Lords of the Deccan: Southern India from the Chalukyas to the Cholas

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• Author: Anirudh Kanisetti
• Category: epub
• URL: private://read/01jwww76hfhj1pk8g7v5yrftgk ## Highlights

Every monsoon, rain clouds bathe the cool, dark surfaces of an ancient temple in Ellora, Maharashtra. Peals of thunder echo in its cavernous halls, like the bells that once greeted throngs of devotees.

There’s something dazzlingly different about this gigantic temple. You see, it isn’t a building of the kind you and I might be used to. It wasn’t assembled bottom up from the ground, brick by brick, stone by stone.

It was excavated.

It is called the Kailashanatha, the Lord of Kailasha, because generations of awestruck visitors have seen it as a manifestation of the mountain upon which the god Shiva lives. To fashion it, thousands of sculptors carved up an enormous basalt cliff face, removing two million cubic feet of rock (enough to fill two Olympic-sized swimming pools). They did so in barely twenty years in the ninth century ce, with a plan breathtaking in its scale and attention to detail, leaving behind a monolith the size of a football field and about half the height of the Leaning Tower of Pisa. A monolith in the shape of a spectacular south Indian temple, with the weight of its superstructure cascading down in wider and wider tiers, decked with sculptures of frolicking deities. The Kailashanatha is a single sculpture so large that it approaches the size of modern buildings. As a monolithic structure, it is unlikely to be matched in size and beauty for the rest of human history.

This extraordinary edifice was made by people who thought themselves every bit as modern as you or I. They were a vibrant, warlike, sophisticated people. They were ruled by men who claimed the majestic title of Sri-Prithivi-Vallabha, the Beloved of Sri (the goddess of fortune) and Prithivi (the goddess of Earth). Their empire dominated the ancient Deccan plateau at the heart of India, especially the states of Maharashtra and Karnataka, today an area almost as large as Germany and many times more populous. At their peak, these Vallabha emperors received the prostrations of hosts of vassal kings from Madhya Pradesh, Chhattisgarh, Odisha, Andhra, Telangana and Tamil Nadu, and dominated most of India south of the Narmada river. One Arab merchant, visiting this medieval superpower in the ninth–tenth centuries, mentioned the lord of the Deccan in the same breath as the Abbasid caliph, the emperor of China, and the Byzantine emperor.1 Another visited the glittering capital of the Deccan, Manyakheta, and left us with an account of its wonders:

… in that city there are for the ordinary people one million elephants which carry the merchandise … In this temple there are about twenty thousand idols made of a variety of precious metals, and carved stones mounted with artistically-worked precious jewels … [There] is an idol whose height is twelve cubits and is placed on a throne of gold in the centre of a golden cupola, the whole of which is set with jewels like white pearl, ruby, sapphire, blue and emerald stone.2

Millions of years ago, the Deccan was shaped out of lava flows that engulfed the Indian subcontinent, then an enormous island, as it moved towards its collision with Asia. At Ellora, cliffs of black basalt formed out of the lava. These cliffs would eventually become an important site in the medieval period, and many generations would leave traces of the religious diversity, innovations and struggles of their world in the shrines, temples and sculptures carved here. They also illustrate the continuity of religious practices before and after the coming of kings, Brahmins, and organized temple-based and monastic cults. Though royals, through their inscriptions, portray themselves as the prime movers of all history, the truth of the matter, as we have seen, is rather more complicated.

High up above these basalt cliffs, in hills and forests, the river Ela/Aparnika flows south through sacred groves and pools, cascading into a spectacular waterfall15 at Ellora, and thence flowing down to the river Shiva and the Godavari.16 Aparna, ‘Leafless’, was the goddess of the ancient forest-dwelling peoples17 who had called this place home for hundreds of years before the coming of Shaivas and other organized religions. Bhavanaga, Danti-Durga’s mother, was possibly a descendant of these peoples.

The worship of the river and the goddess had been central to the religious practice of these Adivasis. Indeed, the worship of a river goddess continues there to this day, though Aparna’s original worshippers have long since been incorporated into India’s teeming, diverse masses.18 The dominance of tribal forms of worship at Ellora, however, did not last forever. As a holy site that drew worshippers from the neighbourhood as well as itinerant merchants and preachers, it was only a matter of time before kings and chiefs, Buddhists and Brahmins, became interested in Ellora. Indeed, the earliest definite traces of Buddhist activity there can be discerned by the fourth century ce.

