Hemu: From Market Vendor to Emperor

The arrow came from nowhere, as arrows always do.

One moment, Hemu Vikramaditya sat atop his war elephant, surveying the battlefield at Panipat with the practiced eye of a commander who had never known defeat. Twenty-two victories lay behind him—twenty-two battles against Afghan warlords, rebel chieftains, and the mighty Mughals themselves. Below him, his army surged forward in disciplined waves, pushing back the forces of the boy-emperor Akbar. The throne of Delhi, which Hemu had seized mere weeks ago, seemed secure. The dream of Hindu rule in North India, interrupted by centuries of Turkic and Afghan dominance, appeared within reach.

Then the arrow struck.

It pierced his eye socket, driving deep into his skull. The mahout felt his master slump forward. The great elephant, sensing something wrong, began to trumpet in distress. And in that single moment—the flight of one arrow lasting perhaps two seconds—the entire trajectory of Indian history pivoted on its axis. The vast army that moments before had been winning the Second Battle of Panipat dissolved into chaos. Soldiers who had followed Hemu from Punjab to Bengal, who had never questioned his orders, who had believed him invincible, now scattered like birds before a storm.

This is the story of how a man who sold saltpeter in markets rose to command the armies of an empire, conquered Delhi, and declared himself emperor—only to have everything collapse in the time it takes an arrow to find its mark.

The World Before

The India into which Hemu rose was a land caught in convulsion, a subcontinent where empires rose and fell with the regularity of monsoon seasons. By the middle of the sixteenth century, the old certainties had crumbled. The great Delhi Sultanate, which had dominated North India for three hundred years, had fractured into competing successor states. The Lodhi dynasty that once commanded from the ramparts of Delhi had been swept away.

That destruction had come from the north, from beyond the Hindu Kush mountains, in the person of Babur, a prince descended from both Timur and Genghis Khan. At the First Battle of Panipat in 1526, Babur’s disciplined forces, armed with cannon and matchlocks, had shattered the much larger army of Ibrahim Lodhi. It was a revolution in Indian warfare—the first time gunpowder artillery had decisively turned the tide of a major engagement on the subcontinent. Babur established the Mughal Empire, a dynasty that would reshape the political geography of India.

But Babur’s death in 1530 left the nascent empire in the hands of his son, Humayun, a man of considerable culture and learning but uncertain martial prowess. Humayun faced challenges from every direction. His own brothers coveted the throne. Afghan nobles who had served the Lodhis regrouped under new leaders. And most dangerously, an Afghan commander named Sher Shah Suri proved himself a military genius of the highest order.

Sher Shah defeated Humayun decisively at the Battle of Chausa in 1539 and again at Kannauj in 1540. The Mughal emperor fled India entirely, seeking refuge in Persia. For fifteen years, the Sur dynasty ruled from Delhi, and Sher Shah proved himself an administrator of extraordinary capability, reorganizing revenue systems, building roads, and establishing order. But his death in 1545, during a campaign in central India, left the Sur Empire in weaker hands.

By the time of Hemu’s rise, the Sur Empire was ruled by Adil Shah Suri, a distant relative of Sher Shah, whose grip on power was tenuous at best. Afghan nobles who had been united under Sher Shah now pursued their own ambitions. Some declared independence in their provinces. Others raised rebellion, seeking to claim the throne for themselves. The empire that had seemed so solid was fragmenting, and Adil Shah desperately needed capable commanders to hold it together.

Meanwhile, Humayun had not abandoned his claim to India. With Persian backing, he returned in 1555 and recaptured Delhi with surprising ease. But his restoration was brief. In January 1556, Humayun died after falling down the stairs of his library in Delhi, a death both prosaic and profound in its consequences. His heir, Akbar, was only thirteen years old. The Mughal Empire, barely restored, now rested on the shoulders of a child.

This was the India of the 1550s: a patchwork of competing claims, where Afghan warlords battled each other and eyed the Mughal restoration with predatory interest, where old families sought to reclaim lost glory, and where the throne of Delhi changed hands with dizzying frequency. It was a world of opportunity for the ambitious and capable, regardless of their birth.

