The Battle That Echoes: Bhima Koregaon and the Enduring Fight Against Caste

 In the flatlands near Pune, where the Bhima river winds through Maharashtra's arid terrain, a modest obelisk stands as a defiant symbol. Erected two centuries ago by the British East India Company, the Jaystambh—or Victory Pillar—commemorates a skirmish that reshaped India's history. But for millions of Dalits, formerly known as "untouchables", it represents something far more profound: a rare triumph over the suffocating grip of caste oppression. On January 1st 2026, the 208th anniversary of the Battle of Bhima Koregaon, an estimated 700,000 pilgrims converged on the site, their chants of "Jai Bhim" (Victory to Bhim, a nod to B.R. Ambedkar, the Dalit icon and architect of India's constitution) piercing the dawn air. Yet, as in years past, the event barely registered in the national consciousness, prompting questions about whose histories India chooses to remember—and whose it prefers to forget.

A Clash of Empires and Castes

The battle itself, fought on January 1st 1818, was a footnote in the grand sweep of colonial conquest. As the Third Anglo-Maratha War raged, a small contingent of the British East India Company—around 800 soldiers under Captain Francis Staunton—found itself besieged in the village of Koregaon Bhima by a vastly superior force. Peshwa Baji Rao II, the last ruler of the Peshwa dynasty that dominated the Maratha Confederacy, commanded an army of 20,000-28,000 troops, including mounted cavalry and artillery. What followed was a gritty, day-long standoff. The British, hunkered down behind village walls, repelled wave after wave of attacks. By dusk, the Peshwas withdrew, wary of reinforcements, handing the Company a tactical victory that hastened the collapse of Maratha power and paved the way for British hegemony in western India.But numbers tell only part of the story. The Company's ranks were eclectic: Europeans, Indian sepoys from various regions, and crucially, a significant number from the Mahar community, a Dalit caste traditionally relegated to menial roles. Inscriptions on the Jaystambh list the fallen, with many bearing the suffix "-nak", a marker of Mahar identity. For these soldiers, the fight was personal. Under Peshwa rule—a Brahmin-led regime infamous for its rigid enforcement of caste hierarchies—Mahars were humiliated daily. They were forbidden from drawing water from upper-caste wells, forced to sweep the ground behind them to erase their "polluting" footprints, and barred from military service in the Peshwa's forces. "The Peshwas treated us like dirt," as one descendant put it bluntly.

Spurned and seeking dignity, Mahars flocked to the British army, where merit trumped birth—at least in theory. On that fateful day, their valour turned the tide. As retired Indian Army officer Dadasaheb Bhosle, a Mahar veteran adorned with medals from the 1965 Indo-Pak war, service in Sri Lanka, the Andamans, and Jammu and Kashmir, recounted with unfiltered pride: "Bigod, humne Peshwa ko khatm kiya!" ("Damn it, we finished off the Peshwa!") He added, "The Mahars only ended Peshwa rule and gave India to the British." Such sentiments might jar in a nation that reveres its independence struggle, but they underscore a harsh truth: for the oppressed, colonial rule sometimes offered a lesser evil than indigenous tyranny.

From Obscurity to Pilgrimage

The battle's legacy languished in obscurity until the 20th century, when Ambedkar visited the site in 1927. A Mahar himself, he transformed the Jaystambh into a beacon of Dalit empowerment. "This is where our ancestors struck back against Brahmanical arrogance," he declared, urging his followers to draw inspiration from the Mahars' defiance. Today, January 1st is observed as Shaurya Divas (Valour Day) by Dalits across India, a counter-narrative to the dominant histories that glorify upper-caste warriors like Shivaji or the Peshwas.

The annual pilgrimage has swelled into a mass movement. In 2022, the 204th anniversary drew over 400,000 visitors, a sea of blue flags symbolising Ambedkarite ideology. By 2026, amid Maharashtra's fractious politics, the crowd ballooned to 700,000, with processions stretching for kilometres. Fireworks lit the midnight sky, speeches invoked ongoing struggles against caste-based violence, and vendors hawked Ambedkar memorabilia. Security was formidable: 9,000 police officers, drones, and CCTV cameras ensured order, a precaution born of bitter experience. The 200th anniversary in 2018 erupted in violence, with clashes between Dalit pilgrims and right-wing groups leaving one dead and dozens injured. Investigations pointed to provocations by Hindutva outfits, who decry the event as "anti-national" for celebrating a British victory over Indian rulers.

Yet the commemoration's core remains resilient. It is not just remembrance but resistance—a reminder that India's freedom from colonialism did little to dismantle internal hierarchies. Dalits, who comprise about 16% of India's population, still face rampant discrimination: atrocities like honour killings, forced labour, and denial of temple entry persist. In Maharashtra, home to a vibrant Dalit movement, Bhima Koregaon embodies the unfinished revolution Ambedkar envisioned.

The Media's Selective Silence

Why, then, does such a significant gathering often slip under the radar? In 2026, as pilgrims dispersed on January 2nd, one might have expected blanket coverage. After all, events of comparable scale—like religious festivals or political rallies—dominate headlines. Yet perceptions persist that mainstream media snubbed it. "4 lakh people visited the Jaystambh... It didn’t get a mention in any mainline TV channel or newspaper," lamented one observer in 2022, echoing a familiar refrain: "Possibly because events celebrated by Dalits are considered non-events?"

A closer look reveals a more nuanced picture. In 2026, coverage was not absent but subdued. The Indian Express ran detailed reports on security preparations and the peaceful aftermath, noting the political undertones ahead of civic polls. The Hindu covered parallel events in Karnataka, where Dalit groups paid homage. NDTV Hindi broadcast snippets of the Pune festivities, complete with "Jai Bhim" chants and fireworks. Wire services like PTI disseminated stories picked up by regional outlets, estimating crowds at 700,000 and emphasising the absence of unrest.

Still, national television largely overlooked it, favouring New Year's revelry or international news. This pattern is telling. Peaceful years garner modest attention; only violence, as in 2018, thrusts it into the spotlight. Critics argue this reflects deeper biases: India's media, dominated by upper-caste owners and editors, is uncomfortable with narratives that challenge Brahminical legacies. The Peshwas, after all, are lionised in Maratha folklore as defenders of Hindu pride, their defeat by "lowly" Mahars and colonisers a sore point for some nationalists.

In a broader sense, Bhima Koregaon's marginalisation mirrors India's struggle with its plural pasts. Hindutva ideology, ascendant under Narendra Modi's Bharatiya Janata Party, promotes a unified Hindu narrative, often at the expense of subaltern histories. Dalit assertions, by contrast, highlight fractures—caste as colonialism's enabler, not its antidote. As one activist put it, "We celebrate ending Peshwa rule because it was our chains they forged."

Echoes in Modern India

Two centuries on, Bhima Koregaon resonates amid rising caste tensions. Dalit political parties, like Prakash Ambedkar's Vanchit Bahujan Aghadi, use the site to rally support. Meanwhile, affirmative action policies—reservations in education and jobs—face backlash from upper castes, fuelling debates over merit versus equity. Violence against Dalits surged 13% in 2022, per government data, underscoring the battle's unfinished business.

For veterans like Bhosle, the pride is unapologetic. His words capture a paradox: aiding empire to escape oppression. In an India grappling with identity, Bhima Koregaon challenges simplistic patriotism. It asks: Whose victory? Whose defeat? As pilgrims return each year, the obelisk stands firm—a monument not just to a battle, but to the enduring quest for dignity in a stratified society.