'That was intense.' I thought to myself as I was left alone, the sky taking shade of twiilight as evening breeze brushing against my skin as I felt a calm wash over me, my mind quieter than ever.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in fiery strokes, I was left reeling. The weight of my grandmother's words settled over me, a storm of new ideas and emotions to process. I retreated inside the building, seeking the solace of darkness and a moment to think.
And though I wanted to appear mature, a part of me couldn't deny a thrill of excitement. Rudra. Storms, might, fearsomeness. The combination was, for lack of a better word, awesome. Grandma's talk, for all its unexpected turns, had pulled me out of my self-pitying stupor.
Unfortunately, I couldn't revel in my new emotional state for long.
The very next day, much to my dismay, we embarked on an exhausting journey that gave me no time to dwell on anything but my aching feet.
We set out at dawn. Over the next week, the greatest discovery I made wasn't a scenic view or a local delicacy, but the fact that my grandmother had more stamina than me—a lot more. The difference was a gaping chasm, so vast it made me wonder if she was some kind of mutant or super-soldier. I'd stare at her untiring form, a woman who didn't seem to break a sweat after hours of walking on steep, uneven terrain, while I was huffing and puffing like a steam engine. In a world like ours, the "what-if" question was a constant, nagging thought.
Our journey began normally enough. We walked to public transport, took a bus for two days, and then a cab for a few hours. The path took a sharp turn after that. We reached remote villages, far from any developed areas, where we traveled on horse- and bull-drawn carts. But even that wasn't the end. We ventured further, leaving civilization behind, traversing mountains and forests on foot, and resting in tents at night.
By the seventh day, I was completely spent, but my grandmother was as fresh as a daisy. Unable to contain my curiosity any longer, I decided to ask her. As we took a short break in a sun-dappled clearing, I scooted closer to her, my voice a strained whisper.
"Amma," I began, my tone a mix of exhaustion and genuine awe. "Please tell me you're tired. Just a little?"
She looked at me, a small, confused frown on her face, before scooting a little further away. "Tired? Why would I be tired? It's just a walk."
I scoffed, a short, tired exhalation. "A walk? We've been climbing a mountain for three days! Are you some kind of mutant or something? A super-soldier?" I couldn't help but ask, the thought still tickling my mind.
A slow smile spread across her face, a mischievous glint in her eye. "No. Why?" she replied, Her answer questioning me.
Though I was more surprised at the fact she didn't seem to care about words like mutant and super soldier.
'Does she know..?' A nagging thought planted appeare somwhere in my mind even if I didn't realise at that moment.
"Then what is with that stamina of yours?!" I pressed, my query a near-scream from my tired soul. "It's too much!"
She let out a low, rich laugh, a sound of pure delight. "Hahaha, you child. Fine, come and sit here. I will tell you a story."
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I sat down beside her, our shoulders almost touching. "So, have you ever read the history of India?" Grandma asked.
"I know the basics, I guess. Mostly about the big stuff," I replied.
"Then you know our country has been invaded multiple times, yes?" Her tone wasn't a question, but a simple statement of fact.
"Yeah," I affirmed, thinking, A little too many times, I'd say.
"And do you know how long some of those invaders, like the Mughals, ruled?" she continued.
"Five, six hundred years?" I offered, a half-educated guess based on their on-and-off ruling periods.
"Close enough. Now answer this," she said, her gaze fixed on me. "Why are the greatest temples of India still standing to this day?"
I thought about it, but no logical answer came to mind. "They didn't attack places of worship?" I speculated.
She gave me a look that made me feel quite stupid. "Any ruler with common sense, after conquering a land of a different culture, would first destroy the places where local people gather to prevent rebellion. Whether they are social halls or places of worship, it doesn't matter."
"Uh, I don't know then," I admitted, giving up. "There's no record about it."
"Of course there won't be," she said, her words surprising me. "Who writes about themselves being beaten up?"
"What do you mean?" I leaned in, prompting her to elaborate.
"What I mean is, most of the history books you read were written by or under the direct supervision of those who ruled the land at the time," she explained. "They can't deny factual history, but they can make subtle alterations to hide certain truths, making the history appear biased in their favor."
"What kind of alterations are we talking about?" I found the topic fascinating.
"Like erasing some of the cruel massacres and atrocities committed during invasions, or hiding some of their defeats under the banner of benevolence, making it seem the battles never happened." My grandmother's words gave me a whole new perspective on history.
So, it's true that history is written by the victors, I thought. But another question was bothering me. "What does this have to do with the temples?" I had a nagging feeling the answer would be completely unexpected.
My grandmother seemed to anticipate my question. "You see, my boy, most of the priests in these temples come from long family lines, like mine. Our families have sworn to protect these temples for thousands of years. And all of us—the priests and priestesses from families like ours—are accomplished in literary and martial arts. We have been taught the Gita and the Vedas since we were young, and trained in the combat arts of 'Kalaripayattu,' forging both the mind and the body."
She paused, her gaze distant, as if she were seeing something far away. "My parents were also warrior priests of the temple. Your great-grandmother and great-grandfather fought a troop of one hundred armed men during a British invasion of our temple. He died fighting, but together, they took out seventy-nine of them. The remaining twenty-one, along with their leader, fled."
"They must have been amazing marksmen," I exclaimed, my imagination conjuring scenes of bullets flying like in a war movie. But the truth was something else entirely.
She laughed, a low, rich sound, as if she found my assumption amusing. Yet, there was an underlying expression I couldn't quite identify. "Hahaha, no child. They didn't use guns. They never knew how to."
"Then how did they fight?" Now I was genuinely curious.
"They used a dhaal (a round, one-handed shield) and a talwar (a sword)," she answered. I was gobsmacked. I couldn't comprehend how a pair with a sword and shield could take out seventy-nine gunmen and force the rest to flee, even at the cost of their own lives.
"Kalaripayattu," I breathed out, the name suddenly holding new weight. "The world's first martial art—is it really that strong?"
"Well, you're not wrong, but not entirely right either," she said, standing up. "Now, let's get going. We have a few more kilometers to cover." She didn't give me a proper answer, but I had a feeling I was about to find out soon enough.
"By the way," a new question popped into my head, "does Grandfather know?"
"Of course, child," she said with a wry smile. "He courted me after I beat him up for a misunderstanding."
"Tell me about it!" I pleaded, hoping for some gossip and leverage on my grandfather.
"Some other time. We have somewhere to be," she said, leaving the story for another time.
The revelation that my grandma was a trained fighter was shocking. I didn't know how strong she was, but my great-grandparents were strong. That much I knew for sure. I wish I had seen them. This wish, born in that moment, was one I would soon come to regret. For it was then I realized the true meaning of the saying: "Be careful what you wish for, for you never know, it might come true."