And into this chaos stepped a man from Alwar who had started life selling provisions to armies.

The Players

Hemu’s origins were humble—a fact that contemporary chroniclers, both those who admired him and those who despised him, consistently noted. He came from Alwar, in what is now Rajasthan, and his family were merchants dealing in saltpeter, the crucial ingredient for gunpowder. In an age of endemic warfare, this was a valuable commodity, and the trade brought Hemu into contact with military men and army camps from an early age.

Historical accounts vary regarding the precise trajectory of his rise, but certain facts emerge clearly. Hemu entered the service of the Sur Empire, initially in supply and logistics roles that suited his mercantile background. But he possessed qualities that transcended his social station: an acute understanding of military organization, a talent for logistics that kept armies fed and supplied across vast distances, and a strategic mind that could read the flow of a campaign.

Under Adil Shah Suri, Hemu’s responsibilities expanded dramatically. The sources tell us he became Wazir—the chief minister of the empire—a remarkable achievement for someone of merchant background in a political system dominated by Afghan and Turkic nobility. This appointment speaks to both Hemu’s exceptional capabilities and Adil Shah’s desperation. The emperor, based far from Delhi in regions closer to Bengal, needed someone who could hold the fractious empire together, someone who could command armies in the field and administer territories with equal facility.

Hemu proved equal to both tasks. As Wazir and supreme military commander, he became the actual power behind the Sur throne, leading armies personally across the breadth of North India. From Punjab in the northwest to Bengal in the east, Hemu campaigned against rebels and pretenders, consolidating Sur authority through a combination of military force and administrative acumen.

What manner of man was he? The historical record provides glimpses rather than portraits. He was Hindu in an empire whose ruling class was predominantly Muslim, yet he commanded the loyalty of Afghan soldiers and nobles through demonstrated competence rather than shared faith or ethnicity. He was methodical in his military planning, understanding that wars were won through supply lines and discipline as much as through battlefield courage. And he possessed that quality essential to all successful military commanders: the ability to inspire confidence in his troops, making them believe that following him led to victory.

His adversaries were formidable. The Afghan nobles who rebelled against Sur authority were experienced warriors leading hardened troops. When Humayun returned to India, Hemu found himself facing the restored Mughal forces, battle-tested from years of campaigning in Persia and Central Asia. And after Humayun’s death, though the emperor was now a thirteen-year-old boy, the Mughal forces were commanded by Bairam Khan, a regent of considerable military experience and political cunning.

Yet against all these opponents, across twenty-two separate engagements, Hemu prevailed. The sources consistently mention this number—twenty-two victories—suggesting it became famous in contemporary accounts, a record of success that marked Hemu as perhaps the most formidable military commander of his generation in North India.

Understanding this record requires recognizing the nature of sixteenth-century Indian warfare. Battles were not merely matters of tactics on a single day but complex campaigns involving supply lines, the loyalty of local powers, weather, disease, and morale. To win once required skill; to win twenty-two times required genius combined with exceptional organizational ability. Hemu won because his armies were better supplied, better disciplined, and better led than those of his opponents. He won because he understood that victory before the battle—through superior positioning and supply—mattered as much as valor during the engagement.

Rising Tension

After Humayun’s unexpected death in early 1556, North India entered a period of profound uncertainty. Young Akbar was crowned emperor, but he was a child, and his authority was exercised through his regent, Bairam Khan. The Mughal position was precarious. Akbar had been in Punjab at the time of his father’s death, far from the capital. Many regional powers questioned whether a child could hold an empire that his father had barely managed to restore.

For Hemu and Adil Shah Suri, Humayun’s death presented a moment of opportunity. The brief Mughal restoration could be overturned. The Sur Empire could reclaim Delhi and with it, dominance over North India. But first, the Afghan rebellions had to be crushed, and Sur authority had to be consolidated across the empire’s territories.

