The Story of Sambhaji—Bold, Brutal, Human
Chhaava adapts Shivaji Sawant’s famous Marathi novel Chhava to present Sambhaji Maharaj not just as a warrior, but as a man caught between heritage, duty, conflict, and betrayal.
The film opens with the death of Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj, casting a long shadow over the Maratha empire. Aurangzeb learns of Shivaji’s death and expects collapse—they believe the resistance will die with its founder. Instead, Sambhaji, Shivaji’s eldest son, steps forward. He launches the attack on Burhanpur, catching the Mughals off guard. Amid battle chaos, Sambhaji faces a lion—literally—and splits open its jaw barehanded.
Sambhaji returns home, marries Yesubai, is crowned Chhatrapati. But his rule is anything but peaceful. Wars on multiple fronts: against the Mughals, the Portuguese, the Siddi rulers, growing betrayal within, intrigue, and the burden of expectation. His temper, at times, is harsh, his decisions controversial. Yet he is also shown as compassionate—an example being when he rescues a child, his sense of justice shining through.
Then comes his capture by Aurangzeb by deception, the brutality of his execution, and the paradox of that martyrdom: defeated physically but victorious forever in memory. Through artifice, violence, ritual, and betrayal, Sambhaji stays steadfast to his core—his principles, his Swarajya, his Dharma.
Off-Screen Shadows: Vicky Kaushal’s Hard-Earned Steadiness
Playing a figure as polarizing and legendary as Sambhaji could crush an actor if they are not deeply rooted. Vicky Kaushal, who plays Sambhaji, brings something more than intensity—he brings earned humility, struggle, and a steady hand forged through early turmoil.
Born in 1988 into a modest chawl in Andheri West, Mumbai, the son of stunt-action director Sham Kaushal, Vicky’s beginnings were not gilded. His father’s world was the grind of film sets, long days, physical risk. But there was no guarantee of stardom, even for the son of someone already in the industry. Vicky has often remarked he didn’t have the luxury of choice early on: auditioning for small roles, doing theatre, working behind the scenes, even assisting other filmmakers.
His early roles in Masaan (2015) and Raman Raghav 2.0 (2016) were not easy or glamourous—they were emotionally demanding. For Masaan, he lived among locals, absorbed mannerism and dialect; for Raman Raghav 2.0, he pushed into dark spaces, isolating himself, even compromising his own comfort and health.
These experiences mirror aspects of Sambhaji’s arc in Chhaava: the heavy burden of legacy (born of Shivaji’s name), the expectation of strength, the internal storm of duty vs. personal cost. When Vicky plays Sambhaji facing betrayal, when he confronts the sacrificial silence, the emotional toll—it resonates because Vicky has lived scenes of struggle, rejection, waiting.
Akshaye Khanna: Aurangzeb, Gaps, Grace
On the other side stands Akshaye Khanna as Aurangzeb—antagonist in narrative yet complex as history. Akshaye Khanna has had his own odyssey in Bollywood.
A star‐kid (son of Vinod Khanna), his early entry into films was expected to bring fame. But despite critical successes in Border, Taal, Dil Chahta Hai, Humraaz, there were periods—sabbaticals—when work waned, when choices were fewer, when media attention shifted elsewhere. Akshaye has spoken about those years being hard, heavy with doubt and question, much like Sambhaji’s early years before his ascendancy.
To prepare for Aurangzeb, he draws on this history—of being seen but not always heard, of carrying expectation, of waiting, of confronting power structures. His Aurangzeb is not one-dimensional. He is fearful, calculating, wounded by his need to assert supremacy. The performance’s tension is sharpened by what Akshaye has known: scrutiny, comparisons to contemporaries, the challenge of staying relevant without losing self.
Where Script and Life Intertwine
There are moments in Chhaava where you see real life reflected in celluloid. For example:
The physical demands on Vicky for the role: heavy costumes, action, war sequences, body control. He’s no stranger to pushing himself (as in Uri, where he trained with the military, did drills, carried weight, etc.). That preparedness lends authenticity to his portrayal of Sambhaji in war, defeat, endurance.
The emotional weight—parental expectations, legacy. Sambhaji is the son of Shivaji, whose legend towers large. Vicky, although his father is in the film industry, had to carry his own burden—of carving identity, rejecting typecasting, of making people believe him not just because of family ties. That reflection comes through in his depiction of Sambhaji’s conflicts at court: with stepmothers, nobles, advisors, even within his own self.
Akshaye’s gaps from the limelight give him a lived sense of waiting, of watching from sidelines, then stepping back in with precision. His Aurangzeb is not simply oppressive; there are moments of doubt, isolation. In one interview Akshaye said that when attention slips, work becomes scarce, it hurts, and you question yourself. That human fragility intensifies the villain in the film—not just evil, but lonely in ambition.
More Than Battles: Cultural Echoes and Emotional Currents
Chhaava isn’t only about sword-clashes; it’s about identity. About what it means to be remembered. The film has had enormous emotional resonance especially in Maharashtra, where the memory of Shivaji and Sambhaji is woven into landscape and folklore. Audiences have said that this film brings alive stories they grew up hearing—tales of bravery, but also sorrow, moral dilemmas, loyalty, betrayal.
The film also revives lesser known historical moments: the visit to Sangameshwar, for example, where Sambhaji made sacrifices in trusting local chieftains, negotiating disputes, refusing to abandon people even when “escape” was offered.
The emotional impact comes from seeing the human cost: not only in death and battle, but in loss of trust, in the burden of leadership, in seeing loved ones suffer. Yesubai’s character adds depth—not as just a royal consort, but as companion, witness, sometimes a consolation for Sambhaji’s inner conflict. The film asks: what does courage cost?
Little-Known Bits: Behind the Scenes That Mattered
The pre-production involved deep research. The team visited historical towns—Pune, Ratnagiri, Paithan, etc.—to soak up culture, architecture, clothing, dialect. Costume designer Sheetal Sharma restored old Paithani borders, acquired authentic textiles from Paithan and Narayanpeth for the women’s costumes. The sword “Bhavani” and jewelry were recreated referencing museum collections.
The physical costume load was heavy: Vicky’s outfit in the first big action sequence reportedly weighed around 17–18 kilograms. Moving, fighting, emoting in such gear is no small feat.
To maintain intensity, reportedly Vicky and Akshaye avoided interacting during parts of filming to preserve tension between their characters. That method-acting sense of distance shows on screen: when Sambhaji and Aurangzeb confront each other, there is electricity, weight.
Music by A. R. Rahman doesn’t just score the action — it underscores the psychological terrain. Silence, rituals, chants, folk instruments, even the wind through forts—all echo in the sound design. Rahman’s lyrics emphasize not only heroism, but spiritual and emotional cost.
When History Mirrors Hope
Chhaava’s success is both commercial and cultural. It shows that Indian audiences still hunger for historical narratives when they are told with honesty, complexity, and reverence. It reopens conversations about Sambhaji, a figure often overshadowed by Shivaji, reminding us of bravery beyond myth.
For Vicky Kaushal, this may become one of the defining roles of his career. It builds on his pattern of choosing difficult, physically or psychologically demanding roles, and now places him in the pantheon of actors who interpret history, not just entertain it. For Akshaye Khanna, this is another demonstration that he needn’t always be the romantic hero; his power lies in complexity, in embodying both menace and nuance.
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