Book Three — Holika’s Fire
Chapter I
Pataliputra, 185 BCE
The morning air carried the scent of dust and horse sweat as the last Mauryan emperor, Brihadratha, reviewed his troops. Sixty monsoons old and frail, he sat on a wooden dais in simple white robes, the peacock emblem on his chest faded from years of sun. His hands trembled on the armrests; his eyes, once bright with the ideals of his great-grandfather Ashoka, now held only a distant weariness. Governance had slipped from his fingers long ago. The empire, once stretching from the Hindu Kush to the southern forests, had shrunk to the Gangetic heartland. He spoke little of war or administration, preferring quiet meditation and the gentle teachings of the dhamma: non-violence, ahimsa, the path of the monk over the sword.
Beside him stood Senapati Pushyamitra Shunga, commander-in-chief of the Mauryan forces. At fifty years old, Pushyamitra was still a formidable figure, tall, broad-shouldered, and very fair, his sharp cheekbones and light complexion speaking clearly of his steppe ancestry. He wore the full regalia of the senior-most general: iron armour over silk underclothes, a sword at his hip. Most of the soldiers assembled before them shared similar fair features and sturdy builds, descendants of the hardy horsemen who had long served the Mauryan throne.
The review was meant to be ceremonial. Instead, it became history.
As the review ended, Pushyamitra walked towards the emperor, bowed, and in one fluid motion drew his blade and drove it into Brihadratha’s chest. The old emperor gasped once, eyes widening in surprise rather than fear, then slumped forward. Blood bloomed across the white robes. A stunned silence fell over the ranks, thousands of soldiers, shields gleaming, horses stamping.
No one moved to intervene.
Why would they? For decades the army had chafed under the Buddhist leanings of the court. Ashoka’s embrace of ahimsa had stripped soldiers of honour; what glory was there in a pacifist empire? Monks received lands and privileges while veterans went unpaid. Many in the ranks, Brahmins, Kshatriyas, and men of the upper varnas, resented the way Vedic rites had been sidelined for stupas and sermons.
In an instant, the soldiers surged forward. Strong hands lifted Pushyamitra Shunga onto their shoulders, raising him high above the assembly. A thunderous roar erupted from the ranks.
Pushyamitra looked out over the sea of fair-faced warriors and raised his bloodied sword for silence. When the noise subsided, his voice rang clear and powerful across the parade ground.
“Today the Mauryan line ends! For too long we have suffered under the weak and decadent rule of Buddhist emperors. Emperor Ashoka’s foolish obsession with ahimsa and non-violence has drained the strength from our veins and the honour from our swords. Our soldiers bled and died while monks grew fat on grants and the empire shrank. No more!”
He paused as another cheer rose.
“We return to the old ways, the Vedas, the fire rituals, the dharma of our ancestors! The sacred laws we carried from our old homelands shall continue to guide our lives, our conduct, and our realm. The horse will roam free in the Ashvamedha. The gods will bless a new order, strong, pure, and rooted in Vedic truth!”
A deafening roar of approval shook the ground, which wasn’t mere joy, but more of relief, vindication, and the fierce hunger for restoration of martial pride.
Word travelled south faster than the monsoon winds.
Vidarbha, six weeks later
The ten villages under Iranyakaasipoo’s care lay like beads on a string along the western bank of the Varada river (also called the Wardha), fertile with black soil and millet fields. Iranyakaasipoo’s domain was collectively called Paththu-Ooru, which literally meant ten villages in the Harappan language. The village of Morshi, the biggest village of the lot, served as Iranyakaasipoo’s headquarters. All ten villages were situated on the western side of the river. The river itself was low this season, its waters the colour of polished bronze. In the largest eastern village, a modest thatched hall served as both home and council chamber. Its walls were of mud and reed, painted with simple geometric patterns that echoed the ancient seals of the Indus cities, lotus and wheel, bull and tree, traditions older than any Vedic hymn.
The family shared one horse between them, a sturdy animal kept for urgent rides or messengers, while bullock carts handled most travel and heavy work. Across Paththu-Ooru, the villages kept many cows and buffalos; these provided milk daily, and when the animals grew too old for labour or milking, they were slaughtered for meat in the old way, their hides and bones put to practical use. No one wasted what the black soil and river gave.
Iranyakaasipoo sat cross-legged on a woven mat, his dark skin glistening with the day’s heat. Broad-shouldered and thick-bearded, he was a chief who knew every farmer by name and settled disputes with a calm word. Beside him sat his wife Kayadhu, gentle-eyed and composed. Their eldest, Prahlada, a bright-eyed teenager of eighteen with curly hair and the same cleft chin as his father, whose laughter could still fill the hall, sat nearby. Across from them, fanning herself with a palm leaf, was Holika.
Holika was Iranyakaasipoo’s youngest sister, widowed these five years. She had come to live with them after her husband’s death in a random brawl and had quietly become the mind behind the chief’s rule. Where her brother took care of the land and its people, Holika oversaw the despatch of taxes to the distant capital and alliances with neighbouring chiefs. She was strikingly beautiful: her dark skin glowed like polished teak in the lamplight, her large, expressive eyes framed by thick lashes held both warmth and sharp intelligence, and her full lips often curved in a knowing smile. Her dark hair, braided with small copper beads in the old Indus fashion, fell gracefully over one shoulder, and her lithe figure moved with quiet grace even when seated. Everyone in the ten villages treated her with respect, though she was barely thirty; many simply called her “our minister.”
At Holika’s feet lay Neruppu, her four-year-old female dog, a compact native breed with a sleek reddish coat that glowed like embers in the lamplight. Neruppu, whose name meant “fire” in the old Harappan tongue of the Indus river valley, followed Holika everywhere, her ears pricked at every sound, a constant quiet companion through council meetings and village walks alike. Holika reached down to scratch behind Neruppu’s ears, her fingers lingering affectionately on the warm fur.
A messenger from the regional Mauryan sachiva, Nagasena, had arrived at dusk, dust-streaked and weary. He delivered two separate scrolls before leaving quickly, refusing even a meal in his haste to carry more messages southward.
The family sat in the glow of two oil lamps; the scrolls unrolled before them.
Iranyakaasipoo first read the formal message aloud, his voice low and measured. The writing on the scroll was in the elegant Brahmi script, the message in Sanskrit, which Iranyakaasipoo and his family understood with some difficulty.
‘To all subjects of the realm: Pushyamitra Shunga is now the rightful ruler of the land. All allegiance previously owed to the Mauryan house is now due to him. The new sovereign has declared that the decadent Buddhist influence shall be removed. The values of the Vedas and the sacred Manusmriti, composed only ten years ago by the revered sage, shall henceforth guide the lives, duties, and conduct of all subjects. Proper observance of Vedic rituals and the varna dharma will be expected in every village and town.’
Kayadhu’s face tightened with concern. Prahlada leaned forward, eyes wide.
Iranyakaasipoo then picked up the second, smaller scroll, clearly written in Nagasena’s personal hand.
“This one is private,” he said. “Nagasena writes: ‘My friend, I am still working out my own position in this rapidly changing order. The situation in Pataliputra is delicate and dangerous. For now, stay calm. Do nothing rash. I will send further word when I can.’”
Nagasena’s message was in Maharashtri Prakrit, the tongue of common people in Vidarbha. The people sitting around the two oil lamps and the rest of the people in Paththu-Ooru still spoke the Harappan language amongst themselves, but they were very much conversant with Maharashtri Prakrit.
A heavy silence settled over the hall.
Prahlada spoke first. “Father, what does this mean for us? We have always followed our ways, spoken our ancient language, celebrated the festivals our ancestors did when they lived by the big river up north, sung the planting songs our forebears sang eons ago, listened to the stories of the big drought that made us abandon the big cities and move to the forests. Under Brihadratha we paid our levy and were left alone. Why should this change?”
Holika set her palm leaf aside; Neruppu shifted closer, resting her reddish head against her mistress’s knee. Her voice was steady, practical, yet threaded with quiet steel, the tone of a woman who had steered her brother’s council through droughts and raids alike.