As Puranic, temple-based Hinduism began to spread across the subcontinent in the fifth century ce, a new religion arrived at Ellora.

According to legend, a chieftain ‘marked with the emblems of Shiva’19 came to the area to find worshippers of Vishnu and the Great Goddess, Jains, assorted ascetics and gurus, and sects called Sauras and Maladharas there already. Evidently, irrespective of its tribal origins, Ellora held a magical allure for all the major sects of the medieval period, and they coexisted without too much political interference. This fifth-century Shaiva chieftain, however, is supposed to have begun the process of claiming the land for Shiva by settling Brahmins in ten villages there.20 It would be a couple of centuries before Shaivas would dominate the site, however: Buddhists and Jains wielded considerable influence at Ellora. Cave temples carved into the basalt cliffs, often commissioned by communities of non-royal patrons, show that all these cults were served by the same architects and sculptors. They freely exchanged iconographic elements and perhaps even ritual practices,21 contributing to ‘Ellora’s fame as a powerful and extraordinary place of worship’.22

Patrons, both royal and non-royal, paid for thriving monasteries to be cut into the primordial rock, resounding with the drone-like chants of saffron- and white-clad monks. Epigraphic evidence from the sixth century ce suggests that the early Kalachuris of Mahishmati – Loka-Mahadevi’s ancestors – were involved in excavating some of the structures there. At roughly the same time, the Vatapi Chalukyas had taken over the ancient spring at Mahakuta in the Malaprabha valley and remade it in the image of their new family deity, Shiva Makuteshvara, the Crowned Lord. But as Ellora shows, royals are not always needed for the process of religious transition: medieval merchants, pilgrims and preachers were capable of profoundly transforming landscapes by themselves.

As generation after generation of sthapatis and patrons came and went, cave temples teeming with sculpture were carved into the primordial Earth, shallow and stiff and small in the first generations, slowly growing to titanic proportions. These elaborate compositions supported some of the most beautiful sculptures the subcontinent had yet seen. By the eighth century, Ellora’s sculptors23 had perfected a sculptural style that depicted stately deities brimming with calm energy. Ellora had many other features that set it apart from other tirthas, increasing its appeal for any ambitious king. It is one of the few sites in early medieval India where the Shiva linga – believed to be a symbol of primordial masculine energy – is attested to being actively worshipped by women.24 According to a story that emerged around this time, Shiva had brought back to life the murdered son of a Brahmin woman who worshipped him at the sacred waterfall, and female worshippers continued to come to Ellora in the hope of receiving similar blessings.25

Through the gradual accretion of such legends, and with the growing influence of Shaivism across the subcontinent, the tirtha at Ellora came to be associated primarily with Shiva.26 The ten tiny villages of the fifth century had grown into a great pilgrimage hub. Hordes of preachers and pilgrims, and the crowds of hawkers and merchants needed to feed them, were drawn there, as well as powerful kingdoms seeking to advertise their wealth and devotion.

It is little wonder, then, that when Danti-Durga set out to solidify Rashtrakuta power, he chose Ellora, associated with so many gods and peoples, as the site to do so. His land grant of the year 742 was given to Brahmins from Navasarika, the capital of the Lata Chalukyas, after bathing in the waters of the tirtha27 – this is a waterfall that can still be seen in Ellora today during the monsoon. Just as his Vatapi Chalukya ancestors had imported Brahmins from prestigious northern India, and his Lata Chalukya grand-uncle Pulakeshi-Raja had brought them from prestigious Karnataka, so Danti-Durga imported Brahmins from the Lata Chalukya capital28 to legitimize himself and establish himself as a royal patron.

This new kingdom of Danti-Durga’s – his activities and influence now stretching from Elichpur to Ellora – spanned an area of hundreds of square kilometres, a respectable kingdom by any standard, already equivalent to those of the early Chalukya kings. But the young Rashtrakuta had goals much larger than those of the impatient Pulakeshi-Raja of the Lata Chalukyas. For what Danti-Durga was implying with his performance of the dharma of kings at this ancient site, granting land and flaunting his titles – including Prithivi-Vallabha, granted him by Vikramaditya II – was that his descent from a Lata Chalukya mother entitled him to a claim on the Vatapi Chalukya throne itself. He was declaring himself as martial, righteous, generous, a supporter of Brahmins and of religion before the eyes of the entire Deccan.

