The grandest temples built by almost every royal dynasty in India is in their capital city — Except the Rashtrakutas. Their capital was Manyakheta; their grandest temple is in Ellora.
In every other temple, art and beauty dull the viewers’ sense of awe, at the engineering, logistics, audacity and willpower of the minds behind it.
Ellora allows no such scope. No surprise that some petty minds have attributed it to ancient aliens. Could mere mortal men with hammer and chisel, sculpt away a mountain to present a temple?
Local legend has it that even its own builders could scarcely believe they had built the temple, and murmured that surely gandharvas and yakshas had helped them when they were not looking.
The temple is 90 feet tall, 200 feet deep, a 100 feet wide; an island of art in a lake of rock.
It is, perhaps, no coincidence that its patron, the Rashtrakuta King Krishna I, shares the name of the Govardhana Giridhari.
Another legend has it that the queen mother went on a fast that she swore to end only when the kalasa of the temple was completed; the sthapathi therefore, sculpted that kalasa first, to save her life, and also built the temple top-down rather than bottoms-up.
One small story for a queen mother, one giant leap for architecture.
Unlike Kanchipuram or Pattadakkal, there are no inscriptions in this temple.
Architecture
The tri-tala Dravida vimana , with an octagonal Dravida shikhara, comparable to the Pallava Dharmaraja ratha monolith in Mahabalipuram, the Pandya Vettuvankoil monolith in Kazhugumalai, and Chalukya Mallikarjuna temple in Pattadakkal; kosthas in the paada, kutas and shaalas in the vimana, leave us no doubt.
So, art historians suspect this temple was inspired by Pattadakkal Virupaksha temple.
The garbhagruham is surrounded by an open circumambulatory passage, punctuated by five parivaara shrines, three of which have octagonal Dravida shikharas, and the other two wagon-shaped shaalaakaara shikharas.
A sukhanasi, which spans the antarala/ardha-mandapa fronts the main vimana.
A marvellous set of four roaring lions tops the massively pillared sabha-mandapa. The body of the lions point in the cardinal directions, while the faces are turned towards the sub-directions.
The sabha mandapa has spacious porticos on north and south, and a large covered one at the entrance. This leads forward to a nandi mandapa, with a magnificent Nandi facing his master.
Porticos in the sabha-mandapa are clearly a continuation of Chalukyan architecture; they are also a feature of the Maaru-Gurjara category of Nagari architecture — the most famous examples of these are in Khajuraho.
Staircases fall away on either side of the sabha-mandapa entrance. Yes! – the whole temple is designed as a two-storey structure. The adishtaana is the lower floor, above a upapitha featuring majestic elephants, symbolically bearing the weight of the temple.
Damsels, sometimes lions, feature between the elephants.
The remnant walls of the hill serve both as a praakaara wall and as an intermittent maalika of different shrines, in one, two, or three floors. These include:
· A mandapa for Ganga, Yamuna, Sarasvati.
· A chitra mandapa on the first floor, in the northern wall, with extremely beautiful sculptures.
· A pillared mandapa in the eastern wall, with various murtis on the back wall.
· A mandapa in the southern wall, with sapta matrika.
· Some unfinished mandapas in the southern wall.
A trishula-stambha and an elephant, stand on either side of the Nandi-mandapa. The front wall is extensively covered with sculptures, both inside and outside, and has a mahadvaara in the middle.
The temple is unfinished, as mysteriously as Mamallapuram and Vettuvankoil. If it had been completed, internal staircases would have led to half-finished mandapas.
And yet,
Grammar stutters, adjectives wilt, metaphors go into hiding. How does one control one’s senses, when they are overloaded? Perhaps, that is why there are no inscriptions.
Autographs of sculptors? They chose to depict Bhrigu and Shukra, authors of two ancient shilpa shaastras, instead of themselves.
Sculptures
Sculptures in a temple are usually decorative. Two sculptures of Ravana lifting Kailasa in Ellora, though, are suggestive, and placed strategically.
One is chitraardham, a low-relief sculpture in the upapithaa of northern wall of the sabha-mandapa.
It strongly reminds us of a similar sculpture in Pattadakkal, which is located decoratively in a pillar.
The other is chitram, fully in the round, in the upapitha of the southern wall of the sabha mandapa. His heads in a circle, the enormous burden of lifting the mountain so telling that every face is crying out, his every muscle taut in strain, his hands stretching in every direction, Ravana presents the very picture of limitless hubris and impending humility.