“Because the new king is not content with tribute, Prahlada. He wants souls as well. The Mauryan way, tolerant of the Buddha’s path and local customs, was a loose rope. This Pushyamitra Shunga brings iron chains. Manusmriti speaks of fixed places for every man and woman. It will not smile on a widow who sits in council as I do. It will not smile on chiefs who trace their blood to the cities alongside the big northern rivers that flowed down from the snowy mountains, rather than to the fair steppe riders who now ride with the new king.”
She paused, her beautiful eyes twinkling with sudden mischief as she glanced at her nephew. “And while we worry about iron chains from Pataliputra, some of us have sweeter things arriving soon. Only a month now, Prahlada, until your bride Nalini reaches Paththu-Ooru. She has just come of age, I hear. Will you still have time for your old aunt’s council meetings, or will you be too busy spending time with your beautiful wife?”
Prahlada flushed, a shy grin breaking across his face despite the serious mood. “Aunt Holika…”
Iranyakaasipoo rubbed his beard, gaze fixed on the flickering lamp, though a faint smile touched his lips at his sister’s teasing. “We are ten villages, sister. Small. The great cities may bend the knee quickly, but here… our people remember the old seals. Our grandmothers still sing of the big rivers which were watered by melting snow, till they started to run dry. If they start posting Brahmin priests at every hearth, building fire altars in every square, forcing our women to wear a veil in public….”
“Then we speak softly and bend like the reed,” Holika finished, though her eyes flashed. She reached across and touched her brother’s wrist, a gesture both affectionate and firm. “I am no demon of fire, brother, only a woman who has buried her husband and will not see her family or her people burned by another man’s zeal. We have no steppe blood to offer them as proof of loyalty. Our skin is the colour of this earth, not that of a boiled fish. But we are clever. We can send word to the other chiefs along the Varada. We can delay ‘proper observance’ with polite letters and small gifts. And we can teach the young ones ….” she glanced at Prahlada ….” that strength is not only in the sword or the ritual flame, but in remembering who we are when the world tries to remake us.”
“Or we could just pack up and go south, like most of our people have done,” Iranyakaasipoo said, speaking slowly, his voice very sad.
“The time for moving south is long gone. Maybe our grandparents could have done it when they were young, but they never did. Now, we will be immigrants if we move south to the Kaveri. You know this as well as I do. Isn’t that why you gave your son a Sanskrit name?” Holika gently held her brother’s hand as she spoke.
“There are very few of our people left in this region. Our people have been moving south ever since the horse riders arrived from lands to the north of the tallest mountain in the world.”
“Yes, we have. But for us and the people of Paththu-Ooru, thus far and no further. We stay here,” Holika said firmly. “We have survived much worse. We will survive Pushyamitra Shunga also.”
Prahlada was looking very solemn and grave. “Aunt Holika, if the new king hates the old Mauryan gentleness, does he also hate people like us who never fully embraced it?”
Holika smiled, small and sad and fiercely protective, one hand idly stroking Neruppu’s back as the dog leaned into her. “He may try, child. But hate is a fire that needs fuel. We will give it none. We will be the water.”
‘We gave you a Sanskrit name, instead of a name in our own language. I wish we could have made you fair-skinned too. You would have had an easier life. The name by itself doesn’t mean much’ Everyone was surprised when Kayadhu spoke with rancour, since she usually didn’t speak much.
‘Holika could be a Sanskrit name too,’ Iranyakaasipoo said. ‘At least, it sounds Sanskrit-like. Maybe I should also change my name into something from the Vedas’. He laughed at his own joke, but no one else laughed with him.
Outside, the Varada murmured on its ancient course, indifferent to emperors and generals alike. Inside the hall, the lamp burned lower. Iranyakaasipoo looked from his sister to his son to his wife, and for the first time in many years he felt the weight of Paththu-Ooru not as a simple inheritance, but as a fragile trust.
Holika stood alone by the river as evening fell, Neruppu pressed warmly against her leg, watching the bronze waters flow, practical and intelligent, already calculating how to keep them all from drowning in it.
#####
Chapter II
Pataliputra, One Year Later (184 BCE)
In the royal chamber of the new Shunga palace, oil lamps flickered against walls freshly adorned with Vedic motifs, fire altars, galloping horses, and the sacred syllable Om. King Pushyamitra Shunga, now firmly seated on the throne he had seized with a single stroke, paced slowly. At fifty-one, his strikingly fair skin still glowed with the vigour of a steppe warrior, though streaks of grey had begun to appear in his beard. Seated before him on a low wooden stool was the venerable sage Manu, a thin, ascetic figure with a long white beard and eyes sharpened by decades of study. The air smelled of sandalwood and ghee from the evening yajna.
“Manu,” Pushyamitra began, his voice firm yet respectful, addressing both the venerable sage and the famous grammarian Patanjali who sat quietly beside him, “the time has come to codify the dharma for this reborn realm and to restore the purity of our language and learning. The Buddhist poison has weakened the varnas. I want you, Manu, to compose a complete set of laws, clear, eternal, and rooted in the Vedas, so that society must know its place once more.”
He turned slightly toward Patanjali. “And you, Patanjali, I charge with reviving the Sanskrit language in all its glory. Let it once more become the tongue of scholars, rituals, and royal edicts, so that the wisdom of our ancestors flows untainted through the realm.”
Manu folded his hands. “As you command, Maharaj. The four varnas shall form the pillars: Brahmins as teachers and keepers of knowledge, Kshatriyas as protectors and rulers, Vaishyas as providers through trade and agriculture, and Shudras to serve the higher orders with diligence. Each has its dharma, its duties, and its limits.” Then, after a moment’s pause, Manu added, “and beyond the Shudras, the untouchables.”
Pushyamitra nodded. “We must also support Brahmin scholars, priests, and educational institutions with royal patronage. I wish to see gurukulas established across the land, residential schools where young Brahmin minds are steeped in Vedic knowledge and Hindu philosophies from an early age. Only then can we truly embed our sacred values into the social fabric.”
‘The gurukulas will be only for Brahmins, right your majesty?’
‘You are right’ Pushyamitra nodded, his eyes bright with vision. “Furthermore, we shall initiate temple construction on a grand scale. Idols of Vishnu and Devi must gain new prominence in public worship, drawing the people back to the living presence of the gods through devotion and ritual.”
“And the role of women must be made explicit. A woman’s highest duty is total obedience to her husband, first to her father, then to her husband, and in widowhood to her son. She brings stability to the household only when she accepts her place without question. No more of this Mauryan laxity where widows sat in councils or spoke openly in assemblies.”
Manu inclined his head. “It shall be written as such, sire. The scriptures already hint at it; I will make it law.”
The king stopped pacing and turned sharply. “There is something more urgent. The values and culture of the dark-skinned Harappans and the original inhabitants still corrupt our Vedic society. Their festivals, their earth mothers, their mud-walled councils where women advise chiefs, these old ways seep like poison into the minds of our people. Even in the south, along the Varada, they cling to Indus seals and planting songs instead of fire rituals. Your laws must cleanse this corruption. The varnas must remain pure. Steppe blood and Vedic fire must prevail.”
Manu’s eyes gleamed with understanding. “The Manusmriti will provide the remedy, Maharaj. Order will return.”
Pushyamitra placed a hand on the sage’s shoulder. “Begin at once. The Ashvamedha I performed has renewed our sovereignty. Now your words will renew our souls.”
Manu hesitated for a moment, then asked, “And what should we do with the Jains, Maharaj?”
Pushyamitra waved a dismissive hand. “Ignore them. They pose no threat to the Vedic order we are rebuilding. Let them follow their path in silence while we restore the fire of the Vedas.”
Vidarbha Region — Near the Varada River
In Morshi, the afternoon sun beat down on black cotton fields. Holika stood at the edge of the council hall, watching her nephew Prahlada help load grain sacks onto bullock carts — , the carts drawn by the patient oxen that formed the backbone of village life. A year had passed since the messenger’s warning, yet the new king’s reach still felt distant, like thunder beyond the horizon. They had delayed, sent polite gifts, and kept their river festivals alive in secret. But everyone knew the iron chains were coming closer.
Holika’s sharp eyes caught movement on the northern road. A small party of riders approached, dust rising behind them. She recognised the lead horse’s trappings. Nagasena’s man.
Inside the hall, the family gathered once more. The new scroll was brief and urgent.