Hemu spent the months following Humayun’s death in constant campaign. He marched from Punjab, where Afghan rebels had declared independence, back toward the heartland of the empire. In each region, he confronted local commanders who had taken advantage of the chaos to assert their own authority. In each case, he defeated them, either through battle or through negotiation backed by military force.

The sources record these victories without providing extensive details of individual battles, suggesting that many were decisive enough to be viewed as foregone conclusions once Hemu’s army appeared. His reputation preceded him. Rebellious governors and ambitious nobles knew that Hemu had not lost a battle, that his army was disciplined and well-supplied, and that challenging him directly was a path to destruction.

By autumn of 1556, Hemu had secured the Sur Empire’s territories and turned his attention toward Delhi. The capital had been in Mughal hands since Humayun’s restoration, but the young emperor and most of his senior commanders were still in Punjab, dealing with threats on the northwestern frontier. Delhi was defended by a Mughal garrison under the command of Tardi Beg Khan, a capable officer but one commanding limited forces far from reinforcement.

Hemu understood that timing was everything. If he could take Delhi before Akbar and Bairam Khan returned from Punjab, he would possess the symbolic center of North Indian power. Every dynasty that had ruled the region—from the Delhi Sultanate through the Lodhis, Babur, Sher Shah, and Humayun—had understood that Delhi was more than a city. It was a statement of legitimacy, a physical manifestation of imperial authority. To hold Delhi was to claim dominion over the subcontinent.

The march on Delhi began with meticulous preparation. Hemu assembled a large army—historical accounts speak of substantial forces, though exact numbers are debated and likely exaggerated by contemporary chroniclers. More importantly, he ensured that his army was well-supplied for a sustained campaign. His years as a merchant served him well; he understood logistics in ways that many nobles bred to warfare did not. His army would not starve, would not lack for ammunition or fodder for the horses and elephants. This attention to detail, unglamorous but essential, gave him decisive advantages.

The March on Agra

Before Delhi could be taken, Agra had to fall. The city, serving as a secondary Mughal stronghold, controlled the approaches to the capital. A Mughal force held the city, and Hemu could not leave it in his rear as he advanced on Delhi.

The attack on Agra demonstrated Hemu’s military capabilities in full. He deployed his forces systematically, cutting off the city’s supply routes before launching his assault. The Mughal garrison, recognizing that they were outnumbered and that no relief force was coming, chose discretion over valor. They evacuated Agra rather than face annihilation in a siege they could not win.

For Hemu, the bloodless capture of Agra was a greater victory than a hard-fought battle would have been. His army remained intact, morale was high, and the path to Delhi now lay open. The news of Agra’s fall reverberated across North India. Regional powers began calculating whether the resurgent Sur Empire under Hemu’s military leadership might prove more durable than the Mughal restoration under a child emperor.

The Siege of Delhi

Hemu arrived at Delhi in October 1556 with his army arrayed for battle. Tardi Beg Khan, the Mughal commander holding the city, faced an agonizing decision. He could defend Delhi with his limited forces, hoping that Akbar and Bairam Khan would arrive with reinforcements before Hemu’s siege reduced the city. Or he could recognize that he was facing the most successful military commander of the age, a man who had won twenty-two consecutive battles, and choose to preserve his forces by withdrawing.

Historical accounts suggest that Tardi Beg Khan attempted to defend the city initially. There was fighting at Delhi’s gates and along its walls. But Hemu’s forces were overwhelming in their numbers and their organization. The Mughal commander realized that defending Delhi would mean the destruction of his entire force with little prospect of significantly delaying Hemu’s ultimate victory.

Tardi Beg Khan withdrew, abandoning Delhi to Hemu’s army. The decision would later cost him his life—Bairam Khan, furious at what he viewed as cowardice, would have him executed. But in the moment, it probably saved the Mughal Empire, preserving forces that would be crucial in the coming confrontation.

On October 7, 1556, Hemu entered Delhi in triumph. The city that had been Mughal just days before was now his. The nobles and officials who had served under Akbar’s name now bent their knees to Hemu. The treasury, the armories, the administrative apparatus of empire—all fell into his hands.

