Contemporary Indian martial arts that utilize weapons represent a confluence or, more accurately, a remnant of distinct traditions: historical swordsmanship, sport and exercise, and a codified set of techniques for demonstrative performance. It is crucial to understand that in a historical context, these elements were not separate entities but rather components of a unified system of warrior training. They did not contradict one another; they were complementary.
The practical application of weapons in battle, or even in exercises like target cutting, served to validate effective techniques and naturally elimination those that were impractical. Sports-like exercises, such as sparring with a short stick (lathi) and shield, were designed to develop combative sequencing, footwork, and the ability to interact with an opponent. Demonstrative techniques, in turn, occupied the niche of a “warrior dance,” evolving from practical skills rather than the other way around. This equilibrium was disrupted by the repressive measures of the British administration. In the first half of the 20th century, a complex dynamic emerged: a surge of interest in physical culture coincided with a renewed fascination for traditional practices. However, severed from any requirement for real-world applicability, this environment led to deliberate modifications within martial arts. Some systems were fundamentally altered to emphasize their visual appeal, and a few were, for all intents and purposes, recreated anew as performing arts.
Consequently, a significant portion of what is now presented as martial technique consists of demonstrative exercises. These have evolved and become entrenched in the absence of the balancing, practical components of the once-unified system. Given their relative simplicity and accessibility, requiring no validation beyond the performance itself, these exercises are often fully mastered in adolescence. Practitioners frequently lose interest thereafter, seeing no path for further skill development. The genuinely practical techniques remain embedded in the unglamorous, preparatory exercises and, as a result, are overlooked. Furthermore, foundational principles essential for wielding real weapons, such as maintaining the critical 90-degree angles between the weapon and forearm, and the forearm and shoulder, are often discarded as archaic and unnecessary.
Basic exercises, those conditioning the body and joints, teaching correct weapon grip, and instilling fundamental trajectories and steps, are demanding of time and effort and are inherently unsuited for spectacle. Conversely, demonstrative exercises, requiring no deep or prolonged training, are easily learned and far more entertaining to audiences. To learn the art of “fire performance” with a weapon, one need not invest years of study or absorb millennia of practical knowledge. There is, of course, nothing inherently wrong with weapons-based performance art. However, when it achieves absolute dominance and becomes completely detached from practical testing, it transforms into a distinct art form. The skills it cultivates are often the antithesis of those required for genuine combat. Consequently, any attempt to present the martial arts of India’s past as directly derivative of these modern demonstrative techniques is fundamentally flawed.
Compounding this issue is the tendency to absolutize exercises originally intended to develop basic coordination and introduce a practitioner to their weapon. Formerly, these drills derived their full meaning and content from real-world application — target cutting, unscripted sparring, and the exigencies of the battlefield. Isolated from this context, they were elevated to an end in themselves. The practical core, now hidden from the student, was lost, and these preparatory drills were passed down as the primary skills. Without further development or application, they came to be misperceived as the complete martial tradition.
The Hallmarks of Demonstrative Exercise:
- Using the lightest weapons
- Excessive weapon rotation speed
- Lack of footwork and movement
- Relaxed wrists
- No force is used
- Lack of control over the edge of talwar/spear/dagger blades
Using the lightest weapons
A genuine historical martial art is fundamentally an exercise in applied force. The principles underpinning Indian martial arts, for example, are specifically designed to generate and manage maximum force. This requirement for strength is universal. It is essential for a “drawing cut” with a saber, where the blade is not merely swung but is actively pressed and drawn through the target. It is equally crucial for delivering powerful thrusts and cuts with a heavy spear, and even for controlling an iron-bound staff, which must be guided precisely through its entire trajectory in coordination with the body’s movement, not just swung haphazardly.
A person moving with a weapon forms a single, closed dynamic system composed of two physical bodies: the person and the weapon. When this combined entity applies force to an external object — an opponent — a second closed system is created. In this new system, the person-with-weapon acts as one body, and the external target (the enemy) as the other. To strike the target effectively without losing balance, dropping the weapon, or falling, one must compensate not only for one’s own inertia but also for the reactive force exerted by the target. This same principle of compensation applies to the internal system of “your body plus your weapon.” When you exert force to rotate or move a heavy object, you must constantly counteract its momentum, using your body to balance it.
In essence, learning to wield any weapon is not about learning to swing it in a visually appealing manner. It is about learning to interact with it, to find balance, and to forge a unified system. In this state, the weapon is no longer a separate tool; your body and the saber together become the weapon. If a weapon’s weight approaches zero, requiring no effort to move, this unified system cannot form. You are simply a separate body holding a separate stick to strike another separate body. The same lack of art applies to wielding a heavy weapon without creating a balanced system: swinging a large iron pole from side to side may have practical applications, but it does not constitute an art.