Danti-Durga may also have scored a few decisive victories against the Chalukyas on the battlefield, though the inscriptional evidence is hazy. As the balance of power shifted, the Rashtrakuta king set out on more propaganda campaigns to garner support. And so we return once again to Ellora for a final crowning display of Danti-Durga’s imperial might. The Rashtrakuta king decided to build a more splendid edifice than had ever existed at the site, taking over a Buddhist monastery that had only just begun to be cut into the cliffs.56

Danti-Durga now set out, in the footsteps of the Pallava king Narasimha I, to put the Chalukyas to shame through art and architecture. He ordered the excavation of a cave temple that to this day is one of the largest in the subcontinent. Here, the artists of Ellora would give free rein to their talent with the unprecedented resources of a Deccan imperial formation – rather than those of small communities of worshippers – at their disposal. Their iconographic, compositional and sculptural talents were unleashed by this ambitious young ruler with little patience for doing things the old way.

This new temple of Danti-Durga’s, which posterity would call the Dashavatara cave at Ellora, has forty-four elegant pillars57 on its first floor. The sthapatis understood that there was only one major light source in the cave temple: the sun, filtering in from the façade. As you enter the temple and look deeper into the cave, your perspective shifts and refracts along a seemingly infinite expanse of pillars. As the sculptor and photographer Carmel Berkson puts it:

like Indra’s gem which reflects light from a million cut planes … No single view can reveal the composite totality. The shifting scenes seem to be limitless. With each step … the reality of the cave begins to change, as the participant is plummeted into different relationships with the elements in the cave, the columns, the space and the relief panels.58

Your eyes are drawn to what lies straight ahead of you in the first pillared corridor. Sunlight bathes the front row of pillars with their auspicious overflowing pots, floral patterns, serpents and dwarves. As though drawn through elegant gateways, you get closer and closer to the work of a true master sculptor, of a calibre that puts the artistry of the Chalukyas’ Lokeshvara temple to shame. In a panel taller than the average man, a deep cavity has been cut into the rock, around the sculpture, making it almost pop out into the open space where one stands. It is a sculpture of Narasimha, Vishnu the Man-Lion, locked in a titanic struggle with the demon Hiranyakashipu (the brother of Hiranyaksha, the demon who stole the Earth and was killed by Varaha). The stillness, the calm energy, you see in older caves at Ellora is absent here.59 Instead, the sculptors of the Dashavatara cave have created beings in motion, the energy and thrust of their movement boldly positioned along diagonal axes.60 The strictly delineated ideal proportions of orthodox shastras are dispensed with, imbuing a raw, primal character to the sculptures’ heads, hands and feet. Though one leg of each of its protagonists has long since fallen away, at one point their feet were planted powerfully on the floor, directing their strength and energy towards the clash at the centre. The multi-armed god radiates power, the effect amplified by his many outstretched arms; his demonic rival holds a shield and a thick straight sword, leaning slightly backwards for a powerful slash. Evidently the two have been captured the very second before the god disembowels the demon. The god and the demon are likely meant to be analogies for Danti-Durga and his Chalukya rival. And this is just one among the many priceless sculptures at the Dashavatara cave. (Despite its name, it is dedicated not to Vishnu but to Shiva.)

As you approach the linga, an ancient silence descends upon you, close to the heart of the mountain.61 In the dim light, Shiva slaughters demons, Vishnu strides over the three worlds, and a powerful Varaha bears the Earth upwards. How could anyone doubt that the person who created such masterpieces was any less worthy to rule over the Earth than Vishnu himself? Danti-Durga claimed for himself the full complement of Chalukya imperial titles: Sri-Prithivi-Vallabha (Fortune’s Favourite, Earth’s Beloved), Maharajadhiraja (Great King of Kings), Parameshvara (Supreme Lord), Parama-Bhattaraka (Foremost Revered One), Khadgavaloka (Sword Sight), Sri Danti-Durga-Raja-Deva. And perhaps he deserved them.