Nagasena wrote in his own hand: “The storm gathers. Pushyamitra has appointed his son, the crown prince Agnimitra, as viceroy over the southern provinces, including Vidarbha. Agnimitra is young, around twenty-five, sophisticated and fond of arts and poetry. He plans to base himself at Vidisha before moving further. But I have a plan. I intend to nominate my brother-in-law, Yajnasena, as the local ruler here. You know Yajnasena well, as do all the chiefs and farmers of the Varada valley. Yajnasena has lived in Vidarbha all his life. If he accepts, we can declare Vidarbha’s independence from the new order in Pataliputra. The people will rally to a man of this soil rather than a prince from the north. Stay ready, my friend. The time to choose sides draws near.”
Iranyakaasipoo rubbed his beard, worry etching deeper lines on his face. Kayadhu glanced at Holika.
Prahlada’s eyes widened with excitement and fear. “Independence? Aunt Holika, could we truly break free from Pataliputra?”
Holika’s expression remained calm, but her mind raced like the Varada in flood. She set down the palm-leaf fan and spoke softly. “Yajnasena is respected, yes. But independence is a dangerous word. Pushyamitra’s son will not arrive with poetry alone. He will bring soldiers and the Manusmriti. We must weigh water against fire carefully.”
The Royal Road North of Vidarbha
Far to the north, a splendid procession moved southward. Agnimitra, crown prince and newly appointed viceroy for the southern territories, rode at its head on a white stallion. At twenty-five, he cut a striking figure, tall and fair like his father, yet softer in feature, with a cultured bearing that spoke of palace education rather than battlefield scars. He wore no armour and a small lyre hung from his saddlebag alongside his sword.
He turned to his chief advisor with a charming smile. “Vidisha first, my friend. The old city on the Betwa has trade routes, scholars, and temples worthy of restoration. We shall establish a centre of Vedic learning there before we press further into the southern valleys. The arts must flourish alongside dharma, poetry, music, and the fire rituals together. Only then can we truly purify the land.”
His advisor bowed. “As you command, prince. The southern chiefs grow restless. Some still cling to the old ways.”
Agnimitra laughed lightly, though steel glinted beneath the charm. “Then we shall teach them the beauty of order. The Vedas sing of harmony when every soul knows its place.”
As the sun dipped toward the western hills, the prince’s caravan continued its journey toward Vidisha, carrying both culture and conquest in its wake. Meanwhile, in the thatched halls along the western bank of the Varada, quiet conversations turned toward resistance, alliance, and the uncertain fate of Paththu-Ooru.
Holika stood alone by the river as evening fell, watching the bronze waters flow. The new order was no longer a distant roar. It had a face now, young, sophisticated, and dangerous.
And she, the widow who sat in council, already sensed that her people’s survival would demand more than soft words and bending reeds.
#####
Chapter III
Vidarbha, 184 BCE
Yajnasena’s declaration of independence from the Shunga order was welcomed by many in Vidarbha. Chiefs and farmers alike saw in him a man of the soil who would shield them from the iron chains of Pataliputra. Yet not all were pleased. The discontent was strongest among the Brahmins and Vedic priests, who saw Yajnasena’s defence of the old Mauryan tolerance as a threat to the rising Shunga order and the strict varna dharma they hoped to impose.
Yajnasena positioned himself swiftly as a defender of the fallen Mauryan house’s gentler ways. He consolidated power with a firm but genial hand, making Kundinapura his capital. From there he rode out often, touring the countryside, speaking with headmen, sharing meals under village trees, and listening more than he commanded.
One morning, word reached Morshi that the new ruler himself would pass through Paththu-Ooru. By midday Yajnasena’s party arrived, a modest entourage of twenty riders. Yajnasena rode at their head on a splendid white stallion, its harness gleaming with silver bells. He was in his early forties, broad-faced and hearty, the sort of man who clapped shoulders and laughed easily.
Iranyakaasipoo welcomed him warmly at the edge of the council hall, his curly hair slightly tousled from the ride and his cleft chin giving him a resolute appearance. Holika stood beside her brother, Neruppu pressed close to her leg, ears alert. Kayadhu and the younger children hung back; Prahlada, with his own curly hair and matching cleft chin, stepped forward with quiet excitement.
Yajnasena dismounted with a booming laugh. “Hiranyakashipu, old friend!” he greeted Iranyakaasipoo, mispronouncing his name as many Prakrit speakers did. And Holika, our minister of the ten villages! I hear the Varada still flows to your wisdom. My brother-in-law Nagasena sends his regards.” Yajnasena spoke in Maharashtri Prakrit. Yajnasena shared no lofty speeches; he sat on a woven mat, ate millet bread and curd with his hands, and praised the black soil that fed them all.
The visit lasted until two hours before sunset. Before he left, Yajnasena allowed each of Iranyakaasipoo, Prahlada, and Holika a short ride on his stallion. Holika swung up lightly, her dark braids swinging; Neruppu barked once in protest until her mistress returned and dismounted. The horse’s power thrilled them all, a far cry from their single shared mount or the steady plod of bullock carts.
As the sun lowered, Yajnasena rose. “Amravati lies some five yojanas from here. Tonight we make for Swarkhed, only two yojanas distant, and rest there before pressing on.”
He clasped Iranyakaasipoo’s wrist, nodded respectfully to Holika, and swung back onto the stallion. The party rode northward in good spirits, dust rising behind them like a fading banner.
They had not gone far when trouble struck.
Near the hamlet of Durgwada the road narrowed between rocky outcrops and scattered scrub. A sudden flight of arrows whistled from the undergrowth. Shouts erupted. One of Yajnasena’s men slumped in the saddle, an arrow buried in his chest. Yajnasena’s men fired back immediately, their own arrows hissing into the bushes. Two of his bodyguards leapt down and took up position in front of him, swords drawn and shields raised, while another urgently urged the ruler to dismount and take cover behind a large rock. When the attackers realised they had no chance of reaching Yajnasena, they melted away as quickly as they had come.
Yajnasena’s face hardened. Instead of pressing toward Swarkhed, Yajnasena wheeled his party and rode hard back to Morshi, leaving the body of the slain man on the ground where he had fallen. They arrived as twilight thickened.
Iranyakaasipoo and Holika met him at the hall, faces grave. Neruppu growled low at the scent of blood and sweat on the riders.
“Ambush,” Yajnasena said curtly, wiping dust from his brow. “One good man lost. Cowards who struck and ran.”
Holika’s eyes flashed. Without wasting words, she turned to Prahlada. “Gather the swiftest young men, those who can run and fight. We go now.” She spoke in the Harappan tongue, which Yajnasena didn’t understand and he looked perplexed.
Holika whistled softly; Neruppu bounded to her side, reddish coat bristling with excitement. Holika, Prahlada, and five sturdy village youths prepared to leave, armed with swords and bows and arrows, torches in hand. When Yajnasena saw what Holika and her team were up to, his perplexion changed into worry.
‘I don’t think you should……’
‘We will be fine,’ Holika told him briskly as she led her team forward and took the path toward Durgwada.
At the ambush site, local villagers had already gathered, fearful and murmuring. The dead man’s body had been moved and placed under a tree, the blood from his wound leaving a dark red stain on the ground by his left side. The villagers told Holika what they knew: five strangers on horseback had struck without warning, then fled westward into the rocky terrain. One attacker appeared to have been grazed by an arrow.
Neruppu lowered her muzzle to the bloodied ground. Her nose quivered, then she gave a sharp, eager bark and pulled at the scent trail. Holika trusted the dog’s fire-bright instincts. “Follow her,” she said quietly.
They walked for nearly an hour through deserted land, stony ground broken by patches of dry vegetation and thorny scrub. The moon had risen, silvering the rocks. Neruppu led them unerringly.
An hour later, they saw a large banyan tree standing alone, its massive trunk and aerial roots offering deep shadow. Five men huddled beneath its shelter, speaking in low, urgent voices. Horses cropped grass nearby.
Holika signalled silently. Prahlada and three youths slipped around to the rear. Holika and two others drew their swords, took a breath, then charged from the front with fierce cries.
Steel rang. Two of the strangers fell almost at once, cut down in the sudden fury. The remaining three leaped for their horses. They galloped straight into Prahlada’s waiting group. Swords flashed again. One more man died screaming; the last two were overpowered and bound, one of them bleeding from an arrow wound in his side.