The momentum of a weapon is the product of its mass and its velocity. To create a balanced system where all forces are compensated, allowing you and your weapon to move freely in any direction and perform complex, conscious actions without losing equilibrium, you have two choices. One is to dedicate years of intense training to mastering these compensations. The other is to minimize one of the factors: either the mass or the speed. In practice, the latter choice is not great: you can take the lightest possible object and wield it with great speed, or you can take a heavy object and, to avoid falling, either swing it monotonously from a static stance or forgo complex footwork altogether and simply run with it in a straight line, perhaps after a fleeing opponent. This analysis, moreover, has yet to even address the far greater challenge of applying force to an external target, thereby creating the second, more complex system: you-with-your-weapon against your opponent.
Excessive Weapon Rotation Speed
A common exercise, popular for its visual appeal and ease of learning, involves rapidly spinning a weapon while remaining stationary. While incorporating footwork would seemingly enhance the drill, it is physically impossible because the legs cannot match the rotational velocity of the upper body; one simply cannot move faster than their feet can step. Consequently, these exercises are performed from a static, often wide stance, which provides the stability needed to counteract the inertia generated, even by a light weapon.
Beyond this physical limitation, such drills lack practical application. High-speed rotational movements, in themselves, offer no offensive threat nor serve a defensive purpose. They are ineffective even at “deflecting arrows”. Furthermore, executing a strike or defense requires movement, often several steps, necessitating the body to function as a single, coordinated system. While a stationary or jumping stance may be appropriate in a duel or a confined sporting ring, historical accounts suggest that the dynamics of mass battlefield combat were fundamentally different.
Lack of footwork and movement
Mobility is the lifeblood of combat. On the battlefield, the ability to move is paramount. Traditional Indian martial arts are fundamentally based on fluid motion and reaction in all four directions. More than just simple relocation, this movement requires a coordinated integration of the entire body: the actions of the hands are intrinsically linked to the steps of the feet. This kinetic chain is a primary condition for generating effective force. If achieving the maneuverability of a light weapon or the control of a heavy weapon requires immobilizing the lower body, it suggests that effective force can only be generated in a static, non-combat scenario.
Authentic combat footwork is not about bouncing on both feet, nor is it about shuffling or dragging the feet along the ground. It is a series of alternating steps designed for efficient and stable movement on any terrain, far removed from the smooth, prepared floors of a modern gymnasium. In the context of Indian swordsmanship, a static posture on two legs, especially with one leg extended far forward, was an invitation to disaster; such a leading leg would be an immediate and easy target. This principle was so well understood that experienced British fencers would deliberately present their forward leg to provoke an attack from an Indian swordsman.A two-legged stance was not entirely absent but was reserved for fleeting moments of action. It could occur as a transient phase during a step, or as a brief point of fixation at the culmination of an attack or defense. In essence, natural human locomotion involves a continuous cycle of single-leg support and weight transfer, with no intermediate pause on two legs. To be on two legs is to be stopped. And in the chaos of a mass battle, a moment of stasis was a moment of fatal vulnerability.
Any deviation from this principle of continuous motion — a common feature in many modern interpretations — can typically be attributed to one of three factors: a theoretical re-imagination unburdened by the practical demands of historical combat, the gradual degradation of a once-living tradition, or the emergence of modern martial arts from the late 19th century onward.
While it is theoretically possible to employ a static, linear shuffle against a single opponent, even modern boxing demonstrates the tactical poverty of remaining rooted to a single axis. Against a lone adversary, one might briefly move back and forth along a line; however, this model fails the moment a second opponent enters the engagement. When facing multiple adversaries, the simple back-and-forth shuttle proves entirely inadequate.
Furthermore, when one considers the extended reach and sweeping cutting arcs of edged weapons, the amplitude of movement required to evade them becomes substantial. To navigate these dangers effectively, the footwork naturally begins to resemble one of the core movement patterns found in traditional Indian martial arts: the pentra.
The pentra is not an abstract, theoretical exercise, a mystical diagram, or a sacred symbol, as it is sometimes portrayed in contemporary circles. It is, in its essence, a practical and universal method of movement. Executed in both basic and complex forms, it is the foundational grammar of mobility, enabling a practitioner to navigate the chaos of combat with efficiency and control.
Relaxed wrists
If you are accustomed to spinning your weapon rapidly, you will not be able to generate force or effectively execute movements in attack or defense. Spinning a weapon at high speed using the wrist as the center of rotation is not merely ineffective — it actively undermines proper weapon handling skills and places unnecessary strain on the joint itself.
To rotate light objects quickly, you need loose, relaxed wrists rather than fixed, rigid ones. However, if you take up a heavy weapon with a hand accustomed to this loose grip, you risk damaging not only your wrist but also the other joints and tendons of your arm.
