AMBIKA

In the middle of the night, I woke with a start. I could hear those screams again. I turned around, curled up, and closed my ears. I would rather listen to the rain than hear those cries of pain. Day by day I watched my mother’s swollen body grow heavier with pregnancy. I had often heard her whisper that only a son could become a shining star.

“A boy,” I whispered to myself, but the bustle around me drowned the thought. 

They spoke of blood, water, clothes, birth, and celebration. My mother’s screams grew louder before they stopped altogether. I heard a baby cry. Another. How many? I had even stopped counting. Then, I heard my father’s anxious voice, “Boy or girl?”

For a while, no one replied. I heard a woman’s voice with some hesitation. “It’s a girl, my lord.”

“Ah!” he cried, and a moment later his footsteps faded away. I pretended to sleep to have some peace. 

Many women watched over my sisters and me. They fed us, washed us, changed our clothes, and made our beds. They seemed to anticipate everything we wanted. We grew up amid pleasant scents and comfort. I was the oldest of my sisters and the strongest. I watched everything around me, day, and night. 

I was nine when I first understood the extent of my father’s power. He divided his kingdom into two parts: men and women. Men were warriors and soldiers—training, exercising, mending their weapons, cleaning, feeding the horses and elephants from the first light of dawn to dusk. Behind the high walls were the women—young and old. They wore saris, their hair gathered in topknots pinned with flowers and decorated with bead necklaces. Women tended children, cattle, and household work, spun cotton and ground grain. Once I heard of a woman warrior who had lost a leg in battle, which meant that some women, like men, chose the life of a warrior. 

Mother dressed soberly. Every word she spoke was a command, every glance an order. She never carried any of us, yet she looked upon us with love, though never with pride. My spirited nature worried her. She often reminded me to behave like a girl. 

My father, Hemavat, belonged to the Gaja clan, whose totem was an elephant–the white elephant was celestial and their monarch. We believed that by worshipping elephants we would be blessed with long lives, many sons and freedom from drought and plague. Every morning my father prayed for a son who could succeed him. The elephant-god never granted that wish. 

The mango trees burst into blossom and summer arrived. I was twelve years old. My parents no longer allowed me the freedom enjoyed by the boys of our community.

My mother told me, “You have grown into a young woman. It is time for you to wear saris and behave like an adult.” I did not like the way she said it, but I was not supposed to answer back. I kept quiet. 

“You must learn how to read and write,” my father stated firmly. 

I was thrilled. I thought I would go to a school as the boys did, but instead my teacher came home to educate me. He said, “Boys of your age must leave home, live in a hermitage, and serve their guru in order to learn the Vedas. You are a woman and the daughter of the prajapathi, the folk’s leader. You have the privilege of learning at home. But you must never forget to respect your guru.” I touched my teacher’s feet and received his blessing. “God bless you with many sons,” he said.

The demons formed the buffalo clan. They became powerful by winning many ruthless battles. Their chief, Mahisha, expanded his land almost to the entire peninsula, destroying many smaller clans. The Gajas were strong and a challenge to him. Mahisha had to think of a different strategy to win our land.

I was fifteen when my parents decided to search a suitable groom for me. They were looking for a man who would eventually become the chief of the Gajas. Mahisha thought it was an excellent opportunity for him. He visited my father with a proposal to marry me. 

I disliked Mahisha the moment I saw him. His horned crown made him resemble a buffalo demon. His huge moustache and confident bearing marked him as a seasoned warrior. With a strong body, he seemed like a master in the art of fighting and formidable on the battlefield. He stared at me with unsettling intensity. 

I was happy when my father refused his proposal. He had slaughtered whole clans, including many of my father’s cousins and brothers. Proud and arrogant, he was neither fit to be my husband nor worthy of leading the Gajas. 

When Mahisha came to know about my father’s decision, he became furious. He could have killed my father and his bodyguards and declared war on the Gajas, but he did not. I heard that he wanted to win over my heart and not force me into marriage. He sent several messages to me through his ministers, proposing to marry me. I ignored all of them. 

One day, my father fell seriously ill and never got up again. The physicians said it was food poisoning, though some suspected darker causes. A few days later he died. Through tears and wails, we performed the funeral rites, laid him upon a pyre, and set fire to his body. Priests read sacred texts and prayed for the soul of my father. My mother said nothing. I followed her meekly, obedient, and dazed. For the first time in my life, she held me in her arms and wept with me.