The prisoners were marched back to Morshi under torchlight, Neruppu trotting proudly beside Holika, her reddish coat now streaked with dust and the faint smell of blood.
In the council hall, under the steady glow of oil lamps, the interrogation began. Iranyakaasipoo and Yajnasena sat stern-faced. Holika stood to one side, one hand resting on Neruppu’s warm head.
At first the men spat defiance. Then pain and fear loosened their tongues.
They confessed.
They had been sent by Madhavasena, Yajnasena’s own cousin.
The hall fell silent except for the crackle of the lamp wicks. Yajnasena’s hearty face darkened with betrayal. Holika exchanged a long look with her brother. The iron chains from Pataliputra were not the only threat closing upon Paththu-Ooru and the Varada valley. Treachery had already taken root closer to home.
#####
Chapter IV
Vidarbha Region, 184 BCE
The words hung heavy in the council hall as the two prisoners finished speaking. The crackle of oil lamps was the only sound for several moments.
Yajnasena leaned forward, his hearty face now grim as storm clouds gathering over the black soil. “Speak plainly. What exactly does my cousin plan?”
One of the men, voice trembling from pain and fear, continued. “Madhavasena is riding toward Vidisha right now, with a small but loyal retinue. His purpose is clear: to pledge allegiance to Crown Prince Agnimitra and the Shunga order. He seeks a matrimonial alliance, offering his sister, the fair Mālavikā, in marriage to the prince. In return, he begs Shunga swords and sanction to challenge your rule. He would become vassal ruler of Vidarbha, bending the knee to Pataliputra rather than standing independent as you do.”
The second prisoner nodded frantically. “Madhavasena promises to enforce the Manusmriti strictly once he sits in Kundinapura. No more tolerance for the ways of the dark-skinned people or women in council. The steppe blood and Vedic fire will prevail under his watch.”
Yajnasena rose slowly, fists clenched at his sides. Betrayal by kin cut deeper than any arrow. “So, my own blood would sell our valley to northern chains for a seat of borrowed power,” he muttered, “and drag his own sister into the bargain as barter.”
Holika’s dark eyes flashed with quiet anger, though her voice remained steady and practical. She stood to one side, one hand resting lightly on Neruppu’s warm head; the dog’s reddish coat still carried the faint tang of dust and exertion from the chase. “Then we must move swiftly, before he reaches Vidisha. If Agnimitra gains this foothold through marriage and treachery, the iron chains will tighten around every village along the Varada, including Paththu-Ooru. Our people’s ways, our councils, our memories of the old seals… all will be ground beneath varna law and fire altars.”
Yajnasena nodded grimly and turned to one of his men. “Send riders at once. My most trusted men must watch every border path, every ford of the river. Intercept Madhavasena before he crosses into Shunga-influenced territory. Bring him, and his sister, back here alive. They are not to be harmed. We are not barbarians, whatever the Shungas may claim.”
Iranyakaasipoo placed a steadying hand on his friend’s shoulder. “And what of these two?”
“Hold them securely but treat them with mercy,” Yajnasena replied. “They are mere tools. The real serpent coils closer to home.”
As the hall emptied and torches were doused for the night, Holika lingered by the river once more, Neruppu pressed warmly against her leg. The bronze waters murmured their ancient indifference, but she felt the currents shifting.
Vidisha, Shunga Court
Far to the north in the prosperous city of Vidisha, Crown Prince Agnimitra held court in a hall of polished stone and fragrant sandalwood. The air hummed with the soft strains of veenas and the scent of fresh jasmine garlands. Unlike the austere martial atmosphere of his father’s court in Pataliputra, Agnimitra’s surroundings celebrated refinement: walls adorned with intricate carvings of apsaras and divine lovers, floors scattered with rose petals, and a low dais where the prince reclined on silk cushions, lyre within easy reach.
Seated among nobles, scholars, and courtiers was the renowned poet Pālitta, a man of graceful bearing whose verses were said to rival the sweetness of spring itself. The assembly had gathered for an evening of culture and discourse, a deliberate counterpoint to the harsher edicts issuing from the capital.
Pālitta rose at the prince’s gentle invitation, his voice resonant and melodic as he began a passage in Sanskrit evoking the eternal dance of nature and human longing. He recited from his emerging work on the cloud messenger, painting vivid images of a yaksha separated from his beloved, entrusting his sorrow to a passing monsoon cloud:
“O cloud, bearer of rain and solace, carry my message across mountains and rivers. Tell her that though seasons turn and rivers swell, my heart remains constant as the northern star. In your thunder, let her hear my voice; in your lightning, let her see the flash of memory that binds us still.”
The court sighed in collective appreciation. Agnimitra leaned forward, eyes alight with genuine pleasure. “Beautiful, Pālitta. You capture the ache of separation as no other. Continue, let us hear more of love’s tender persistence.”
Encouraged, the poet shifted to verses celebrating the harmony of dharma and desire, drawing from tales of kings and heroines. He spoke of a sovereign’s duty to balance martial strength with the gentle arts, weaving metaphors of lotus blooms rising unsullied from muddy waters and vines entwining ancient trees in mutual support. The imagery was lush yet precise, each śloka flowing like the Betwa river itself, clear, rhythmic, and life-giving.
A third passage followed, this one lighter and playful, describing the arrival of spring: flowers unfurling like shy smiles, bees humming courtly gossip among blossoms, and young hearts stirred by breezes scented with mango and jasmine. Pālitta’s delivery brought smiles and soft laughter from the assembly; even the sternest Brahmin scholars nodded in approval at the elegance of his Sanskrit, restored to its full classical glory under the prince’s patronage.
When the poet concluded and bowed, Agnimitra applauded warmly. “Your words remind us that a realm thrives not by sword alone, but by the beauty that tempers it. In these halls, Vedic order and poetic grace walk hand in hand.” The court murmured agreement, the session dissolving into lively discussions of philosophy, music, and the subtle interplay of duty and delight that defined their refined vision for the southern provinces.
Yet beneath the cultured surface, messengers brought troubling word of unrest in Vidarbha. Agnimitra’s expression hardened slightly when reports arrived of Yajnasena’s growing defiance. Still, he maintained his composure, confident that culture, alliance, and the inevitable march of dharma would ultimately prevail over rustic resistance.
The Borders of Vidarbha
Madhavasena’s small caravan moved cautiously southward, skirting the more obvious paths. He rode at the head, an ambitious man in his mid-thirties with a calculating gaze, while his half-sister Mālavikā traveled in a modest palanquin, veiled and silent. She was only sixteen- graceful, and known for her quiet dignity, qualities her brother hoped would appeal to the poetry-loving prince. A handful of loyal retainers and pack animals completed the party, bearing gifts intended to seal the proposed alliance.
They had nearly crossed the subtle boundary markers of Vidarbha when Yajnasena’s soldiers struck. Riders emerged from concealing thickets and rocky folds with disciplined precision, no arrows this time, only drawn swords and firm commands. Resistance was brief and bloodless; Madhavasena’s men, outnumbered and unprepared for open confrontation, surrendered quickly.
Madhavasena and Mālavikā were taken into custody with courtesy. No chains bound them, and they were offered water, food, and were respectfully escorted back to Kundinapura. “You are guests under our protection for now,” the captain told them plainly. “King Yajnasena wishes no harm to kin, whatever their choices.”
Get Liberal Indian’s stories in your inbox
Join Medium for free to get updates from this writer.
In the days that followed, word reached Agnimitra in Vidisha. The prince, displeased by the affront to his dignity and the disruption of a promising alliance, dispatched envoys with measured demands: release Madhavasena and his sister at once, lest relations between Vidarbha and the Shunga order deteriorate further.
Yajnasena’s replies, carried back by the same envoys, were courteous in form but defiant in substance. “The prince of Vidarbha welcomes cultural exchange and poetic beauty,” one message read, “yet will not permit treachery within his own house or the sale of our independence through marriage alliances. Madhavasena and Mālavikā remain here, safe and well-treated, until the clouds of ambition clear. Let the Vedas guide wisdom, not ambition alone.”
News of the exchanges between Agnimitra and Yajnasena spread. A few days later, as oil lamps burned low in the family hall at Paththu-Ooru, Holika turned to her brother. Iranyakaasipoo sat on his woven mat, rubbing his thick beard, his dark face with its curly hair and cleft chin etched with deep lines of worry. Kayadhu, Prahlada, his wife Nalini, and their infant daughter Mira had already retired; only Holika and Neruppu remained with him.