Siva, smiling amusedly, seated nonchalantly, while a troubled Parvati leans on him in confusion.
The two Ravanas are lifting not only the mountain in their sculptures, but also the entire mountain that is the vimanam of the Ellora Kailasanatha temple.
On the first floor of the sabha mandapa are two contrasting sculptures side by side — one of Siva emerging out of the linga built by Markandeya and kicking Yama in his chest; the other of Gangadhara.
But we have hurried inside in eagerness. Let us restart at the entrance.
The front wall of the temple forms a courtyard with the jutting tail-ends of the hill. All three are profusely decorated with various samhara-murtis in the north — Gajasamhara, Narasimha, Trivikrama, BhuVaraha and AshtaDikpalas in the south — all on their vahanas. These sculptures have suffered great damage.
Gajalakshmi.
As we enter, we are greeted by the essence of auspiciousness — Gajalakshmi — seated on a lotus, bathed by two elephants upturning pots of water over her, while two more fetch water from the pond filled with lotuses in front.
The whole panel is about 20 feet tall; traces of mortar and paint at the very top indicate that the entire panel was painted — as was perhaps every wall of the top.
There is grandeur in the remaining grayness; there must have been splendour in original colours.
The lotus spread a few feet forward in full three dimensionality, accented by the towering mace-bearing dvarapalakas on either side.
In sharp contrast on the other side, is a ferocious Gajasamhara Murthy, tearing apart the elephant skin which he holds overhead, while one hand holds a bowl for the blood, one hand reassures Devi, one foot rests on several ganas, and Kalabhairava, skeletal and terrifying, dances between his feet.
The inside of the front wall is also as resplendent with giant sculptures as the outside, but far less worn out.
Among these are Mahishasura Mardhini, Govardhana Giridhaari and Gauriprasaada.
The most arresting sight here is Tripurantaka — Siva astride a chariot, Brahma steering the horses, arching the majestic bow that in a later yuga, the Ikshvaaku prince Rama would string in the court of Janaka.
This is not on one wall, within one kostha, but traverses two walls, as the horses turn a corner, giving us a sense of their speed.
The three floating cities of the eponymous Tripura are shown above to the right.
Equally dynamic is a sculpture of Siva as UrdhvaTandava. Traces of painted designs are visible about this. The joy and exuberance of Siva as he dances with abandon, can be seen in his smile.
Head to toe, his body curves in flowing tribhanga, his left leg almost perfectly balanced in the middle, his right leg bent in balanced grace; his arms flow in every direction in symmetry; a seated gana accompanies him perhaps, attempting to synchronise with Siva’s own damaru.
Narasimha battling Hiranya is another extremely dynamic sculpture, complimenting UrdhvaTandava on the other side of the Nandi mandapa.
Narasimha has locked one hand of the asura, and has gripped his girdle with another hand, ready to lift the asura and slam him on the other side.
Notice Hiranya is entirely behind Narasimha. This contrasts strongly with the Pattadakkal depiction, where Narasimha is behind Hiranya, and the Kanchipuram depiction, where they are face-to-face.
Each sculptor, a century apart, has chosen a different pose at a different time in the combat.
Now compare the three depictions of Durga battling Mahishasura — they are almost perfect copies of each other, except in size.
The Pattadakkal sculpture is a miniature on a pillar; the asura is defeated and running. The other two are large panels several feet tall and high.
Very subtle differences mark them: in the Ellora version, arrows fly, showing the heat of the battle. In the Mamallapuram version, the asura is about to retreat.
Mithunas, dvarapalakas, ghata-pallavas, the entire Ramayana and Mahabharata in miniature — the cornucopia that is Ellora is endless.
No essay can capture them. One of India’s greatest artists, Sri Chandru, ex-Principal of Government Fine Arts college, Chennai, was so taken by the rajaleelaasana of Siva in a negligible corner under a mandapa, and its resemblance to this posture in Vettuvankoil, that he immediately tried to mimic it.
Bhrighu and Shukra would have smiled knowingly.
Paintings
We can see patches of mortar and some painting over them in several sculptures and walls of the temple. They are most visible in the sabha mandapa, especially on the ceiling.
It is quite dark here, so difficult to see and photograph. One wonders how the artists painted such beautiful pictures in such dim light.
Of note is a painting of Siva in what seems to be Bhujanga Trassa, one leg lifted as though frightened (trassa) by seeing a snake (bhujanga); a popular theme among Chola bronzes, where the left leg is raised; here, though, it is the right leg raised, a variation only found in Madurai.
