Queen Didda of Kashmir remains a figure both luminous and unsettling, and perhaps the only formidable woman ruler of her times. She was a woman who defied the fire of sati, outwitted armies of men, and ruled a fracturing kingdom with Machiavellian precision.
To understand Didda the Terrible’s audacity, one must look at her times. The 10th century AD was an age of turmoil in the Indian subcontinent — the post-Gupta world was a mosaic of fiefdoms and fragile dynasties. Society, steeped in the orthodoxy of caste and the subordination of women, permitted little agency to half its population.
Yet, Kashmir was, to an extent, an exception. Enriched by Buddhist compassion and Kashmiri Shaivite philosophy, the valley had cultivated a distinct ethos — one that allowed intellectual and spiritual freedom to its women. Poets, philosophers, and mystics like Lal Ded and later Habba Khatoon emerged from this soil. Long before them, however, there was Didda. To some historians, including Kalhana, the author of Rajatarangini, she was a tyrant. However, before categorizing the queen as a tyrant or a saviour, it is important to understand the circumstances in which she ruled.
A lame girl who would be queen
Didda was born lame — an affliction that in her time was interpreted as divine disfavour. Yet destiny seemed to conspire otherwise. She married King Kṣhemagupta of Lohara at a time when Kashmir’s political fabric was fraying. The once-robust administration had decayed, the Tantrins who were royal bodyguards, acted as kingmakers. The court reeked of indulgence: dice, liquor, and decadence replaced discipline and statecraft. Slander and malicious gossip was the norm, a tradition that lives on in Kashmiris even today. Kṣhemagupta, a weak and indulgent ruler, left governance to whim. It was Didda’s presence — sharp, watchful, and politically astute — that offered the throne stability. Her true rise, however, began the day he died.
As the pyres were lit for sati, Didda, urged by the counsellor Naravahana, refused to ascend the flames. In that single act, she committed both sacrilege and salvation — defying a custom that had devoured generations of women, and inaugurating a reign that would alter the course of Kashmiri history. Although before her, Sughandadevi, the daughter-in-law of the great King Awantivarman ruled as a regent, Didda’s rule was different in many ways.
The queen regent who became a monarch
As regent for her infant son Abhimanyu, Didda confronted a kingdom in chaos. Uprisings flared, nobles sneered at the idea of a woman at the helm, and the chiefs challenged her authority. But Didda was no ornamental queen. She bribed, negotiated, and when necessary, unsheathed her sword. She led armies herself, disarming rebellion not through divine right, but sheer determination. Her methods were as controversial as they were effective. Chroniclers record her use of both diplomacy and assassination, gold and guile, in equal measure. Her ruthlessness invited censure — yet it restored order. By the time Abhimanyu came of age, Didda had proven herself indispensable. When her son’s delicate health or perhaps her ambition, led to his premature death, she briefly turned toward building — commissioning temples, libraries, and towns. But the tides of power drew her back.
Her grandsons, whom she successively placed on the throne, all died under mysterious circumstances. Whether these were murders commissioned by Didda due to her hunger for power or political calculus remains debated. What is certain is that by 980 AD, Didda ruled as sovereign — not regent, not queen mother, but monarch.
The Catherine of Kashmir
Comparisons with Catherine the Great of Russia are neither accidental nor exaggerated. Both women rose through unconventional paths — Catherine through palace intrigue, Didda through defiance of ritual and rebellion. Both inherited decaying empires and restored their glory through intellect, reform, and, when required, calculated cruelty. Catherine, too, faced condemnation for her personal life — her liaisons with men of lesser birth, her consolidation of power through controversial means. Didda’s affection for Tunga, a man of humble origins elevated to prominence, drew similar disdain. Kalhaṇa, the celebrated author of the Rajatarangini, referred to her with moral disapproval, branding her ambition as unbecoming of a woman. Yet, both rulers understood what their critics could not, that in times of collapse, order demands resolve, not piety. When the moralists of history scorn Didda for her supposed excesses, they forget the rot she inherited — a kingdom of corruption, rebellion, and crumbling authority. Her iron rule was not a symptom of tyranny but a prescription for survival. Without her, Kashmir might well have splintered into obscurity centuries before its fabled decline.
The feminine principle of power
Didda’s legacy is more than royal intrigue; it is the assertion of female sovereignty in a civilization that repeatedly denied it. From the Vedic Gargi and Maitreyi, who debated philosophy with men, to Razia Sultan, who ruled Delhi with valour centuries later, Indian history bears witness to women who rose above their times — but none ruled with such longevity and control as Didda. Her story, both brutal and brilliant, unsettles because it resists moral simplification. She was neither saint nor sinner, but a realist. In today’s India, where the conversation around women in power still oscillates between tokenism and backlash, Didda’s life offers a deeper lesson. Leadership, especially in decay, is rarely gentle.
History, written largely by men, may have painted her as manipulative or merciless. But in the arc of Kashmir’s destiny, Didda’s reign stands as a brief but brilliant period of consolidation — when a physically frail woman bent a failing kingdom back into coherence.