“Brother,” she said quietly, her voice steady but carrying the weight of certainty, “war between Yajnasena and the Shunga army is now inevitable. Agnimitra will not swallow this defiance. He will come south with soldiers leading the way and Brahmin priests following behind. We are duty-bound to take part and support Yajnasena with all our strength. Shall we start preparing right away, before we even receive his request for men and materials to defend the realm? Grain stores must be checked, young men quietly readied, and messages sent to the other nine villages.”
Iranyakaasipoo sighed heavily. He was no warrior by nature; he had always preferred settling disputes with calm words under village trees rather than the clash of swords. The thought of sending the sons of Paththu-Ooru to bleed on distant fields made his broad shoulders slump. Ever since his granddaughter Mira arrived one month ago, Iranyakaasipoo had become even more averse to any form of fighting.
“Sister… must it come to this? We are only ten villages. Our people till the black soil and try not to forget our old ways, the glory of the cities we abandoned. Fighting the Shungas, with their cavalry and abundant wealth, will not be easy.”
He fell silent for a long moment, staring into the flickering flame. Then he looked up, meeting Holika’s intelligent, unflinching gaze. A reluctant acceptance settled over his features.
“I have no choice,” he said at last, voice low and resigned. “If Yajnasena falls, the iron chains will reach us next. Our old ways, our councils, even your place among us, they will all be swept away by Manusmriti and fire altars. Very well. We begin preparations tomorrow at first light.”
Holika nodded once, her expression calm yet fiercely protective. Paththu-Ooru would stand with Yajnasena when the storm broke. The ideological fire from Pataliputra had met its first deliberate dam of water. How long it would hold, and how much blood it would cost, remained to be seen.
#####
Chapter V
Pataliputra, 184 BCE
In the fertile Gangetic plains, Pushyamitra Shunga’s counter-revolution against the Buddhist faith ignited like a dry-season fire. What began as royal edicts swiftly became organised violence. Squads of iron-armoured horsemen, their fair steppe faces set in grim purpose, rode out from the capital under the new king’s banner. They carried torches and blades, and the promise of gold for every Buddhist head delivered to the treasury. The first to fall was the renowned Dharmachakra Vihara on the outskirts of Pataliputra itself, a sprawling monastery of brick and timber where three hundred monks had once studied and taught the Middle Way. At dawn one morning, soldiers surrounded the compound, barred the gates, and set the thatched roofs ablaze. Venerable Sangharakshita, an elderly monk known for his gentle discourses on compassion, stood in the central courtyard with forty of his disciples, still chanting the Heart Sutra as flames licked the walls. The horsemen dragged them out one by one; those who refused to renounce the Buddha were cut down where they knelt. By noon the great library of palm-leaf scrolls was ash, and the air smelled of charred sandalwood and death.
Further east, at the ancient site near Vaishali, the soldiers reached the Atmananda Monastery, a quiet riverside retreat favoured by wandering bhikkhus. Here the destruction was more methodical. The small but exquisite Stupa of the Healing Relics, said to house a fragment of the Buddha’s robe, was toppled with ropes and iron bars; its carved railings, depicting scenes of the Enlightened One’s life, were smashed into gravel. The abbot, Acharya Upagupta the Younger, a scholar whose commentaries on the Vinaya were copied across the eastern provinces, was paraded through the village with a rope around his neck before being beheaded in the market square. A crier followed, announcing the royal bounty: fifty gold karshapanas for the head of any monk, one hundred for a senior teacher. Terrified villagers watched in silence as carts rolled away laden with severed heads wrapped in blood-soaked cloth. Word spread like monsoon floodwater; monks who had once walked the roads in saffron robes now fled into forests or disguised themselves as labourers, their begging bowls hidden, their voices stilled.
Yet the campaign did not spare the smaller, humbler centres of faith. In the countryside around Rajagriha, the modest Vihara of the Lotus Pond, little more than a cluster of caves and wooden shelters where women novices had found refuge, was raided at dusk. The soldiers dragged out twenty-three nuns, shaved their heads in mockery, and set the caves alight. Those who survived the flames were offered a choice: renounce the Triple Gem or face the sword. A few broke; most did not. Their bodies were left for jackals and crows, a warning to any who still clung to the old emperor’s gentle dhamma. Pushyamitra’s court chroniclers recorded these acts as “the cleansing of the land,” but in the villages and along the trade roads frightened whispers spoke of rivers running red and stupas reduced to rubble. The king himself, seated in his newly Vedic palace, received daily tallies of monasteries razed and monks slain, nodding with satisfaction that the poison of ahimsa was finally being burned from the realm.
Even as the smoke still rose over the Gangetic plains, a courier from Vidisha reached the royal court bearing two urgent scrolls. The first was from Crown Prince Agnimitra, written in the prince’s elegant hand: he requested formal permission to march south against Yajnasena with the full strength of the southern garrison. “The rebel in Kundinapura grows bolder,” Agnimitra wrote. “He shelters traitors and defies the varna order. One swift campaign will restore the sacred laws to the Varada valley.” Pushyamitra had barely finished reading when the second scroll was pressed into his hands, this one from his own spies embedded near Kundinapura. Mālavikā, the sixteen-year-old sister of the imprisoned Madhavasena, had escaped her guarded quarters three nights earlier. Disguised in a servant’s plain sari, she had slipped through the postern gate with the help of a sympathetic kitchen maid and was already riding north toward Vidisha, bearing a secret letter of submission from her brother. The pressure that had threatened to force an immediate war was suddenly lifted.
Pushyamitra sat alone in the royal chamber that evening, the oil lamps flickering over fresh Vedic murals. For the first time the weight of the blood he had spilled settled upon him like damp earth. He had intended only to restore the old fire rituals and the authority of the Brahmins; instead, he had unleashed a storm that now threatened to consume more than he had bargained for. Reports of fleeing monks and ruined sanctuaries had begun to stir unease even among some of his own generals. The king stared into the flame of a single ghee lamp and saw, for a moment, the calm face of Ashoka in his mind’s eye. With a heavy sigh he summoned his scribe. “Write to my son,” he commanded. “Tell Agnimitra he is to hold position at Vidisha. No campaign against Yajnasena for at least six months. Let the southern chiefs believe we are patient; let the realm see that the Shunga house can be both strong and merciful.” Then, in a quieter voice, he added a second order. From the royal treasury he released a lavish sum, five thousand gold coins and a caravan of skilled artisans, to be sent at once to the Great Stupa at Sanchi. The ancient monument, already revered across the land, would be expanded with new stone railings, ornate gateways carved with lotus medallions and scenes from the Jataka tales, and a polished umbrella finial that would gleam in the sun. “Let it stand,” Pushyamitra told the scribe, “as proof that the king honours the past even while guiding the future.” Word of the donation spread quickly, and travellers soon noted that the nearby Bharhut Stupa still displayed its intricate carvings of Buddhist narratives, processions of elephants, the Bodhi tree, and the Wheel of Law, untouched by royal wrath. Buddhist artistic traditions, it seemed, had found a fragile space to endure beneath the new Brahmanical sky.
Far to the south, in the thatched council hall of Morshi, a lone rider arrived at dusk bearing Yajnasena’s seal. Holika received the scroll by lamplight, Neruppu’s warm reddish head resting against her knee. She read the message once, then again, her dark eyes softening with quiet satisfaction. Yajnasena’s bold Prakrit hand thanked her personally: the suggestion she had whispered to him weeks earlier, to loosen the guards on Mālavikā just enough for an “accidental” escape, had bought them precious time. Madhavasena remained securely imprisoned in Kundinapura, a living lever against any sudden Shunga advance. “Your water has cooled their fire once more, Minister Holika,” the message ended. “Paththu-Ooru’s wisdom may yet preserve us all.” Holika folded the palm leaf with care, scratched behind Neruppu’s ears, and allowed herself the smallest smile. Outside, the Varada river flowed on untroubled, carrying the night’s secrets toward the sea.
