Last week, the Indian Army announced its intention to delve into “the profound depths of indigenous military systems, their evolution, strategies that have been passed down through the ages, and the strategic thought processes that have governed the land for millennia.” It aims to “reintroduce classical teachings” and “revitalise knowledge creation from India’s rich classical heritage.”
This proposal is undeniably interesting, as there is value to be gleaned from a more broader awareness of South Asian military traditions. However, any such attempt must be guided by a nuanced understanding of “classical” texts as historical objects. What does the Arthashastra really say about military systems and grand strategy? And why is “classical” only limited to texts before the 8th century CE, when South Asia experienced extraordinary military transformations in the 11th, 15th centuries, and beyond?
What does the Arthashastra say?
Full disclosure: I have previously conducted lectures and workshops for officers from the armed forces, specifically on the strategic aspects of the Arthashastra. For that opportunity, I thank my mentors, some of whom are occasional columnists for ThePrint. However, I am sure that my views might provoke strong discussions, and so I will respectfully not mention their names, or my observations and discussions with standing officers of the armed forces.
What kind of text is the Arthashastra? It serves as a manual for a vijigishu, someone aspiring to be a conqueror, guiding them on how to organise and succeed in the complex enterprise of state-building—often at significant costs. As such, the king is to be wary of everyone around him, employ spies and assassins ruthlessly (Book 8.12), use extreme violence against dissenters (Book 4), and build an expansive state apparatus that manages fields, commerce, mines, forest resources, and so on (Book 2).
Scholars like Sri Lankan-American Patrick Olivelle suggest that the Arthashastra was composed and revised over multiple centuries, with its core dating back to the Mauryan period. Its author(s) frequently reference earlier works, legends, and historical events, either dismissing or agreeing with them as necessary. It is an extraordinarily hard-nosed text, with the stated goal of the establishment of an ideal and prosperous state. But since its authors were erudite Brahmins, they wanted the king to establish a state where Brahmins were, generally speaking, legally privileged, and received more benefits and less punishment than the members of any other caste (see, for example, Book 3.5). And while it acknowledges women’s property rights, it also prescribes awful corporal punishment for dissenting or absent wives (Book 3.4).
One could argue, of course, that the Arthashastra should be studied for its insights into state-building, geostrategy, and military concepts rather than its social aspects. This is a fair point, so let us understand these better.
The Arthashastra, whether independently developed or built upon earlier texts, engaged deeply with experts in various fields, from metal grading to elephant capture and training. It is also quite elegant and efficient in its use of Sanskrit, using simple fractions to discuss the salaries of officials in hierarchies (Book 2), or repurposing legal rules related to deposits to address matters of debt (Book 3.12). The text is rigorous and symmetrical, reflecting its extensive but ultimately idealised theoretical model of the world. Nowhere is this more evident than in its understanding of geostrategy, where the messy politics of ancient India are distilled into a raja-mandala or “circle of kings” (Books 6 and 7). The raja-mandala is impressively complex, taking into account kings of varying power and interests. But it also assumes a rather ruthless interstate system—unlike the rules-based international order today. It also does not reckon with the states of its actual, historical world, which were mostly not centralised, had multiple competing dynasties within them, and were quite socially diverse.
While some military ideas in the text—particularly on marching orders, equipment, and the use of terrain—are sound, it also has a conception of battles fought using symmetrical formations of vyuhas (literally “array”) and counter-vyuhas (Books 9 and 10). These vyuhas are more geometric than historical military deployments. In his book Elephants and Kings: An Environmental History, Prof Thomas Trautmann, based on a review of various manuscripts and practical consideration, agrees that while some vyuhas existed historically, many in the Arthashastra seem to have been inserted to maintain the text’s theoretical symmetry.
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Why not medieval knowledge?
The Arthashastra was certainly a landmark text and remained popular for centuries after its composition. Olivelle notes that it continued to be cited by writers such as Manu (of Manusmriti fame), Vatsyayana (author of the Kamasutra), and Dandin (court poet of the Pallava dynasty in 8th century South India). During the early medieval period, many kings went out of the way to invite Brahmins to settle in their territories and claimed to establish the caste system (see, for example, the Chalukya king Pulakeshin I, or the Bhauma-Kara king Shubhakaradeva II). However, the text seems to have lost popularity around the 9th century CE—just when vernacular languages were established in courts, and massive new imperial formations, such as the Rashtrakutas, emerged in South Asia.
Strangely, though, the Army’s spokesperson suggests that “classical” texts beyond the 8th century are not going to be studied. This is difficult to explain from an objective historical standpoint. Are polities and texts after the 8th century not important to Indian history? Medieval kingdoms saw the incorporation of hill-peoples such as the Hoysalas, and local goddesses such as Kamakhya, into the Sanskritic mainstream; they saw the development of advanced cavalry and later, gunpowder tactics, which reshaped military labour markets, giving rise to many aspects of contemporary India—including the Indian Army itself.
If the Army seeks to be better grounded in India’s military history, it stands to benefit tremendously from exploring all these periods, and especially from staying above recent political trends. Expanding the focus beyond “classical” texts to include early modern records and accounts of battles—none of which survive from ancient India—can provide a deep anchoring in Indian military knowledge. Consider, for example, the military tactics of Malik Ambar, perhaps the most successful anti-Mughal general before Shivaji and one of the innovators of guerrilla warfare that helped the Maratha Confederacy grow through the 18th century.
At the end of the day, texts like the Arthashastra are normative. They describe the kind of state its authors wanted at a particular point in history rather than the kind of states that actually existed. It is worth asking, also, if the state described in Arthashastra is the kind that we want. For all its historical value, the ancient text was written at a cut-throat time, when kings either killed or were killed. Considering the extraordinary, if uneven, democratic progress since then, it would be strange to overstate the relevance of an ancient totalitarian state that may not even have existed. The Arthashastra is best appreciated as a product of a bygone period, similar to many other texts and ideas on rulership produced by Indians over the centuries.
Anirudh Kanisetti is a public historian. He is the author of Lords of the Deccan, a new history of medieval South India, and hosts the Echoes of India and Yuddha podcasts. He tweets @AKanisetti.
This article is a part of the ‘Thinking Medieval’ series that takes a deep dive into India’s medieval culture, politics, and history.
(Edited by Prashant)