We were still mourning over the unexpected death of my father, when the cunning Mahisha waged war against the Gajas as though he could not wait for the mourning rites to end. The Gajas did not expect such an inhuman act from Mahisha; they were off-guard and unruly without my father, their beloved leader. They fled for their lives. Mahisha conquered the Gajas. 

I escaped along with my wounded mother and a servant. All my sisters were dead. To protect my mother from our enemy, I took my father’s sword with me. It was heavier than I had imagined. I had never held a sword in my hand before. 

I hated the demons for what they had done to us. With every passing hour, my mother’s wounds worsened. Without food and shelter, we wandered aimlessly in the forest. After several days and nights, we found a cave. Two days later, my mother died. I had no tears left. No voice left. The servant gathered wood and laid my mother’s body upon it outside the cave. Before we lit the pyre, I climbed onto the stacked logs and touched her face once more, just to make sure she was truly gone. There were no priests to perform her final ritual.

The cave shook in the grip of a violent storm. Thunder roared and the earth trembled. A tree just outside the cave was struck by lightning. Terrified, I began to pray. The darkness was drawing me in. I had never felt so alone before. Never going home again. Never seeing my parents again. The thought terrified me. Night after night I woke from troubled dreams.

Every day I watched the entrance of the cave. I longed for a familiar face, someone who would take me home. No one came. I had no idea how many days and nights had passed in the cave. Using a pebble, I began marking the days on a rock. Every day I scratched a new line into the rock, crossing every fifth mark.

I wore the pearl necklace I had brought with me, but the dress no longer fit me. I had outgrown the beautiful clothes I had worn when I first arrived at the cave. I wanted to give the dress to the servant, but she refused to take it. Grey streaks ran through her hair and fatigue lined her face. Only then did I learn her name: Gargi. I asked her about her family. She said they were all dead, just like mine.

The mountain seemed too quiet; I could only hear the occasional chirping of birds and insects. At night, as moonlight scattered over the river near the cave, I watched silver reflections quiver across the water. When dreams woke me, I listened to the birds sing. Their songs lulled me back to sleep. I dreamed of valleys and mango trees, my father’s face, and my mother’s words. The monsoon passed, but the unease never left me. Slowly, I learned the harsh ways of the forest. 

Gargi suddenly toppled backwards with a loud cry. A huge leopard was baring its sharp teeth close to her. I instinctively pushed Gargi away. I snatched the knife from my waistband and drove it at the leopard. The blade barely broke the skin. It opened its mouth wide and leapt forward towards me. I lunged again and drove the knife into its belly. The knife sank into it. It sprang up, rolled across the ground, and collapsed on its back. I stared at the dead leopard in disbelief. 

She hugged me as my mother had once and said, “You saved my life.” 

I helped Gargi sweep the cave with a bamboo broom. I had never held a broom in my hands before. I bent down beside the waterfall to beat my clothes clean on a large rock and helped her in cooking; we had enough leopard-meat for many days. Somewhere between grief and survival, Gargi became my closest friend.

Prayer did nothing to subdue my hatred for Mahisha. The desire for revenge spread through me like a slow poison. A woman was supposed to keep a home, bear children and stand beside a brave man. If I had to go back to the lowlands, I was sure Mahisha would find me. I hated the idea of being his wife. I wished to kill the demon and rescue my clan. Having made my decision, I started practicing with my father’s sword I had brought with me. 

“You look like a man,” Gargi said.

“Why? Is a woman not supposed to hold a sword?”

“I’ve never seen any woman with a desire to fight,” she answered.

The sword was heavy. I could barely lift it. For the first time, I understood how weak I really was. I knew nothing about fighting. 

Many nights, I cried myself to sleep. Even then, I refused to give up. My mind was stronger than my body. My resolve hardened with every passing day. I needed someone to teach me how to fight, someone who could train me in the tactics and strategies of a warrior.

I decided to travel to the land of the Nagas and seek the help of their leader, Vasuki. Whether he would welcome me or reject me, I did not know. When I informed Gargi about my plans, she was surprised. She feared for my life and disliked the idea of my travelling alone. However, when she saw how determined I was, she let me go. Promising her I would soon return to the cave, I walked for several days and nights alone in the forest. I feared the wild animals of the forest and the possibility of being discovered by Mahisha’s men. I regretted every year I had spent learning how to be a proper daughter instead of a warrior. With each step through the forest, my determination to reclaim my land grew stronger.