Conversely, if you hold even a thin stick with the firm, “closed” grip of traditional Indian martial arts — the proper way to handle any Indian weapon — you will find rapid rotation impossible. This is because the weapon becomes firmly connected to your entire body structure, from your legs upward.
It is no coincidence that Indian swordsmen historically trained with heavy clubs (known as gada or mugdar). These exercises were essential not merely for strengthening the joints but for properly securing them against injury. A warrior in ancient India could receive no greater praise than to be called “mighty-armed”.
No force is used
Movements without applied force are like idling in neutral. Your movements must be structured so that you can apply force in each one. Accordingly, at all times, your body should form a strong frame like construction formwork into which you can pour figurative “concrete”, filling it with energy and strength, while ensuring the frame itself remains intact. If you use one framework and method when practicing with a weapon in the air, but then switch to a different frame or method when making contact with a target, you are essentially learning two different arts.
Lack of control over the edge of talwar/spear/dagger blades
Your weapon is a talwar. And the weapon of the talwar itself is its edge. You attack a target with the edge, and it is through this edge that you apply force. Therefore, the blade’s orientation is paramount.
Excessive flourishing or rotating the talwar through the air, without the context of a target, is detrimental to proper training. This practice can cause a warrior to lose the kinesthetic awareness of holding the blade straight, which is essential for executing a proper Indian drawing cut. Historically, in Indian martial arts training, students were often forbidden from swinging a saber in the air without any form of counter-resistance.
This principle extends beyond sword work. In unarmed Indian martial arts, practitioners do not simply strike the air with their fists, elbows, or feet. Instead, force is channeled into a balancing movement by using the other hand to provide resistance, simulating a target. This ensures that power is directed and controlled.
Even the basic rotational exercises, first mastered with a short stick and later with a talwar, are not about uncontrolled flourishing. They always involve the conscious drawing of the edge. In these arts, even a training stick is conceptualized with two distinct sides: the “edge” and the “back”. This distinction becomes even more critical when handling a talwar or a spear.
If a martial system involving a saber or spear does not include techniques that require control of the blade and teach the practitioner to distinguish between the two or four sides of the weapon (referring to the one or two edges and the two flats of the blade), it indicates a disconnection from the practical and effective use of that weapon.
These factors are not isolated; they create a self-reinforcing and destructive cycle. They feed into one another, amplifying their negative effects while simultaneously masking the damage they cause. For example, the use of an extremely lightweight tool eliminates the need for physical force to control it. This absence of required force, in turn, allows the user to remain static — standing in place or simply hopping — rather than developing dynamic footwork. This lack of genuine movement is then masked by an emphasis on high-speed manipulation of the tool, which substitutes mere speed for true physical dynamism.
Furthermore, this high-speed rotation does not demand a conditioned body or strong joints. To compensate for the absence of this physical preparation, even lighter tools or training aids are introduced, further simplifying the training and stripping it of any real challenge. This creates a closed loop: a vicious circle where the means of training directly counteracts the development of the physical qualities it should be building.
Consequently, exercises performed within this cycle become devoid of practical meaning. They lead to no tangible progress or skill development. This is a developmental dead end, forcing the practitioner to either repeat the same hollow exercises indefinitely or, eventually, abandon the practice altogether from a lack of interest and motivation.
The use of thin, light bamboo sticks replaces the heavy, iron-bound staves that would have been used historically. Chakrams are crafted from lightweight plastic, allowing for rapid and effective spinning without the risk of tangling, thanks to an integrated anti-tangle mesh. They even feature plastic weights that are safe for the user in the event of mishandling. Similarly, the pata sword is fitted with an extremely flexible blade, designed to demonstrate cutting techniques safely; for instance, it can effectively cut a lime fruit placed on the ground — the blade’s flexibility allows it to conform to the ground’s surface with a simple striking motion. Finally, a simple stick is used in place of a spear, omitting the metal spearhead. This alteration creates a more balanced, lighter training tool that allows practitioners to focus purely on imitating the weapon’s techniques without the encumbrance of additional weight.
Chakram made of plastic
Military camp exercises, c. 1830. A soldier cuts a lime that is resting on the ground. Notably, he is not using a pata sword with a flexible blade.
Martial arts are not a collection of tricks or secret, “deadly” techniques. At their core, they are about cultivating the body itself as a weapon. This cultivation focuses on the development of power, which is the product of force and speed.
One could apply a small amount of force at a very high speed, or a tremendous amount of force at a low speed. While both actions generate some kinetic energy, neither represents the essence of a martial art. True martial art is the pursuit of applying the maximum possible force at the maximum possible speed. While these two elements naturally limit each other — maximum force can impede speed and vice versa — the entire purpose of training is to consistently push against and expand this limit, thereby increasing the body’s capacity for generating power.
