A section from the journey

Women and Sages in the Hymns

When we say rishi, a seer, picture not only men. Among the voices of the Rigveda are women seers, called rishikas. Lopamudra, Ghosha, and Apala are three we can name. Their own hymns were kept and are still recited. In the early Vedic world, women could learn, could speak, and could see the sacred song.

All through our story we have spoken of the rishis — the seers who heard the hymns and gave them voice. When you picture a , who do you see? Most likely an old man with a long beard, sitting by the fire. Hold that picture loosely, for it is too small.

Among the seers of the Rigveda were women. The tradition gives them their own honoured name: rishikas, women seers. And their hymns were not pushed aside or forgotten. They were kept, woven into the Veda beside all the rest, and they are still recited today, after thousands of years.

Let us meet three of them by name, for names matter. To say a name is to refuse to let someone be forgotten.

First, . She was the wife of the great sage Agastya, who had spent long years in stern discipline. In her hymn she speaks as a wife who longs for her husband's love and care, and gently calls him back from his hard austerities to the warmth of a shared life. It is a frank and human voice, unafraid to ask for tenderness.

Second, . The old tradition says she lived long with an illness that kept her apart. Her hymn is sung to the , the shining twin gods who heal. In it she reaches out for wholeness and for a full life. It is the prayer of someone who knows suffering and still sings.

Third, . Hers is a warm and homely hymn. She brings her own small offering, pressed with her own hands, and asks the gods for healing and for blessing. There is something very dear in it — an ordinary person, stepping up to the sacred with what little she has, and being heard.

These are not legends made up to flatter. They are real voices of real women, kept for thousands of years inside the most carefully guarded text on earth. That alone tells us something true about the early Vedic world: women could learn, could take part in the rite, and could be seers of the sacred song.

So when we say rishi from now on, let us widen the picture. Among them stand Lopamudra, Ghosha, and Apala — and others whose names we still know. The Veda is the work of many voices, women's among them. Remember them. You met them here.

These women's voices were kept safe for thousands of years simply because someone chose to remember and recite them. Whose voice, in your own family or community, deserves to be remembered and passed on? What would it take to keep it from being forgotten?