Vasuki, my father’s brother, was a noble man. When I saw him, I fell on my knees with my forehead on the ground. My heart hammered in my chest. My ragged clothes brushed against the rich carpet beneath me. 

I heard him say, “Daughter of Hemavat.” For a moment, I could hardly think. I stepped forward; my eyes lowered. I made my way slowly towards the throne and prostrated myself before him. Vasuki got up from the throne and came towards me. He was happy to see me; he offered me food and shelter. I was grateful, but I had not come seeking comfort. I asked my uncle if his martial guru Oliyar could teach me the art of fighting. 

“It is a very difficult path you have chosen,” he said, “You can live here with me like my daughter until I find a suitable groom for you. You can marry, live in comfort, and raise a family. Why go through the pain of revenge? You can leave it to your future husband.”

“I do not want to get married. At least not now,” I told him.

“You are already nearing an age when suitable matches become difficult, my dear. Do not ruin your life.”

I repeated my decision to him. Vasuki studied me for a long time. I could see the doubt in his eyes. Yet in the end he respected my decision and asked Oliyar to teach me.

Oliyar, who was older than my father, was a well-known guru of the Dravidian-style martial art. His hair had turned completely grey since I had seen him as a child. One look at me was enough. He knew he would have to begin with the basics. I touched his feet to pay my respect. He blessed me by touching my head with his palm. 

“I believe,” he said, “everyone should know how to defend themselves, women no less than men.” He paused and said, “I would love to teach you. I see you have great enthusiasm to learn.” I could have leapt with joy at those words, but I remembered my mother’s words that I should behave like a woman. 

“It’s a painful journey you have chosen, my child,” Oliyar continued. “We must constantly endeavour if we are to succeed.” For the first time in years, hope felt stronger than grief. 

Vasuki gave us two of his best horses and lots of food to take with us. Oliyar brought an assortment of weapons. It took us two days to reach the cave on the horse. Gargi was waiting at the cave entrance. The moment she saw us, her face lit up. 

After a peaceful night’s sleep, we sat down to the breakfast Gargi had prepared. Oliyar seemed in excellent spirits. Before the morning was over, he had already begun teaching me how a warrior stood, moved, and carried herself. 

He said, “You are already quite old, and it is a little late for you to start learning superior martial arts now. But discipline and determination can do unbelievable things. You are naturally intelligent and a master like me will make you no ordinary person. In five years, few warriors will be your equal.”

Five years. The thought weighed heavily on me. I did not intend to wait that long. If discipline could shorten the journey, I would embrace it. Every day, Oliyar woke me before sunrise. While the forest still slept, we began our exercises. He hardened my body, but he shaped my mind first. Every battle, he said, was won in the mind before the first weapon was drawn. He taught me to wield weapons blindfolded and to trust instinct over fear. Above all, he freed me from the belief that being born a woman made me lesser than a man. I had nowhere else to place my hopes in, so I invested all my heart and soul into learning martial arts. 

Oliyar drew wisdom from the creatures in the forest. The boar, elephant, lion, fish, and serpent each lent their names and qualities to different fighting styles. He taught me expressions of the goddess of war, the sounds of animals, the swiftness and ferocity of wild beasts. He educated me in all the strategies of fighting and the darker secrets of the highly sensitive, vulnerable, and vital parts of the body.

One evening I counted the marks carved into the rock. Two years had slipped by. Praise came rarely from Oliyar. When it did, I treasured every word. “With your present capability, you will be among the finest warriors I have trained.” I did not want to return to my land, at least not now. Neither did I want to become a famous warrior. All I wanted was to avenge my parents’ deaths and ensure Mahisha could never harm me again. I had to perfect my skills further. 

Oliyar taught me how to hunt animals and birds, which Gargi cooked for dinner. Every evening, I collapsed into sleep with aching limbs, only to wake before dawn and begin again. 

Oliyar divided his teachings into three branches: physical training, weapons combat, and barehanded combat. Each branch contained fifteen demanding stages, and each stage tested me in a different way. Day after day I learned to move with precision. I could leap high into the air, strike with speed and summon strength when exhaustion threatened to overcome me. 

Once during training, I slipped on a rock and injured my knees badly. Oliyar examined me and calmly declared it a minor joint dislocation. Skilled in Ayurveda, he held my knees in a certain position and twisted them sharply. Pain shot through my body and I cried out. A moment later, the pain vanished as suddenly as it had come.

The urumi was unlike any weapon I had ever seen. Its flexible blade could turn against its wielder as it could against an enemy. 