But Hemu understood that merely occupying Delhi was insufficient. The city had changed hands too many times in recent decades for simple possession to confer lasting legitimacy. He needed to make a statement, to transform his position from that of a victorious general to that of a legitimate ruler.

And so, in a ceremony that scandalized some and inspired others, Hemu had himself crowned emperor. He took the title Vikramaditya—“Sun of Valor”—a name that echoed the legendary Hindu rulers of India’s classical past. A merchant from Alwar, a man who had risen through talent rather than noble birth, now sat on the throne of Delhi and claimed dominion over North India.

It was an audacious act, one that broke with centuries of precedent. The ruling dynasties of North India—from the Turkic sultans through the Afghan Lodhis and Suris to the Timurid Mughals—had all been Muslim. Now a Hindu king ruled from Delhi’s throne, the first in generations. For those who saw the political landscape through religious lenses, this was either a restoration or an abomination, depending on their perspective.

For Hemu himself, the religious dimension may have been less significant than the political statement. By claiming imperial status, he was asserting that the Sur Empire had not merely recovered Delhi but had been transformed. He was not Adil Shah Suri’s general anymore, holding the city in his master’s name. He was Hemu Vikramaditya, emperor in his own right, and his authority derived from his conquest and capability rather than from inherited position.

But coronations and titles, however symbolically powerful, cannot stop armies. And marching south from Punjab, moving with all the speed their forces could muster, came Akbar and Bairam Khan with the full might of the Mughal Empire, determined to reclaim Delhi and crush this upstart merchant who dared call himself emperor.

The Turning Point

The Mughal response to Delhi’s fall was swift and uncompromising. Bairam Khan understood that if Hemu was allowed to consolidate his position, if regional powers came to accept his legitimacy as emperor, then the Mughal restoration would be finished. Akbar, though young, would be relegated to perhaps holding some territory in Punjab, if that, while Hemu ruled from Delhi. Everything Humayun had fought to reclaim, everything Babur had conquered thirty years before, would be lost.

Bairam Khan made the critical decision to face Hemu immediately, even though this meant rushing to battle before all Mughal forces could be assembled. The risk of delay—giving Hemu time to secure alliances, to fortify Delhi, to be recognized as the legitimate emperor by regional powers—was greater than the risk of facing his formidable army in a decisive engagement.

The two forces converged on Panipat, the same ground where thirty years earlier Babur had shattered the Lodhi Sultanate and established Mughal rule. That this battle would be fought on the exact same field as the First Battle of Panipat was not lost on contemporary observers. It seemed as if fate had designated Panipat as the place where North India’s destiny would be decided, again and again.

Hemu arrived at Panipat with a substantial army. The exact numbers are disputed by historical sources, as is common for sixteenth-century battles, but it is clear that his forces included significant cavalry, numerous war elephants, and disciplined infantry. More importantly, his army had confidence born of constant victory. They had followed Hemu from Punjab to Bengal and back, they had taken Agra and Delhi, and they had never been defeated under his command.

The Mughal army, though commanded by Bairam Khan’s experienced leadership, faced challenges. They had marched rapidly from Punjab and were likely not at full strength. Young Akbar was present, though accounts vary on whether he directly participated in the fighting or was kept at a safe distance during the battle. The Mughal forces did possess superior artillery, including the cannon that had been a crucial advantage at the First Battle of Panipat, but in a fluid cavalry engagement, artillery’s effectiveness could be limited.

On November 5, 1556, the Second Battle of Panipat began. The armies deployed across the same plains that had witnessed Babur’s triumph three decades earlier. Hemu, confident from his unbroken string of victories, led his forces from the front, mounted on a war elephant as befitted a commander of his status.

The battle’s opening phases went well for Hemu’s army. His forces pressed forward, engaging the Mughal lines with vigor. Contemporary accounts suggest that the Mughal forces were being pushed back, that the battle was tilting in Hemu’s favor. His tactical dispositions, perfected over twenty-two previous victories, were proving effective once again.

