When I study the birth of the Seven Rivers civilization, I am struck by what surrounds it: a constellation of small civilizations, heirs of local shamanism, characterized by their pacifism. Some of them were even led by women — which was far from common at the time. It is these civilizations I want to talk about today, because they cast a particular light on what the Sapta Sindhu accomplished.
In my book The Civilization of the 7 Rivers, I describe how these small civilizations — the Oxus civilization in Afghanistan and Tajikistan, the oasis civilization of the Karakum in Turkmenistan — were contemporaries of the great Indus civilization. They shared a common spirituality and practised almost identical rituals. They excelled in agriculture, animal husbandry, and crafts. And they traded with one another, exchanging ideas, languages, and gods.
What holds my attention about these civilizations is precisely what they did not leave behind: no palaces, no monumental temples, no statues glorifying a conqueror. The absence of monuments is, paradoxically, their most eloquent monument. It says something essential about how these societies conceived of power — or rather, about the fact that they did not seek to concentrate it.
In the Seven Rivers civilization itself, which I have studied through the hymns of the Rig Veda and the archaeological excavations, I find the same spirit. No centralization, no verticality, no megalomania. The excavations at Mohenjo-Daro and Harappa have revealed no objects related to war — no helmets, no shields. The copper weapons found on the sites do not appear to have been weapons of war. And archaeologists unanimously conclude that the inhabitants lived in a very peaceful society, focused on trade, agriculture, and crafts.
The place of women in this civilization seems to me fundamental. In the Rig Veda — which I translated word by word over six years — women are not relegated to the kitchen. They drink the soma like men. They participate in the sacrifice alongside their husbands. Several women rishis composed hymns that have come down to us: Romasā, Lopāmudrā, Apalā, Kadrū, Viśvavarā, Ghoshā, and others. This is not an anecdotal detail — it is a window onto a society that had not decided that half of humanity was inferior.
A hymn I often quote says this, and I find it remarkable: “A woman is more trustworthy than a man, if he does not follow the gods and is selfish.” (Mandala V; Hymn 61) This is not flattery — it is a moral observation about what it means to be faithful to Truth.
What I draw from all of this is a lesson for our time. These civilizations — small, pacifist, often led by women or in which women played an equal role — are not anthropological curiosities. They are proof that other models have existed. That violence, rigid hierarchy, and male domination are not fatalities written into human nature. They are choices — bad choices — that some civilizations made, and that others refused to make.
To understand the spirituality that underpinned these pacifist civilizations, I invite you to read my article on rigveda.blog: Vasiṣṭha and Viśvāmitra — the War of the Ten Kings