“Only a highly trained person can use this weapon,” Oliyar said. “Master it, and you could face many opponents at once. Misuse it and you may wound yourself before the enemy even touches you.”

The urumi humbled me quickly. 

Before I learned to control it, the blade whipped through the air and sliced into my shoulder. I screamed as blood ran down my arm. Tears sprang to my eyes. The sight of blood brought back the memory of my mother’s final days in the cave. Oliyar gathered medicinal plants from the forest, crushed them, and pressed them against the wound. 

While I was recovering, a messenger arrived with troubling news. Oliyar’s wife was gravely ill and wished to see him. Oliyar entrusted my care to Gargi, showed her how to tend the wound, and left at once. 

The days passed slowly after his departure. Though the injury healed, I could not move as freely as before. Every morning, I looked towards the forest hoping to see Oliyar returning or a messenger carrying news. None came.

Two months later, he finally returned. 

Relief washed over me.

His wife had died, he said quietly. That was why he had been gone so long. I did not know how to comfort him. Instead, I embraced him as I had once embraced my father. He accepted the gesture without a word. 

Oliyar was determined to make me a good warrior. This time I was very careful with the deadly weapon and never played around with it. I wore it around my waist, always on guard. “A warrior must be ready to defend herself with any weapon at hand,” Oliyar told me. 

Every day I did rigorous exercises for hands, legs, and other parts of the body. Soon I could fight with bow, club, machete, short sword, long sword, shield, spear, and trident. 

One thousand four hundred and seventy-eight marks covered the rock. Nearly four years had passed. I was nineteen years old. 

Four years had changed me.

The frightened girl who had arrived at the cave carrying her father's sword could scarcely have recognised the woman I had become. Oliyar no longer corrected every movement or questioned my resolve. He simply watched and nodded. That was praise enough.

I knew I was ready to face Mahisha.

I touched my guru’s feet, sought his blessings, and thanked him. He wished me all the best before he left.

I dressed myself with auspicious ornaments, which my mother had given me before her death. They were supposed to bring me good luck, according to her. I opened my hair, which had grown to my knees. With fire in my eyes, I felt every year of grief and training rise within me. 

Gargi said, “You look every bit a queen.” 

I gathered my weapons. She looked at me and said, “Your mother would have been proud.” She hugged me again and wished me good luck. 

I untied my horse and walked away. She watched me until I disappeared from her view. The horse moved quickly. I crossed the ridge, followed a stream between two hills, and entered the valley. 

For four years I had carried Mahisha's name inside me like a wound. Now only one thing mattered: finding him. I went alone to the buffalo clan to challenge the demons. 

I stood outside Mahisha’s palace waiting for him to come out. When Mahisha heard about a strange woman in front of his palace, I heard him laugh hoarsely. Then, roaring like a lion, he sent his messenger to find out who I was and about my intentions. I sent the man back with the information that the strange woman was none other than Ambika, the princess of the Gaja clan.

Through the palace gates, I heard the messenger describe me:

“She is the most beautiful woman, adorned with ornaments. She carries deadly weapons.”

He sat in his chariot, bedecked with flags and loaded with weapons. He longed for me to look at him with fondness and passion. With a garland around his neck, he looked like a demon in love. He stood before me with the confidence of a conqueror.

“You are welcome to my palace.” He stood at a distance and bowed his head towards me.

“I am here to cut off that head of yours,” I said. 

He laughed and ordered the messenger to escort me inside with every respect due to a woman. When I heard what Mahisha said, I laughed. I cautioned him; I was there to regain my father’s land. I warned him to run away in case he feared death.

Mahisha did not take my words seriously. He said, “Don’t you know, my beloved? I am a great warrior, and you are the most beautiful woman in the peninsula. I have been waiting for you for many years. Come into my arms.” 

“Do you think,” I said, “women are only fit to be a wife or mistress? Do you believe that women are only proud of their beauty and skilled in the art of love?”

“Don’t use such harsh words, my beloved.” He sent two of his best soldiers to get me to him. He ordered them, “Do not kill her, but just scare her if need be and bring her to me.”

When I saw the two soldiers approach me, I blew my conch shell–the sound of battle. This infuriated them and they aimed their arrows at me. One of them sneered at me. “Woman, do not try to be a man. You are fortunate. Our king loves you. Otherwise, he would have you killed by now.” 

I blocked his arrow with my own and loosed another. He fell where he stood. The second soldier fared no better. My axe found his neck, and he fell where he stood.

