivaji’s vision and Sambhaji’s sacrifice. But let us also remember the silent figure in the middle — the one who didn’t need to be remembered, because he never stopped remembering what he was fighting for.

Chhatrapati Rajaram — the king who fought Aurangzeb for 25 years, and died without a throne, but never without purpose.