The Rig Veda is the oldest book of humanity. And among its authors — the rishis, the seers, the poets — there are women.
Not women evoked, described or celebrated by men. Women who themselves received the vision, composed the hymns, and transmitted their words across the centuries. In The Civilization of the 7 Rivers, I name them all: Romasā, Lopāmudrā, Apālā, Kadrū, Viśvāvārā, Ghoṣā, Juhū, Vāgāmbhṛṇī, Paulomī, Yamī, Indrāṇī, Sāvitrī and Devajāmī.
Thirteen women. Thirteen voices. In the oldest text that humanity possesses.
What this number says about the civilization
In The Civilization of the 7 Rivers, I state it plainly: nothing in the text of the Rig Veda says that women were stigmatized in any way. On the contrary — they drank the soma like men. They composed hymns recognized as worthy of entering the Vedic canon. And hymn 5.61.6, in my translation, says it with remarkable clarity:
“A woman is more trustworthy than a man, if he does not follow the gods and is selfish.”
This is not a rhetorical concession. It is an ontological statement: the Truth — the Reality — has no gender. It manifests where it manifests. And if a woman sees it more clearly than a man, it is the woman who is the rishi.
The statuettes found in excavations confirm this reading: men and women went bare-chested, like sub-Saharan African women a few decades ago, without this raising any moral question. A broad open-mindedness reigned — visible in the artefacts, readable in the text.
Lopāmudrā — desire as truth
Hymn 1.179 is a dialogue between Lopāmudrā and her husband Agastya — one of the most venerated rishis of the Vedic tradition. It is the woman who speaks first. It is she who has the last word.
1.179.1 — For many autumns, I have been tired from morning to evening through the Dawns that bring on old age. Old age destroys the beauty of bodies. Let husbands now approach their wives.
1.179.2 — The ancients served the Truth. They spoke with the gods. Together, they proclaimed the Laws. They did not fully reach the limit of life. Therefore, let the women unite with their husbands.
Lopāmudrā does not supplicate. She makes a demand. Her ascetic husband, absorbed in his practices, receives a direct request: the body grows old, desire is legitimate, life must be lived. The hymn is signed jointly by both rishis — Lopāmudrā and Agastya, co-authors of the same sacred text. This is not condescension. It is parity.
Apālā — the young woman who finds the soma
Hymn 8.91 is attributed to Apālā ātreyī. She is young, apparently unmarried. She finds soma in nature and offers it directly to Indra — without a male intermediary, without masculine permission.
8.91.1 — A young girl, going out, found the soma. She said, bringing it home: “I must press you for Indra. I must press you for the powerful one.”
And she negotiates directly with the divine force:
8.91.5 — “Indra, make these three highest wishes grow: the head of my papa, the fertile soils, and my little one in my belly.”
Apālā is a woman who knows her desires and expresses them without detour — the fertility of the father, of the earth, and of herself. And it is she, not a priest, who presses the soma. In the civilization of the 7 Rivers, access to the most sacred ritual was not reserved for men.
Ghoṣā — the king’s daughter who speaks alone
Ghoṣā Kākṣīvatī is the author of two hymns to the Ashvins — the divine healers. She identifies herself in the text:
10.40.5 — You circle around us, O Ashvins, Ghoṣā the daughter of a king says: I ask you — be there for me day and night.
Tradition holds that Ghoṣā suffered from a chronic illness that had kept her unmarried for a long time. Her hymns to the Ashvins are said to have earned her healing. What matters here: this woman, ill and isolated, composed texts judged powerful enough to enter the Vedic canon. Her very suffering became vision.
Viśvāvārā — the priestess who lights the fire
Less known in the West than the three previous rishis, Viśvāvārā Ātreyī is the author of hymn 5.28 — a hymn to Agni of remarkable contemplative depth:
5.28.1 — Well lit, Agni has fixed his flame in the Sky. Facing the Dawn, he shines from afar. She comes every day with the homages, turned toward the gods, procuring offerings dripping with clarified butter.
5.28.2 — When you are well lit, you reign over immortality, uniting with us for our well-being. You give all riches. You advance like a guest, O Agni. You sit in front and you give.
Viśvāvārā does not invoke Agni from a distance. She lights him, tends him, speaks to him directly. She is the priestess in action — a woman who masters the sacrificial fire with the same authority as any male rishi in the text.
Śacī Paulomī — the woman who proclaims her victory
Hymn 10.159, attributed to Śacī Paulomī, is one of the most astonishing in the Rig Veda. It is not a prayer. It is a proclamation of power:
10.159.1 — The Sun has risen, over there. It has risen to give me my portion. I am shrewd, I have defeated my husband and I am victorious.
10.159.2 — I am the Light, I am the leader, I am the powerful decider. My husband, whom I have conquered, must follow my intention by obeying.
10.159.3 — My sons are slayers of enemies. Now, my daughter reigns and I am victorious over my husband.
This text requires no commentary. It speaks for itself — with a confidence, a pride, a self-affirmation that most women in the contemporary world would not dare to express publicly.
What these thirteen women say to our world
A civilization that produced thirteen recognized women rishis — whose hymns were judged worthy of transmission for four thousand years — is not a patriarchal civilization in the sense we understand.
This is not nostalgia. Not idealization. It is an archaeological and textual fact: in the civilization of the 7 Rivers, the Truth had no gender. And this certainty, inscribed in the oldest hymns humanity possesses, is perhaps the most precious legacy this civilization has left us.