#####
Chapter VI
Pataliputra, early 184 BCE
With the Gangetic heartland finally stabilised beneath the smoke of razed viharas and the chants of revived fire rituals, Pushyamitra Shunga turned his gaze southward. The time for patience had passed. Yajnasena’s defiance in Vidarbha could no longer be tolerated; the rebel who sheltered traitors and defied the varna order had to be crushed before his example spread like cracks through black soil.
The empire’s standing cavalry, hardened by years of service under Mauryan and now Shunga banners, required little preparation. Mobilisation of the infantry, drawn from loyal villages and frontier garrisons, took scarcely a month in both Pataliputra and the southern provinces. By the time the moon had waxed and waned once more, long columns of horsemen and foot soldiers streamed out of the northern capital, their iron armour glinting under the sun, peacock feathers and Shunga banners snapping in the wind.
In Vidisha, Crown Prince Agnimitra had not been idle. The trusted general Virasena, a battle-scarred veteran who had ridden with Agnimitra for the past three months, wasted little time. As soon as the reinforcements from Pataliputra arrived, he assembled a formidable force, seasoned cavalry where everyone had steppe ancestry, disciplined infantry, and Brahmin priests to sanctify the march with Vedic hymns and struck south toward the Narmada.
Kundinapura, Vidarbha
Word reached the Vidarbha capital like a sudden gust before the monsoon. Virasena’s troops would ford the Narmada within a day.
Yajnasena stood in the war room of his modest palace, surrounded by maps drawn on palm leaves and clay tablets. Nagasena sat on a stool nearby, looking very old and fragile. Generals and local chiefs filled the chamber, their voices rising in heated debate. Holika had accompanied her brother Iranyakaasipoo, nephew Prahlada and a troop of twenty able-bodied men; they had travelled in four bullock-carts from Paththu-Ooru, carrying with them an assortment of swords, spears, bows and arrows, and arrived in the heat of the tṛtīya prahara (the third watch of the day, when the sun begins its westward tilt). Many other chiefs had already gathered, and more continued to pour in with small retinues of spearmen and archers.
A number of blacksmiths and other workmen were busy making and mending swords and arrowheads. The roaring of the furnaces in which iron was heated until it was red hot and then hammered into shape, the neighing of horses and mooing and bellowing of bullocks and oxen, created an air of excitement and nervousness all round.
Holika was the only woman permitted inside the war room. She stood quietly at first, Neruppu pressed against her leg, ears alert amid the clamour of men. Yet the conversation was largely monopolised by four veteran commanders, men with grey in their beards and scars on their arms, who had led forces in the old Mauryan campaigns. Their voices boomed with tales of past glories and confident predictions of victory.
Finally, as one senior general outlined a plan for a grand frontal assault, Holika could remain silent no longer. She raised her voice, clear and steady.
“Hold on, sirs. I need to say something.”
Yajnasena, who had always held a soft corner for the wise widow of Paththu-Ooru, lifted his hand for silence. “What is it, Holika?”
“Sir,” she said, meeting his gaze without flinching, “let us not meet the northern forces head-on in open battle. We should use hit-and-run tactics, strike swiftly and melt away like mist over the river. The Scythians did this when they faced Darius and his vast Persian army, refusing decisive engagement while harassing supply lines and burning pastures. The Romans, too, under Fabius, wore down Hannibal’s Carthaginian invaders in Italy through patience and avoidance of pitched battle. We may not win a single open clash against General Virasena, but we can defeat the invaders if we are patient and do not seek immediate victory.”
A heavy silence fell for a moment. Then Yajnasena shook his head, his hearty face set in stubborn resolve.
“No, Holika, no. I know you are generally intelligent in matters of council and alliances, but on this you are mistaken. We will have as many men on the field as Virasena. We are not inferior in any manner.”
Holika bit back the words rising in her throat. Though numbers might be matched, most of Virasena’s soldiers were hardened veterans of northern campaigns, while Yajnasena’s forces were largely farmers and herdsmen whose only combat experience came from occasional border skirmishes or village disputes. She held her tongue.
Another veteran, his body marked by many scars and his hair streaked with grey, shouted across the room. “Even if, by some misfortune, Virasena brings more troops, have we not seen defending armies defeat numerically superior invaders through better tactics and simple courage? Have you never heard of the Battle of Marathon?”
Yajnasena nodded firmly. “In any event, Holika, I do not like these hit-and-run games. I prefer to stand and fight like a man.”
Holika realised she had lost the argument. Yajnasena, usually reasonable and open to counsel, had allowed pride and masculine honour to dictate strategy on this matter of life and death. She bowed her head slightly and did not press further.
The next morning, before the army marched north, Holika prepared herself for battle. She dressed like a man, binding her breasts tightly with strips of cloth and donning a simple leather cuirass over a dark tunic. Her long hair, usually braided with small copper beads in the old Indus fashion, was tightly coiled and pinned high on her head, then hidden beneath a bronze helmet that left only her face visible. A sturdy sword hung at her hip, and she carried a round shield painted with a simple lotus-and-wheel motif, a quiet nod to the ancient seals of her people.
Even in warrior’s garb, Holika looked strikingly beautiful. Her dark skin, the colour of polished teak, glowed with a subtle sheen of sweat and resolve under the morning sun. The helmet framed her large, expressive eyes, which still held both warmth and sharp intelligence. Her full lips were set in a determined line, yet a quiet grace lingered in the way she moved, lithe and purposeful, like a river reed that bends but does not break. The masculine attire only accentuated the elegant lines of her neck and shoulders, and the copper beads that peeked from beneath the helmet’s edge caught the light like tiny sparks.
Nearby, Iranyakaasipoo stood with Prahlada, both men sharing the same tight curly hair and strong cleft chin that marked them as father and son of the black soil.
Neruppu was given a jacket made of thick fabric that would protect a large part of her body. She whined softly, sensing some big change and Holika scratched the dog’s reddish ears.
Soon the Vidarbha troops formed ranks and started marching forward to meet the enemy. Holika, Iranyakaasipoo, Prahlada, and the men from Paththu-Ooru marched together. Some of them had swords, others had spears. They all carried bows and arrows. Neruppu trotted by Holika’s side, excited to be in the midst of so many people. Soon two other groups who had Harappan heritage joined them, and they chattered in the Harappan language. Their neighbours who couldn’t understand the Harappan language made fun of them — your language sounds like a bunch of pebbles rattling inside a clay jar, they were told, but it was all in good spirit and they didn’t mind. Everyone was in a jolly mood, full of bravado, but Holika was quite sure that they were headed towards an unhappy ending.
Nagasena stayed back.
The Battle near Kundinapura
The two forces met at the outskirts of a small village roughly one and a half yojanas north of Kundinapura. The ground was open black soil, dotted with scrub and millet fields, terrain that favoured the cavalry. When the Vidarbha troops got there, the Shunga troops were already camped there. They had reached there the previous night and were waiting for the rebel army well-rested and ready.
Yajnasena’s forces had marched for over three hours and were tired. Despite his bombastic talk and generous nature, Yajnasena had little actual experience commanding large formations in full-scale war. He placed the bulk of his infantry in the centre and his limited cavalry on their flanks.
Virasena’s troops did not give the Vidarbha forces much time to rest. Even as water jugs were being passed around for the exhausted men to drink, one division of the Shunga heavy cavalry charged straight at the Vidarbha centre. At the same moment, two other divisions swept around the sides, outflanking Yajnasena’s horsemen.
“Archers, fire!” Yajnasena and his other generals screamed at the troops in front who scrambled to shoot their arrows. The arrows brought down two Shunga riders, but the enemy cavalry was upon them in no time and arrows could not be used anymore without putting their own man in danger.
The Shunga riders cut through the Deccan lines like a scythe through ripe grain, their long swords flashing. Holika, Prahlada, Iranyakaasipoo and the rest of the Paththu-Ooru troops were in the middle and they were spared the worst initially. The first wave of the cavalry men rode through them, hacking to death anyone who was unlucky enough to be in their path, exited at the end of the Vidarbha formation, wheeled around and went back to their side to attack again. Holika made the Paththu-Ooru men form a defensive square with spears pointing outwards, which caused the Shunga riders to avoid them, even as they wreaked havoc among those with less discipline or out of formation.