On his war elephant, high above the battlefield where he could survey the flow of combat and issue orders that would be relayed by couriers and trumpet calls, Hemu had every reason to believe he was winning his twenty-third consecutive battle. Victory would cement his position as emperor, would likely lead to Akbar’s flight back to Kabul or beyond, would establish a new dynasty ruling from Delhi. The course of Indian history stretched before him, waiting to be shaped by his will.

And then the arrow struck.

The historical sources do not record who fired it—whether it was a skilled archer who took deliberate aim at the enemy commander, or simply a random shot among the thousands of arrows that filled the air during a major battle. What matters is that it found its mark, piercing Hemu’s eye and driving into his brain.

The effect was immediate and catastrophic. Hemu slumped forward in his howdah, grievously wounded or perhaps killed instantly. His mahout, feeling his master collapse, tried to turn the elephant away from the fighting, away from danger. The great beast, responding to its handler’s urgings or perhaps to Hemu’s blood streaming down its flanks, began to trumpet in distress.

Soldiers nearby saw their commander’s elephant turning away. The word spread with the speed of panic: Hemu was down. Hemu was wounded. Hemu was dead. The army that had believed itself invincible suddenly faced the unthinkable reality that their commander, who had never lost, who had led them from triumph to triumph, was fallen.

Military history shows that armies can absorb tremendous casualties and continue fighting—if they believe they are winning and if their command structure remains intact. But the loss of a charismatic commander, especially one whose personal presence has been the foundation of every previous victory, can shatter an army instantly. The psychological shock overwhelms tactical considerations.

That is what happened at Panipat. Hemu’s army, which moments before had been pressing toward victory, dissolved. Soldiers abandoned their positions and fled. Cavalry wheeled their horses and galloped away. The disciplined formations that Hemu had drilled and led for years simply ceased to exist as a coherent fighting force.

The Mughal forces, likely as shocked as their enemies by this sudden reversal, rallied and pressed their advantage. What had been a battle transformed into a rout and then into a massacre. Hemu’s fleeing soldiers were cut down as they ran, or captured to be executed later. The war elephants, those engines of terror when properly commanded, became liabilities without coordination, some captured, others killed.

Hemu himself, wounded but not yet dead, was captured. He was brought before Akbar and Bairam Khan. Historical accounts vary on what happened next—some sources claim that Bairam Khan executed Hemu personally, others that the young Akbar was encouraged to strike the first blow as a lesson in kingship before others finished the execution. What is certain is that Hemu Vikramaditya, who had risen from selling saltpeter to commanding armies to wearing an emperor’s crown, died on the battlefield at Panipat.

His head was sent to Kabul, to be displayed as proof of the Mughal victory. His body was sent to Delhi, where it was hung at one of the city’s gates as a warning to any who might challenge Mughal authority. It was a brutal end, but no more brutal than the standards of sixteenth-century Indian warfare, where defeated commanders could expect no mercy.

Aftermath

The immediate consequences of the Second Battle of Panipat were decisive. The Mughal Empire, which had seemed on the verge of collapse with Delhi fallen and young Akbar commanding only a fragment of his father’s realm, was now secure. Bairam Khan continued as regent, and over the following years, Akbar would grow into one of India’s greatest emperors, expanding Mughal authority across most of the subcontinent.

For the Sur dynasty, Panipat was the end. Adil Shah Suri, whose chief minister and general had been Hemu, could not recover from the loss. Within a short time, the Sur Empire fragmented entirely, with former Sur territories being absorbed into the Mughal Empire or seized by local powers. The dynasty that Sher Shah had founded and that had briefly interrupted Mughal rule disappeared from history.

The city of Delhi returned to Mughal hands and would remain the primary Mughal capital for the next three centuries. The brief period of Hemu’s rule—from his coronation in early October until his death at Panipat in early November 1556—became a footnote, a curious interregnum between the restoration of Humayun and the consolidation of Akbar’s power.