Watching this, Mahisha became angry. Two of his best soldiers lay dead, and for the first time uncertainty crossed his face.

When I saw Mahisha approaching me, I blew my conch shell again, louder than before. He appeared calm when he said to me, 

“Marry me, Ambika. Together we could rule the peninsula. Why choose war when you could choose power.”

“I do not desire to be your wife, demon,” I said. “I do not desire to enjoy the ordinary pleasures you just mentioned. Take refuge in peace and it will lead to happiness. Return my father’s land or fight me for it.”

Another soldier came forward with a urumi in his hand. The tip of his weapon flashed like a striking serpent. I removed my urumi, which I had tied around my waist. The swordplay began. The blade came alive in my hands. He had not expected me to master the weapon. The long sword cut right into his face. He hurriedly slanted his head to one side. My next strike found his neck. Blood flowed profusely as Mahisha stood there watching in disbelief. With another thrust from my sword, which I aimed at his chest, he fell to the ground with a crash. I thrust my sword out a third time. The soldier lay on the ground and died. 

After the death of another soldier, five other men came forward to fight with me. I continued using my favourite weapon, the urumi. With all the might, I swung the urumi up in the air and then at the five soldiers. The sharp blade whipped them down to the ground. None of them rose again.

Mahisha stared in astonishment at the death of his men. Many of the buffalo clan fled in fear.

Mahisha could not control himself. He came forward with his sword drawn towards me. Each of his strokes was powerful, yet restrained. Even then, I sensed he still believed he could possess me. I had no experience fighting such a powerful enemy, but speed and unpredictability were on my side.

At first, I was distressed, too eager to attack and kill the evil Mahisha. As my thoughts grew frantic, I remembered Oliyar’s words, “Fight with your mind as much as you fight with your body.” I closed my eyes for a heartbeat and heard Oliyar’s voice.

I began to read his movements. The two of us leapt around and fought in a circle. Steel met steel again and again. Several times I thought I had him. Each time he escaped. Around us, the soldiers watched in stunned silence. I aimed my sword at Mahisha’s throat. 

He leapt from under the sword, clasped my right arm, sending my long sword flying outwards. I gave a horrifying cry and lost my grip on the urumi. My hand grabbed the sword from my waist and cut his chest. He stumbled backwards, panting. My next strike tore into his back. Blood darkened his clothes.

Angrily, I lifted my bow and began to shoot sharpened arrows at him. Mahisha cut all my arrows into pieces; he would not give up easily. The battle raged on, neither of us willing to yield.

I abandoned doubt and attacked with everything Oliyar had taught me. I took my trident and struck at the demon. He fell, rose again, and drove his foot into my chest. I then took out my sharpest sword and severed his head. His body collapsed to the ground. 

I stood over Mahisha's body and waited for triumph to come. Instead, I thought of my father.

I thought of my mother dying in the cave.

I thought of my sisters whose names would never again be spoken in the palace halls.

Cries of victory rose from the remaining men and women of the Gaja clan. The Gajas celebrated their freedom. It took time for the noise of victory to feel real. My people, the Gajas, treated me like a goddess. Soon the priests began preparing a title and ceremony worthy of the victory. I, Ambika, daughter of Hemavat, became the first queen of the Gajas. Not the son my father had prayed for, but the successor fate had chosen.

By the old temple, where the Gajas had worshipped the gods for over a thousand years, they pitched pavilions. The air was heavy with the fragrance of the ancient trees surrounding the temple. The stars shone brightly that night. A deep silence waited for the Sṛnga; a trumpet made from the horn of the buffalo. The coronation night had come. At the top of the old, worn steps, I stood dressed like a queen decked in emerald and coral jewels and the ancient garb of the Gajas. Beside me stood, Oliyar, my guru, and Gargi. Looking down at the assembled Gajas and Nagas, I saw pride on every face.

Slowly, as the trumpets sounded, came Vasuki, the chief of the Nagas. He held the terrific headdress of the Gajas. Loud cheers erupted as I was crowned the queen of the Gajas. It was the custom of the priests to chant the Vedas in my honour. 

After the chants, Vasuki addressed the people. “No one,” he said, “shall underestimate a woman’s power. Ambika has shown that courage belongs to neither man nor woman alone. From now on in my country all girls are welcome to learn martial arts and participate in the defence of the country.”

I became the first woman to lead the clan. In memory of the battle that reshaped our destiny, the land came to be known as Mahishur.

End of Story

Thank you for reading.