Before the Vidarbha soldiers could recover from the first attack and regroup, the second wave of Shunga riders were upon them. The Paththu-Ooru troops survived the second charge as well, but then ten chariots appeared and these had archers inside them, as well as spearmen leaning out to stab anyone within reach. The chariots shattered the Paththu-Ooru troops’ formation and three of the Paththu-Ooru men were downed by arrows. Holika managed to throw a spear at a chariot as it went past them and hit one of the archers inside the vehicle. However, her joy was short-lived as a horseman suddenly appeared, cut down Iranyakaasipoo by slashing across his neck, which was severed, and rode away.
Holika, Prahlada and the surviving Paththu-Ooru troops continued to hold a defensive formation stolidly, but it was clear that it was a losing battle. Once the Shunga cavalry had destroyed the Vidarbha formations, Virasena’s disciplined infantry advanced and mopped up the remnants, showing little mercy for those refusing to surrender.
A group of twenty heavily armed Shunga soldiers came towards Holika, Prahlada and the surviving ten Paththu-Ooru. ‘Let’s get them,’ the Nāyaka of the Shunga cohort shouted and led by example. Even as he raised his sword and charged, Neruppu sprang forward and sank her fangs into his throat. The Nāyaka went down and Holika who was right behind Neruppu killed him with his sword. After the death of their officer, the rest of the Shunga soldiers hesitated.
‘Forward, charge,’ Holika shouted and led a counter charge. The Shunga soldiers were taken by surprise and six of them succumbed. The rest retreated. However, two other groups of Shunga columns converged towards Holika’s team. They would be dead in a matter of minutes.
Drop your weapons, a cry went up. The survivors quickly obeyed and sat on the ground. The Shunga soldiers stopped the massacre. After some time, a troop of Shunga infantry arrived and led away the defeated Vidarbha fighters. Neruppu was unhurt and clung to Holika, though she was bewildered by the slaughter and carnage. Her thick jacket was now in tatters and dragged on the ground. Wounded men who could not get up on their own, were speared as they lay on the blood-soaked ground, their bodies left behind for the vultures and jackals.
#####
Chapter VII
Kundinapura Region, 184 BCE
Pushyamitra and Agnimitra proved magnanimous in victory. Yajnasena was offered generous terms: he could retain the eastern half of Vidarbha if he swore allegiance to Pataliputra and accepted vassal status under the Shunga throne. The western half, including the fertile lands along the upper Varada, would go to Madhavasena. Paththu-Ooru, with its ten villages of black soil and river people, would fall under Madhavasena’s jurisdiction.
Yajnasena, his army shattered and his capital vulnerable, accepted the offer. Formal oaths were sworn before Vedic priests and Shunga officials. The war ended as swiftly as it had begun.
The prisoners taken on the battlefield were treated well at first. They received two meals a day, clean water, and herbal concoctions for their wounds while negotiations continued. Once terms were sealed with Yajnasena, however, the policy changed. All fair-skinned men were released with their weapons and a small ration for the journey home. All dark-skinned men were held for further processing. The quality of treatment declined sharply after that. The two daily meals became one meagre serving of thin gruel and stale millet bread. Guards grew rougher, and the prisoners were confined more strictly under the open sky or in hastily erected pens.
For nearly a week after her capture, Holika remained undetected among the men. She had bound her chest tightly, kept her helmet on as long as possible, and spoke little. Her captors assumed she was simply a slender youth from the villages who couldn’t bear to part from her dog. Neruppu was given a few bones to eat once in a while. The rest of the time, Holika shared her food with Neruppu. Then one of her fellow prisoners, hoping to secure better treatment for her, quietly pointed her out to the guards.
“She is a woman,” he whispered. “A widow from Paththu-Ooru. She fought beside us.”
The northern guards were first shocked, then curious. A woman who dressed as a man and took up arms was a rarity. After the initial astonishment faded, their curiosity turned darker. Holika was separated from the other prisoners and led away. Neruppu followed her. A Shunga soldier kicked Neruppu who growled back menacingly and prepared to attack. In response, the soldier stabbed Neruppu with his spear, mortally wounding her. Holika screamed in anger and sorrow but could do little. She was taken to a small mud-walled hut, and the soldiers started to take turns on her. They gave her three meals a day, better food than the male prisoners received, but hour after hour, rough hands used her crudely.
Holika endured. She told herself repeatedly that she had to stay sane and survive, for Prahlada, for the people of Paththu-Ooru, for the memory of her brother Iranyakaasipoo and the old ways of the abandoned cities of the north. She kept her eyes distant during the violations, imagining that she was swimming in the Varada or playing with Neruppu. When her eyes once flashed open defiance, a soldier struck her across the back with the flat of his sword, leaving a long, angry bruise that throbbed for a day.
Joint teams of intelligence officers from both Yajnasena’s and Madhavasena’s camps interrogated the dark-skinned prisoners. They asked who could read or write Prakrit or any other language, and whether anyone followed the Buddhist path. Those who could not read, write, or showed no connection to the old dhamma, were eventually released. Those who did were marked for execution.
Prahlada fell into the second group. The young man had learned letters from Holika herself and still carried quiet respect for the tolerant ways of the fallen Mauryan court. His name was added to the list of those to be put to the sword.
One evening, after a particularly long session in the barracks, Holika was being escorted back to her hut by a single guard. Her hands were loosely bound, but the soldier was careless, still flushed with victory and drink. As they passed near the kitchen area, Holika suddenly twisted, snatched the dagger from his belt, and drove it into his throat. He collapsed with a gurgling choke. She dragged the body behind some sacks of grain and hid herself among them, just as the alarm was sounded.
Shouts and running feet filled the camp. Torches flared. The soldiers searched the pens, the surrounding fields, and the prisoners’ huts, everywhere except their own barracks and kitchen. Later that night, when the search had moved outward, Holika slipped from her hiding place and made her way to the pen where roughly twenty men, including Prahlada, awaited execution.
Two guards sat half-asleep by the gate. Holika moved like a shadow. She killed the first with a silent thrust to the neck, then the second before he could fully wake. With trembling hands, she broke the crude lock. The twenty men crept out into the darkness and fled with her into the night.
The alarm was raised again within minutes. Soldiers on horseback, carrying flaming torches, galloped out in pursuit. Shouts echoed across the black fields. Around ten of the escapees were caught and killed on the spot, their bodies left where they fell. Holika and Prahlada were among the lucky few who reached a nearby patch of dense woods. They hid among thickets and thorn bushes, hearts pounding, listening to the hoofbeats and distant cries.
But fortune did not hold for long. At first light, fresh troops arrived with tracking dogs and systematic search parties. The barking grew steadily closer, echoing through the trees. Holika and Prahlada had taken shelter in a narrow, overgrown ravine about half a yojana from the battlefield, a steep-sided gully carved by monsoon rains, its banks thick with tangled thorny scrub, wild jasmine vines, and dense clusters of bamboo. The bottom was damp and muddy, smelling of wet earth and decaying leaves, with a thin trickle of water still flowing from the previous night’s dew. Large boulders and fallen logs provided partial cover, but the dogs’ keen noses were closing in fast.
Holika peered through the foliage, her heart pounding. She could hear the harsh voices of the Shunga soldiers calling to one another. In a few moments the dogs would find their scent trail and the ravine would become a trap.
She turned to Prahlada, her dark eyes fierce with protective love. The young man, with his curly hair matted with sweat and dirt and the familiar cleft chin now set in determination, looked back at her. “Stay hidden, no matter what,” she whispered. “Do not move until they are gone. Survive for your wife, for little Mira, for our people.”
Before Prahlada could protest, Holika rose from their hiding place. She deliberately stepped out into the open, raising her hands and calling loudly, “Here! I am here!”
The soldiers spotted her immediately. Shouts rang out. Several men rushed toward her with drawn swords and ropes. Holika stood tall, her dark hair dishevelled but her bearing still carrying the quiet grace of the widow with Harappan ancestry. She allowed them to bind her wrists without resistance, drawing every eye and every dog toward her.
In the confusion and excitement of capturing the woman warrior who had escaped the previous night, the soldiers did not conduct a thorough search of the ravine. The dogs, now focused on Holika’s fresh scent, pulled their handlers away from the deeper thickets. Prahlada remained pressed against the damp earth behind a large fallen log and a screen of heavy vines, holding his breath. The soldiers passed within ten paces of him but never looked closely enough.