For the Afghan nobles who had served the Sur Empire or who had rebelled against it, the Second Battle of Panipat marked the definitive end of Afghan dominance in North India. From the establishment of the Delhi Sultanate by Qutb-ud-din Aibak in the early thirteenth century through the Khalji, Tughlaq, Sayyid, and Lodhi dynasties, and then the brief Sur interlude, Afghan and Turkic elites had ruled North India for over three centuries. Now that era was finished. The future belonged to the Mughals—though Afghan nobles would continue to serve in Mughal armies and administration, they would do so as subjects rather than as rulers.

The battle also had profound implications for the military organization of the subcontinent. The effectiveness of Mughal cavalry and artillery, even against a larger force commanded by a brilliant general, demonstrated the superiority of the Mughal military system. Future Indian rulers would study Mughal tactics and organization, attempting to emulate their success.

But perhaps the most significant immediate aftermath was psychological. The Mughal victory at Panipat, snatched from the jaws of defeat by a single arrow, came to be seen as evidence of divine favor. In an age when military success was often interpreted through religious frameworks, the dramatic reversal suggested that Akbar’s rule was destined, blessed by God in Islam’s terms or by fate in more secular language. This narrative of inevitability would serve the Mughal Empire well in subsequent decades as Akbar expanded his domains.

Legacy

From a distance of nearly five centuries, what are we to make of Hemu’s extraordinary career? His story raises fundamental questions about leadership, legitimacy, and the role of individuals in shaping history.

Consider first his military achievement. Winning twenty-two consecutive battles against varied opponents across diverse terrain is a record that places Hemu among the great military commanders of medieval India. He defeated Afghan warlords, rebels, and the restored Mughal forces under both Humayun and Akbar. This was not the achievement of a lucky general who won a few battles against inferior opponents; it was sustained excellence over a period of years, against the best military forces of his era.

His success came from understanding that warfare was not merely about battlefield courage but about logistics, discipline, intelligence about enemy movements, and the ability to maintain morale among troops. These were not romantic qualities—they required the methodical attention to detail of a merchant ensuring that caravans arrived on time, that supplies were adequate, that accounts balanced. Hemu brought his commercial background to military command, and it gave him advantages that noble-born generals often lacked.

His administrative capabilities as Wazir of the Sur Empire are less well documented than his military victories, but the fact that Adil Shah Suri entrusted him with both military command and civil administration speaks to his versatility. He governed territories from Punjab to Bengal while simultaneously campaigning against rebels and Mughal forces—a feat requiring organizational genius.

Most remarkably, Hemu broke through the rigid social hierarchies of sixteenth-century India. In an age when noble birth determined access to military command and political power, when Afghan and Turkic families monopolized high positions in North Indian polities, a Hindu merchant from a relatively modest background rose to become Wazir and then emperor. This was not supposed to be possible. The fact that it happened testifies both to Hemu’s exceptional abilities and to the fluidity of a period when old certainties were collapsing and new orders being born.

His decision to crown himself emperor rather than rule in Adil Shah Suri’s name was audacious. It transformed him from a loyal servant of the Sur dynasty into a usurper—or into a founder of a new dynasty, depending on one’s perspective. Historical figures who make such transitions successfully are remembered as great. Those who fail, like Hemu, are often forgotten or reduced to footnotes. Yet the audacity of claiming imperial status reveals either tremendous ambition or a sophisticated understanding that legitimacy in that chaotic period derived from power rather than from hereditary claims.

The religious dimension of Hemu’s rule deserves careful consideration. He was the first Hindu ruler of Delhi in generations, and some Hindu nationalist historiography has celebrated him as a champion of Hindu resistance against Muslim rule. But this interpretation likely projects modern religious nationalism onto a sixteenth-century figure who may have thought differently. Hemu commanded predominantly Muslim armies, served Muslim rulers loyally before declaring himself emperor, and probably understood his achievement more in terms of personal merit than religious identity. His Hinduism certainly made him unusual among North India’s ruling class, but whether he saw himself as a Hindu champion or simply as a capable commander who happened to be Hindu remains unclear from the historical sources.

