PUBLISHED
September 21, 2025
History doesn’t repeat itself, but it does rhyme. This famous adage aptly frames the spirit of Warrior Poet: The Life, Times, and Legacy of Khushal Khan Khattak. History may not produce identical events, yet patterns of ambition, betrayal, resilience, and resistance echo across time. From the fall of empires to the struggles of nations, these recurring themes remind us that while contexts change, human nature rarely does.
The author known for his earlier work Forgotten Kings: The Story of the Hindu Shahi Dynasty, turns his lens toward one of the towering figures of Pashto literature and history: Khushal Khan Khattak, often celebrated as the national poet of Afghanistan and counted among the triad of Pashto literary giants alongside Rahman Baba and Abdul Hameed Baba. The book, however, is more than a literary biography. It is a narrative that interlaces Khushal’s life with centuries of Afghan history, tracing roots back to Qais Abdur Rashid, the legendary progenitor of the Pashtuns, and even linking genealogical claims to biblical King Saul.
The opening chapters meticulously chart the rise and fall of Afghan tribes, from the age of Timur to the Mughal ascendancy. The narrative does not shy away from recounting brutal episodes, such as Ulugh Beg’s treacherous banquet in which over 700 Yousufzai Maliks were massacred in the late 15th century after a feigned peace offering, leaving only six survivors. Similarly, the author reminds us of the pivotal role of the Yousufzais in Babur’s triumph at the first battle of Panipat, which sealed the fate of Delhi and ended Ibrahim Lodhi’s rule, the only Muslim king of Delhi to die on the battlefield. Khushal himself acknowledged this debt in verse:
“After him was Babur King of Delhi who was indebted to the Pathans for his place.”
The book is at its strongest when situating Khushal within the complex web of Mughal-Pashtun relations. Initially loyal to the Mughals, Khushal fought their wars and enjoyed privileges as a mansabdar, responsible for safeguarding routes between Attock and Peshawar. His early life of favour was marked by privilege and learning. He was tutored at home, and was fluent in Pashto, Persian, and Arabic, with a worldview shaped by Persian culture and an admiration for progressive thinkers such as Mirza Ansari. This cultural capital allowed him to oppose fanaticism and maintain a measured distance from orthodox clerics.
Yet, as the narrative progresses, Khushal’s life becomes a study in contradictions. Once a trusted Mughal ally, he later turned into their fiercest critic — an evolution the author attributes to personal betrayal and imprisonment under Aurangzeb, whom Khushal had once supported against Dara Shikoh. Was this transformation driven by principle or by wounded pride? The book invites the reader to explore this ambiguity rather than dictating an answer.
This portrayal by Changez Jan is perhaps the book’s most valuable contribution. Khushal emerges not as an unblemished hero but as a man of his time. Brave yet flawed, a warrior-poet who could both extol honour and sanction atrocities. He was capable of ordering the massacre of an entire Mayar village, yet he also crafted exquisite verses on Nishat Bagh. He championed tribal autonomy, yet spent much of his life serving imperial masters.
Sprinkling the historical narrative with cultural anecdotes, the book recalls, for instance, the origin of the Khattak name, stemming /from Luqman, the tribe’s progenitor, who, after an unwise choice in marriage, was mocked as being “stuck in the mud” (khata). These details lend texture and humanise these larger-than-life figures of Afghan history.
The book also charts, with clockwork precision, the contours of Pakhtunwali — the traditional Pashtun code of conduct, built on honour, hospitality, and revenge — that now shows signs of fading. It recounts episodes like Malik Bahaku — who, despite being Khushal’s mortal enemy, offered asylum to Khushal’s family while Khushal himself was betrayed by Mughals — and earlier examples such as Malik Akora (Khushal’s predecessor). When Akora killed Shah Beg Khan’s blind brother, the Afghan custom allowed an offender either to flee or to seek the intercession of a respected patron; Akora went to Shah Beg, was clothed in prestigious attire and offered financial assistance. Yet as Akora departed, Shah Beg is said to have warned, “Why should I kill so influential [a man as you]; depart…I will come against thee with an army,” a threat that precipitated two fierce battles.
Of course, the profound transliteration is a gem that deserves acknowledgment alongside the historical study. Particularly captivating is the opening stanza of a poem Khushal composed during his incarceration in Ranthambore, after being summoned to Peshawar under false pretenses and trapped by the Mughals.
“Evil were my dreams until I saw the dawn, / My eyes I could not close, restless I lay upon my bed; / Then I rose from my couch, my head was aching sore…”
The poetic influence of the Pakhtun gladiator does not end with him. He invented a shorthand or cipher called zanjiri (‘chained’), and also laid the foundation for a simpler form of writing that eschewed rhythmic prose — unlike the legacy of the time, which often sacrificed clarity for rhyme. In his progeny (of 57 sons and numerous daughters), five of his sons inherited this literary talent, and Halima, his daughter, holds a quiet stature among Pashto poets. As mentioned in Pata Khazana, she delved into mystical poetry:
“I praised the compassionate Lord / In more than one way. / When the worldly love of Ayaz / My heart managed to disown, / I felt prouder than I would have / Sitting on Mahmud’s throne…”
In the end, Warrior Poet resists the temptation to enshrine Khushal as a flawless symbol of Pashtun valor. Instead, it offers a candid exploration of a man negotiating power, loyalty, and identity in an age of empires. The author’s restraint in imposing judgment is refreshing; he allows facts and contradictions to speak for themselves. For readers accustomed to sanitised hero-worship, this approach may be a bit unsettling, but it is precisely what makes the work historically honest.
Khushal, as portrayed here, is neither saint nor villain.
He is profoundly human. And perhaps that is the point. Our discomfort lies not in Khushal’s imperfections but in our insistence on perfection in those we call heroes.
Furqan Ali is a Peshawar-based researcher who works in the financial sector. He can be reached at alifurqan647@gmail.com
All facts and information are the sole responsibility of the writer