The paintings of Ajanta are more famous. But there are also paintings in the Jain caves of Ellora not to be missed.
Steve Ovett, the famous British middle-distance athlete, won the 800-metres gold medal at the Moscow Olympics of 1980. Just a few days later, he was about to win a 5,000-metres race at London’s Crystal Palace. Known for his burst of acceleration on the home stretch, he had supreme confidence in his ability to out-sprint rivals. With the final 100 metres remaining,
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Ovett waved to the crowd and raised a hand in triumph. But he had celebrated a bit too early. At the finishing line, Ireland’s John Treacy edged past Ovett. For those few moments, Ovett had lost his sense of reality and ignored the possibility of a negative event.
This analogy works well for the India story and our policy failures , including during the ongoing covid pandemic. While we have never been as well prepared or had significant successes in terms of growth stability as Ovett did in his illustrious running career, we tend to celebrate too early. Indeed, we have done so many times before.
It is as if we’re convinced that India is destined for greater heights, come what may, and so we never run through the finish line. Do we and our policymakers suffer from a collective optimism bias, which, as the Nobel Prize winner Daniel Kahneman once wrote, “may well be the most significant of the cognitive biases”? The optimism bias arises from mistaken beliefs which form expectations that are better than the reality. It makes us underestimate chances of a negative outcome and ignore warnings repeatedly.
The Indian economy had a dream run for five years from 2003-04 to 2007-08, with an average annual growth rate of around 9%. Many believed that India was on its way to clocking consistent double-digit growth and comparisons with China were rife. It was conveniently overlooked that this output expansion had come mainly came from a few sectors: automobiles, telecom and business services.
Indians were made to believe that we could sprint without high-quality education, healthcare, infrastructure or banking sectors, which form the backbone of any stable economy. The plan was to build them as we went along, but then in the euphoria of short-term success, it got lost.
India’s exports of goods grew from $20 billion in 1990-91 to over $310 billion in 2019-20. Looking at these absolute figures it would seem as if India has arrived on the world stage. However, India’s share of global trade has moved up only marginally. Even now, the country accounts for less than 2% of the world’s goods exports.
More importantly, hidden behind this performance was the role played by one sector that should have never made it to India’s list of exports—refined petroleum. The share of refined petroleum exports in India’s goods exports increased from 1.4% in 1996-97 to over 18% in 2011-12.
An import-intensive sector with low labour intensity, exports of refined petroleum zoomed because of the then policy regime of a retail price ceiling on petroleum products in the domestic market. While we have done well in the export of services, our share is still less than 4% of world exports.
India seemed to emerge from the 2008 global financial crisis relatively unscathed. But, a temporary demand push had played a role in the revival—the incomes of many households, both rural and urban, had shot up. Fiscal stimulus to the rural economy and implementation of the Sixth Pay Commission scales had led to the salaries of around 20% of organized-sector employees jumping up. We celebrated, but once again, neither did we resolve the crisis brewing elsewhere in India’s banking sector, nor did we improve our capacity for healthcare or quality education.
Employment saw little economy-wide growth in our boom years. Manufacturing jobs, if anything, shrank. But we continued to celebrate. Youth flocked to low-productivity service-sector jobs, such as those in hotels and restaurants, security and other services. The dependence on such jobs on one hand and high-skilled services on the other was bound to make Indian society more unequal.
And then, there is agriculture, an elephant in the room. If and when farm-sector reforms get implemented, celebrations would once again be premature. The vast majority of India’s farmers have small plots of land, and though these farms are at least as productive as larger ones, net absolute incomes from small plots can only be meagre.
A further rise in farm productivity and consequent increase in supply, if not matched by a demand rise, especially with access to export markets, would result in downward pressure on market prices for farm produce and a further decline in the net incomes of small farmers.
We should learn from what John Treacy did right. He didn’t give up, and pushed for the finish line like it was his only chance at winning. Treacy had years of long-distance practice. The same goes for our economy. A long grind is required to build up its base before we can win and celebrate. And Ovett did not blame anyone for his loss. We play the blame game. Everyone else, right from China and the US to ‘greedy corporates’, seems to be responsible for our failures.
We have lowered absolute poverty levels and had technology-based successes like Aadhaar and digital access to public services. But there are no short cuts to good quality and adequate healthcare and education services. We must remain optimistic but stay firmly away from the optimism bias.
In the end, it is not about how we start, but how we finish. The disastrous second wave of covid and our inability to manage it is a ghastly reminder of this fact.
