When comparing Indian and European fencing systems, the initial focus is often on technical aspects. However, this approach is fundamentally flawed, as the two systems are not directly comparable. The differences between them are not merely superficial or a matter of minor details; rather, they represent a fundamental opposition at a deep, philosophical, and even civilizational level.
In the European tradition, mastering a weapon is fundamentally about control. The weapon must obey its owner: properly balanced, well-behaved, and responsive to the user’s intentions and abilities. It is viewed as a passive instrument, evaluated simply as good or bad, well-chosen or not. Rather than an extension of the self, the weapon remains an external tool — an object upon which the practitioner applies refined technique, practiced skill, grace, and geometrically precise movements. Ultimately, all of this serves to showcase the perfection of the individual.
This attitude, like much else in European culture, is a product of the Renaissance, with its anthropocentrism, rationality, and perception of art as a new divinity. In the attempts to revive the “spirit” of antiquity, its natural and organic essence was replaced with something artificial. But how else could one resurrect something that existed 1,000 to 2,000 years prior? This fundamental shift inevitably influenced the European approach to weapon ownership and handling, relegating the brutal experience and reality of medieval mass melee combat to the background. Broad, powerful movements gave way to agility, intricacy, and playfulness. The side stance, the tucked elbow, the maximized distance, and the single opponent in a straight line became the new ideals.
In such a context, it no longer mattered whether the hand held a sword or a pistol. The ultimate expression and focal point of this evolution became the regulated duel with witnesses — a controlled, intimate setting where theories and diagrams could be enacted, and where the “better” or more justified (i.e., the more skilled) man could be determined.
However, this approach is only feasible as long as the objects of these efforts allow themselves to be subjected to such arbitrary manipulation — being mentally dissected, projected onto a plane, and having lines drawn across their imaginary space. Once a weapon’s construction, size, and dimensions no longer permit such casual manipulation, the approach must change accordingly. It is therefore no coincidence that in modern practices with the heavy two-handed European sword, one can see the emergence of techniques reminiscent of the Indian staff.
In the Indian tradition, a weapon is understood as a fully vested subject, holding a status equal to, or even greater than, its wielder. The weapon is not merely an object; it is a deity, a conduit not for human will, but for the divine. When the blade is raised and pointed toward the sky, it is receiving this divine will. As it arcs downward, directed toward the earth, it channels that will to strike the enemy, thereby executing a cosmic imperative rather than a personal intent.
The individual’s role in such a process is minimized to the point of self-removal, allowing divine will to manifest, whatever that will may be. This worldview is epitomized by the ancient battlefield, a site of mass conflict where personal skill or tactical cunning are rendered meaningless. In this chaotic arena, there is only one possible victor: God.
This belief was the decisive factor in ancient warfare. When a king fell in battle, his soldiers fled, not because they were a mindless mob needing a leader to command them, but because his death was the ultimate proof that God was not on their side. One cannot fight against God, nor can one command or control Him. In the same way, the ritualistic context of a battle was not something to be managed or controlled. The outcome was a divine verdict, a lot cast by a higher power, and it was beyond human influence.
The adversary is not an external or alien force, but an integral part of the situation, like an invited guest at a celebration. It is never certain which side the divine will favor, and therefore, how the sacrifice of battle will unfold. All participants exist within the same closed, ritual space — a space they enter before the fight begins, not one when they jump from a distance, cautiously extending their weapon to keep the foe at bay.
In this context, combat with the talwar begins at a range equivalent to the far distance in bare-hand fighting, though the strikes themselves are delivered from a middle distance of bare-hand fighting. The weapon is never simply thrown or extended toward the enemy; instead, it moves along closed, circular trajectories. The goal is not to force the blade, but merely to bring it to the opponent. If the weapon is heavy, or at the very least sharp, it will do its work on its own. The practitioner’s task is simply to animate the weapon, to imbue it with power. God manifests His will, and the warrior channels that will into the weapon through his own strength.
By force born of force and endowed with force!
Rigveda X, 83 (Manyu)
The manifestation of divine will occurs through fury. It was for this very fury in battle that the ancient warrior prayed. In the Rigveda, the god Manyu is the personification of the wrath, fury, and frenzy with which a warrior hurls himself at the enemy. Furthermore, Manyu is linked to the concept of inner heat, or tapas. Thus, the warrior must burn and be consumed by fury.
In this way, the ascetic yogis, who through their tapas are consumed during their lifetime, were equated with the warrior, who is consumed by his fury on the battlefield in the pivotal moment of his existence. Both figures transcend their individual identities, burning them away on an inner fire. By offering this self as a sacrifice, they attain the supreme state described in the Rigveda by the mystical formula: “with the sacrifice they sacrificed to the sacrifice.”
Advance, O Manyu, more powerful than the most powerful!
With heat-tapas as an ally, crush the enemies!
Rigveda X, 83 (Manyu)
Manyu, the personification of wrath, was linked to deities such as Rudra, Indra, Agni, and Shiva. It is not surprising that the highly esoteric formulas of sacrifice were eventually replaced by the more accessible desire to invite a god within oneself and to feel the presence of a destructive deity. Over time, this yearning evolved into the cult of Hanuman, the great warrior. Before battle, warriors sought to possess his indomitable will and martial prowess, hoping to channel his power for victory.
These notions do not date back only to ancient times. In the 19th century, the British described Indian warriors as entering battle with a fury and a mad gleam in their eyes. They attributed this to the abuse of certain substances, which, of course, did occur, but this explanation did not negate the traditional beliefs regarding the necessity of cultivating rage in combat.
In the traditional Indian understanding, unlike the European one, the conduit of will is not the weapon, seen as a silent instrument, but the human being himself, who serves as the silent instrument of divine will. This creates a clear chain: God – Man – Weapon, which translates to Will – Force – Action.
It seems natural that a weapon is moved by human strength, if we understand this as purely muscular, physical power. However, in Indian martial arts, mastery is not defined by technical skill alone, but by the ability to manifest and channel this force. In the Indian epics, it is through the strength of heroes that the will of the gods is made manifest. Consequently, a person’s strength can itself be an expression of divine will, a grant of “inner power.”
If we remove the intermediary — the person who has erased their individual ego — then the will of the gods can manifest directly through the weapon. In this state, the weapon itself becomes a subject, capable of expressing and directing that will. It begins to act on its own, becoming alive, like a predator going out to hunt.
Yet, like any raw power or predator, it must be controlled. This control is not petty or authoritarian, but rather like governing a natural element like tending the fire in an altar or a hearth. For a weapon that acts directly by the will of the gods, and as that will, itself becomes a manifestation of the divine.
With thee, O Manyu […]
Let our brave men, impetuous, bursting forward,
March on, like flames of fire, like Agni, exulting,
with pointed arrows, sharpening their weapons.
Rigveda X, 84 (Manyu)