A 3,000-year-old martial art from Kerala taught me how to stop fighting myself

While Kalarippayattu was once practised by warrior clans to settle blood feuds and resolve disputes on behalf of landlords, it is all about slowness

On one of the rainiest mornings in Thiruvananthapuram, I find myself inside a small makeshift shed, its roof patched together with tarpaulin, an oil lamp flickering quietly in the far corner. I’m here after an unusual notice came along with our daily Malayala Manorama newspaper that read: The District Kalaripayattu Association proudly presents Marma Kalari training. I’m here purely out of stupid, impulsive recklessness. I binge-watched Altered Carbon (2018-2020), a sci-fi series on Netflix, and got completely hooked on Quellcrist Falconer, the spunky rebel leader I couldn’t take my eyes off. In one scene, she wields a sword with one hand while shooting a gun with the other. I guess you could say I’m here because there’s always been a part of me that wondered what holding a sword would feel like.

Everything I know about Kalari comes from a Malayalam movie I watched long ago called Urumi (2011) and my grandmother crushing on Mammootty’s character in Oru Vadakkan Veeragatha (1989). So I make it a mission to hunt for books in the public library that will tell me more about this native martial art from Kerala, once practised by warrior clans to settle blood feuds and resolve disputes on behalf of landlords, often to the death. I take in everything I can, and only then do I muster up the courage to show up for my first class.

The Kalari gurukkal walks in, and we begin our session. I’m in for disappointment—there’s no weaponry until I learn the first steps, and that could take a while. Years, even. I’m told that despite its swift movements, Kalarippayattu is all about slowness. Mastery takes time and patience. In a world that moves fast, thrives on instant gratification and worships hustle culture, this feels like an anomaly. And a beautiful one at that.

I show up daily, moving stealthily like an animal, mirroring its stances and fighting with my whole body. In Kalari, there’s no looking down; even a moment of hesitation can give your opponent an advantage. So I learn to hold a sharp, focused, hawk-like gaze. For someone like me, who once struggled to meet anyone’s eyes, this becomes a powerful lesson in confidence. I also learn what it means to be fully present. Every badly timed punch, every uncertain move, is met with my gurukkal’s steady reminder: “Ivide shraddhikku”—“Pay attention here.” With time, Kalarippayattu becomes a language, one that helps me understand and honour myself. To speak it is to observe deeply, to stay flexible in both body and mind, to welcome every life experience, and above all, to keep fighting no matter how tough it gets, for it is rarely about victory. It’s about integrity.

While Kalari has a wide range of weapons, from the dagger to the spear, it never feels violent. One of the first lessons you learn is that it’s a practice rooted in self-defence, not aggression. Strength has its responsibilities, and Kalari isn’t about power trips. In fact, a beginner’s journey starts with the Vandana Chuvadu, a step that salutes the opponent. It’s a gesture of respect, a silent request to avoid a fight.

Here’s a mouthful of sageness, I think. Can I be the bigger person? Can I still see the people who hurt me as human, as flawed, as layered as anyone else? As Michaela Coel once said in an interview, ‘See the brother in the enemy’?

And so, Kalari begins to alter me. I become more forgiving, more compassionate. And yet, I’m almost mule-headed when it comes to defending myself—brazen, unflinching and armed to the teeth when I stand up for myself. I am on my own team. “Our bodies store emotions in different ways,” my therapist explains during one of our sessions. “Expressing them through art forms can make it easier to let them out and handle those emotions better, especially when talking feels too much.”

Of course, there are days when I’m not in love with Kalari. Days when my body aches so loud, I just want to be oiled like a baby and left out in the sun. Days when I grumble about waking up at 6am, wondering why I can’t just stay in bed longer and doom-scroll. Days when I’m not ready to chase my urumi-wielding warrior princess fairytale, because honestly, I’d rather be a sloth stretched out on the couch, eating pazham pori (banana fritters) and nerding out over a good book. After all, some would say Kalari isn’t even relevant anymore. And in a way, they have a point. It has evolved from a combat discipline into a performance art, something to be showcased on stage, at cultural festivals or competitive games. For those who measure value in money or tangible outcomes, Kalari may seem quite useless.

But at the core of this martial art from Kerala lies ancient wisdom that is quiet, steady and irreplaceable. When I pick up my long staff to fight, I’m also learning how to stay calm under pressure. I realise that the real weapon is not what I hold in my hands, it’s me. The composed mind, the deadly stare, the unwavering focus, the knowledge of marma points that could still anyone—these are mine to carry, mine to alchemise.