What is certain is that Hemu’s success created panic among established elites. A merchant becoming emperor challenged the fundamental assumptions about social order and proper hierarchy. If commoners could rise to rule empires, what did this mean for noble families who claimed power by right of birth? Hemu’s rise and fall can be read as a cautionary tale that established orders told themselves: the upstart from Alwar briefly held power, but proper order was restored when the legitimate Mughal emperor defeated him.

Yet Hemu’s defeat came not from any failure of his capabilities but from chance—an arrow that, fired seconds earlier or later, aimed slightly differently, might have missed. Had that arrow not struck, had Hemu won the Second Battle of Panipat, the entire subsequent history of India would have been different. The Mughal Empire as we know it might never have developed. Akbar might have become a footnote, a boy-emperor who briefly held his grandfather’s throne before being displaced by a Hindu dynasty founded by a merchant-general.

This contingency reminds us that history is not inevitable, that small moments—the flight of an arrow, the slip on a library staircase that killed Humayun—can redirect entire civilizations. Hemu came within minutes of consolidating his rule over North India. His defeat was not foreordained.

What History Forgets

Beyond the dramatic battles and the even more dramatic single arrow that ended Hemu’s career, the sources provide few personal details. We don’t know if he was married, if he had children, what his personal character was beyond his military and administrative capabilities. Did he write poetry like so many of his contemporary nobles? Was he personally religious or more secular in his outlook? Did he see his rise as fulfilling a destiny or as an unexpected series of opportunities that he skillfully exploited?

These absences in the historical record are themselves significant. The chroniclers who recorded sixteenth-century Indian history were primarily interested in dynasties, in legitimate rulers whose lives and characters deserved detailed attention. Hemu, despite his achievement in taking Delhi and declaring himself emperor, remained in their eyes something of an aberration, a merchant who temporarily seized power before proper order was restored. Thus they recorded his military victories and his death but did not preserve the personal details that would have allowed us to know him as a fully realized historical figure.

We also lose in most historical accounts the experience of ordinary soldiers who served under Hemu’s command. What did Afghan warriors think about following a Hindu merchant into battle? How did Hemu inspire their loyalty despite differences in religion and social background? The sources occasionally mention that his troops were well-disciplined and loyal, but they don’t explain the mechanisms by which a man outside the traditional military elite created such an effective fighting force.

Similarly forgotten are the administrative innovations Hemu may have implemented during his brief time as emperor. In the few weeks between his coronation and his death, did he attempt to change revenue systems, to alter the structure of administration, to implement reforms based on his merchant’s understanding of trade and taxation? Or was the period too brief for anything beyond maintaining the existing structure while consolidating military control? The sources don’t tell us.

What we do know is that Hemu’s death at Panipat meant the end not just of his personal ambitions but of a moment of possibility. For a brief period, it seemed that merit alone might be sufficient to rule an empire, that the rigid hierarchies of birth and religion might be transcended by demonstrated capability. Hemu proved this was possible. But his defeat reimposed the older order, and for centuries afterward, power in North India would remain concentrated in the hands of those born to it.

Yet even in defeat and death, Hemu’s legacy persisted. The very fact that his military record was remembered—those twenty-two victories before his final defeat—suggests that he made an impression on his contemporaries that could not be entirely erased. Military commanders in subsequent generations would have known his name, would have studied his campaigns. And perhaps some merchants and commoners, learning that one of their own had briefly sat on the throne of Delhi, found in his story a reminder that the established order was not as immutable as rulers claimed.

The Second Battle of Panipat marked the end of Hemu’s life but also the beginning of Akbar’s reign as a ruler in his own right rather than a boy dependent on his regent. In the years that followed, Akbar would prove himself a great emperor, one of the finest rulers in Indian history. But in November 1556, on the plains of Panipat, the outcome was uncertain until an arrow found its mark.

In that moment of uncertainty lay Hemu’s true legacy: the knowledge that history is made by human decisions and chance events, that even the most unlikely person can reshape their world through capability and courage, and that empires rise and fall on margins far thinner than their rulers care to admit. The merchant from Alwar who became emperor for a month reminds us that the course of history is never predetermined, that it remains always subject to the actions of extraordinary individuals and the flight of arrows in the confusion of battle.