If your training does not achieve this, and your power output plateaus, you are left relying on unreliable substitutes: the hope of a “super speed” that will miraculously appear in an extreme situation, or the belief in an unknown force that will inexplicably overwhelm an opponent. In this case, as an alternative to genuine martial arts, it would be more honest to pursue sports or modern fitness-oriented martial arts. In these disciplines, the absence of growth in force and speed during training is much more difficult to overlook.
This is why making technique the primary objective of training is misguided. Technique should not be an end in itself, but rather a tool for achieving specific speed and force outcomes. Think of it as the formwork in construction: it is the essential design that shapes the final structure, but its purpose is to contain and direct the concrete. Without the concrete of force and speed, the technique is just an empty shell, useful for little more than demonstration.
The force of a blow depends on your ability to create a rigid frame that connects the weapon, the hand that holds it, and the foot firmly planted on the ground for push-off. This is true in all cases except when you strike while jumping or rely solely on your body weight. However, because you need to move freely, your legs and feet are constantly in motion. The challenge, therefore, lies in generating this stable, grounded connection at the precise moment of impact, even while in motion.
While it may seem unusual to invoke Miyamoto Musashi in this context, his experience as a historical practitioner is directly relevant. This pragmatic approach is evident in his simple yet profound observation: “I move in a fight the same way I walk down the street, alternating my legs.”
In this context, every step and subsequent position must form a rigid structure. Consequently, the speed at which you can generate maximum force is directly tied to how quickly you can move into these positions while maintaining that structural integrity. Any loss of balance, equilibrium, or failure to compensate for inertial movement will cause this structure to collapse. This “breakdown” prevents the force from being transferred efficiently into your hand and weapon; instead, it dissipates harmlessly.
The Stages of Correct Practice (the following describes the general orientation of the stages of correct practice, not the order in which they are developed)
1. You need to synchronize your arm movements with your leg movements. Your arms should coordinate with each step and the moment your foot lands. It’s essential to connect your upper and lower body, establishing proper alignment. This creates even if minimally a harmonized full-body movement that transfers energy into your strike. At this stage, you’re beginning to develop body awareness and control.
2. Now, let’s discuss the horizontal aspect. In Indian fencing, the second hand is not merely gripping a two-handed weapon or passively holding a shield. It certainly does not serve a purely decorative function—it actively participates in the movement. Your hands, whether armed or not, must be capable of moving independently of each other. This is not about synchronized or mirrored motions; it is about achieving true independence in their actions.
This level of coordination cannot be achieved through conscious thought. If you try to mentally direct each hand to move separately, simultaneously, and independently, you will find yourself unable to continue moving—you will come to a halt. To avoid this, you must either stop your body or quiet your mind. This is where movement becomes meditation. At this point, you begin to master not only your body but also your consciousness.
Now, with a body and consciousness, you can move, take steps, and perform actions at any moment with either hand—or both at the same time. Your body is now a unified structure of connected arms and legs. Metaphorically speaking, your arms are branches, reaching for the sky, and your legs are roots, planted firmly on the ground. In this way, you have become the bridge between heaven and earth. You are the connector, the conductor, the pillar, the altar. You are nearly a creator.
3. In the first stage, your primary achievement was learning to coordinate your arm movements with your steps, allowing your body to move as a single, integrated unit. Now, we must reverse this relationship. The goal is to separate the conscious control of your arms from that of your legs, making your footwork the primary focus.
You should now move freely — walk in any direction, at any pace, without consciously thinking about your hands. However, because you have internalized the coordination from the first stage, your strikes will naturally land in sync with your steps, falling on either your left or right foot, rather than between them.
The objective is to move with complete freedom, yet be capable of generating power with every step, without having to consciously choose a specific moment to strike. Having automated your hand techniques in the previous stage, you no longer need to think about how or when to attack or defend. Instead, you simply move, and the appropriate action is available to you at any moment. In this way, your movement itself becomes the attack; your step is your weapon.
Pentra consists of three main steps. It is a universal method of movement, implemented in both a basic version and a more complex one known as the swastika. The swastika is a pentra performed on four sides. By conquering these four sides and the “four great kings” they represent you earn the freedom to move as you wish. Having measured the space, you have nearly brought it under your control.
4. Once you have mastered moving freely in any direction without thinking about your arms, you can move on to the final stage. Your legs and the mechanics of your steps should now fade into the background, just as your arms did in the previous phase. Your sole focus should be on your weapon. From this point on, your body, movement, and awareness serve only as a stable platform for it.
You no longer think about your hands, your feet, your movements, or your directions — not even about which way to go, or even about or even the pentra and swastika. You, yourself, no longer exist; you have become your weapon, and it, you. It is a weapon that moves of its own accord, connected through you to heaven and earth, and it commands the space around it. You are now the destroyer.