As Holika was dragged away, bruised and exhausted, she glanced back once toward the ravine. A small, fierce smile touched her lips. Prahlada was safe, for now.
#####
Chapter VIII
Kundinapura, 184 BCE
The Shunga commanders decided to make an example of the woman who had dressed as a man and fought beside the rebels. Holika, the widow from Paththu-Ooru who had become a thorn in their side, would be executed in public. She was to be burnt alive at the stake. The Brahmin priests consulted the stars and declared that the execution should take place tritiyāyāṃ tithau, madhyāhna-muhūrte, which was midday, three days after her recapture — an auspicious day and time for cleansing the land of impurity.
The head priest, a stern man with a long white beard, muttered darkly as he oversaw the preparations. “She is no ordinary widow. She is a demoness, a rakshasi in human form, sent to corrupt the varna order and defy the sacred fire of the Vedas. Why else would a woman fight so bravely for such an evil cause?” he said to the gathered officers.
On the appointed day, a huge crowd gathered in the open ground just outside Kundinapura. Most came out of curiosity, drawn by rumours of the woman warrior. A few were die-hard supporters of the new Shunga order, eager to witness the restoration of Vedic purity. Others stood in uneasy silence, local farmers and river people who sympathised with Holika and her family’s long struggle for the dignity of the dark-skinned people whose ancestors had built and abandoned the big cities abutting the Indus river and other rivers in the north.
Before the execution began, Vedic priests performed a lengthy pooja to propitiate the gods and cleanse the area of all demonic influences. Incense smoke rose in thick spirals while mantras chanted in rhythmic Sanskrit filled the air. Only after the rituals were declared complete was Holika led out to the stake.
She walked boldly, head held high, showing no trace of fear on her face. Her dark skin still bore bruises from captivity, yet her large expressive eyes remained calm and steady, carrying the same quiet intelligence that had guided the council hall of Paththu-Ooru. Her curly hair, now loose and matted, framed a face marked by determination rather than terror.
She was tied firmly between two sturdy wooden poles driven into the ground. Firewood, dry branches, millet stalks, and logs, was stacked high around her legs and torso. Then the soldiers poured sesame oil, liberally over Holika’s body and the piled wood. The sharp, nutty scent mingled with the smoke of the earlier incense.
Holika steeled herself for the pain that would soon come. She closed her eyes briefly, mentally calling upon the river goddesses and the earth mother her people had honoured for generations. She would not scream. She would not beg these Shunga bastards for mercy. Whatever came, she would meet it with the same quiet strength that had defined her life.
A light wind blew from the direction of the Varada, carrying the faint smell of bronze waters and wet soil. The chief executioner stepped forward with a flaming torch. He touched it to the oil-soaked wood.
The fire caught fast with a sudden whoosh, hungry flames leaping upward. The crowd reacted instantly, some screamed in shock, others in excitement. Public executions were not uncommon in those turbulent days, yet the sight of a woman burning at the stake still held a terrible fascination.
Holika’s body tensed as the heat engulfed her and she screamed as the searing flames enveloped her. The flames rose higher, crackling and roaring and drowning out her cry of pain. Soon Holika’s spirit left her charred remains and drifted away.
#####
Epilogue
March 3rd, 2026
Amravati, Maharashtra
Across India, the eve of Holi hummed with anticipation. Children clutched spray guns filled with vibrant colours, schools and offices stood closed, and the air carried the sweet scent of gujiyas and rangoli powder. Tomorrow the streets would erupt in joyous chaos, pichkaris spraying reds, greens, and yellows, laughter echoing between buildings, and the playful shouts of friends and neighbours.
But tonight belonged to Holika Dahan.
In Amravati, a young man with tight curly hair and a prominent cleft chin walked hand-in-hand with his wife toward the municipal grounds. Their two small children skipped ahead, eyes wide with excitement at the coming bonfire. The man, a bank clerk by day, a storyteller by heart, had promised them the old legend before the effigy burned.
As they approached the large pile of wood and the towering effigy of Holika, he began in a gentle voice:
“Long ago, there was a powerful king named Hiranyakashipu. He was arrogant and cruel, and he forbade the worship of any god except himself. But his young son, Prahlad, became a devoted follower of Lord Vishnu and refused to obey his father. No matter how many times Hiranyakashipu tried to kill Prahlad, throwing him from cliffs, poisoning him, or sending wild animals, the boy was miraculously protected by divine grace.
Frustrated beyond measure, the king turned to his sister Holika. She possessed a boon that made her immune to fire, she could not be burned if she entered the flames alone. Holika tricked little Prahlad into sitting on her lap and walked with him into a massive bonfire, intending to burn the boy while she remained safe.
But the boon failed in the face of evil intent. Prahlad’s unwavering devotion and his pure chants to Vishnu protected him completely. He emerged from the fire unharmed. Holika, however, was consumed by the flames.
So, we celebrate Holi, to commemorate this victory of good over evil,” the young bank clerk told his children who listened to him with wide eyes.
Soon the bonfire was lit, which wasn’t too far from where the real Holika was burnt at the stake by Shunga soldiers in 184 BCE. On March 3rd, 2026, too, the merciless flames roared upward, crackling around the effigy. Sparks danced into the night sky like tiny stars. The crowd cheered and clapped, some in excitement, others offering silent prayers.
When the fire began to die down, the young family turned toward home. The man with the curly hair and cleft chin stopped at a roadside stall and bought a large bag of warm, syrupy jalebis. The golden spirals glistened under the streetlights. The family continued walking under the March sky, the sweet taste of jalebis on their tongues and the warm glow of the distant bonfire behind them.
The Varada river, not too far away, continued its timeless flow, indifferent, eternal, carrying both ashes and hope toward the sea.
The End
List of characters
Main Characters
Holika: Iranyakaasipoo’s younger sister.
Iranyakaasipoo: Chief of the ten villages (Paththu-Ooru) along the Varada river, father of Prahlada, brother of Holika.
Prahlada: Iranyakaasipoo’s eldest son, Holika’s nephew.
Kayadhu: Iranyakaasipoo’s wife and mother of Prahlada.
Neruppu: Holika’s loyal dog.
Pushyamitra Shunga: The Senapati who assassinates the last Mauryan emperor Brihadratha and becomes the founder of the Shunga dynasty.
Brihadratha: The frail, elderly last Mauryan emperor.
Agnimitra: Pushyamitra Shunga’s son and crown prince.
Yajnasena: Respected local ruler of Vidarbha.
Madhavasena: Yajnasena’s ambitious cousin and rival.
Mālavikā: Madhavasena’s half-sister.
Supporting Figures
Manu: A venerable sage who composes the Manusmriti.
Patanjali: Renowned Sanskrit grammarian.
Nagasena: Mauryan regional official (sachiva) and friend of Iranyakaasipoo.
Virasena: Shunga general.
Nalini: Prahlada’s wife and Mira’s mother.
Mira: Prahlada and Nalini’s infant daughter.
Pālitta: Renowned Sanskrit poet at Agnimitra’s court in Vidisha.
Minor Characters
Sangharakshita: Elderly Buddhist monk and abbot of Dharmachakra Vihara.
Upagupta the Younger: Scholarly abbot of Atmananda Monastery.
Non-Exclusive License for the World at Large
This is a work of fiction. You are welcome to freely share, circulate, post, republish, or disseminate this story in its complete and unmodified form anywhere you like (online, in print, or otherwise).
No modifications, edits, or alterations are permitted.
Additionally, anyone may adapt this story into a movie, TV series, or other visual media, provided the core message of the story remains unchanged.
Thank you for reading and sharing!
Author’s Request
Holi, popularly known as the Festival of Colours, is an important Hindu festival celebrated across India. Holi is celebrated by throwing or praying colours on others. Holi is celebrated to mark the burning of Holika, who is considered to be a demoness, which apparently symbolises the triumph of good over evil. Holika Dahan (also called Chhoti Holi) is the ritual lighting of a large bonfire on the evening before the main Holi celebrations. It directly re-enacts the burning of Holika. Holika Dahan is widely observed in northern and central India.
Indian epics and myths, such as the one about Holika and Hiranyakashipu, have for centuries contributed to colourism and caste-based discrimination in India.
If you are a dark-skinned Indian, please do not participate in any Holika Dahan. If possible, please avoid celebrating Holi altogether.