With Gangavadi in flames, Vatapi cowed, and Chalukya blood flowing in the Malaprabha river, Krishna Rashtrakuta returned in triumph to Ellora, increasingly a centre of Rashtrakuta power.1

We cannot know what may have occupied his mind, as the great army of the Rashtrakutas and their vassals returned to their homes to enjoy their new wealth and prominence. But we do know of one idea he had. Krishna Rashtrakuta, Fortune’s Favourite, needed to prove his newly imperial dynasty’s authority and dominance in all directions, in all ways. He thus decided to commission at Ellora a temple of such stupendous scale and craftsmanship that it would humble all that had come before. This temple dedicated to Krishna Rashtrakuta’s lord, Shiva Krishneshvara, needed to be twice as massive as the Lokeshvara at Pattadakal, eclipsing the crowning glory of the Vatapi Chalukyas. Its iconography would showcase the latest Shaiva innovations and ideas, thus making it a great engine for the development of Shaivism, now the Deccan’s royal religion par excellence.

The Krishneshvara would be a radical departure from its predecessors. It would not be assembled painstakingly from carved and jointed panels. Rather, it would be excavated straight down a colossal basalt hill at Ellora. A gigantic mass of rock was to be isolated and carved to make the Krishneshvara – a building that was really a sculpture, a cave temple of hitherto unimagined proportions and complexity. In comparison, the cave temples of the early Vatapi Chalukyas would be damp, unimaginative grottos, and Narasimha Pallava’s temple monoliths at Mahamallapuram mere pebbles. But we will return to the Krishneshvara temple soon. For the moment, suffice it to say that by leaving the architectural, iconographic and religious ‘arms races’ of the Chalukyas and Pallavas in the dust, it was intended to proclaim to the subcontinent that the Rashtrakutas were the wealthiest, most martial, most devoted to Shiva of all south Indian royal clans; the most deserving to rule the peoples of the Deccan and to claim the supreme authority and ornate regalia of sovereign emperors.

Every few centuries or so, at least in the premodern period, a constellation of factors comes together and an explosion of art follows. We’ve seen this before with the artistic competition of the Chalukyas and Pallavas, and met the talented masters Mandhatar of Mahamallapuram and Gundan of Pattadakal. It is a tragedy that when one of southern India’s most extraordinary such confluences came together, we do not know the name of the person or persons who designed the greatest marvel of the time: the Krishneshvara temple at Ellora, known today as the Kailashanatha temple or Cave 16.

Let us briefly dwell on this enigmatic building, which to this day inspires awe and wonder in sightseers, emotions we certainly share with its long-forgotten eighth-century visitors. Why did this Nameless Sthapati, as we shall call him, shape the Krishneshvara this way?

This man was most likely a veteran of Ellora’s sculpture and architecture industry, and may even have worked with Danti-Durga on his innovative Dashavatara cave temple.3 Ellora before the Rashtrakutas was a small, if bustling, sacred centre; after the Rashtrakutas commissioned the Krishneshvara and began to frequent the site, the glamour and wealth of this medieval imperial court must have reshaped the contours of the town. What must it have been like for the Nameless Sthapati to meet his new colleagues, the guilds of northern Karnataka and the Tamil country, that came to Ellora attracted by Rashtrakuta blood money? What were the streets of Ellora like when full of Rashtrakuta warriors, rowdy and drunk, or crowded with impoverished labourers in huts of mud and thatch? Large-scale excavations are desperately needed across the Ellora UNESCO World Heritage Site for more information.

Whatever his experiences with Krishna and the Rashtrakutas, the Nameless Sthapati struck upon a genius design to meet the Vallabha’s vision. Had he simply doubled the size of the Lokeshvara at Pattadakal and carved it into a hill, the bottom part of the temple would have been damp and in perpetual darkness, ruining the spatial experience of circumambulation and rendering it ineffective. The Nameless Sthapati solved this by excavating in the rock hill a truly gigantic cavity, leaving there a temple of humongous proportions. It would stand on a much higher plinth than ever used in either northern or southern temples,4 an entire storey by itself, boosting the main structure into the open space of the excavated cliff and exposing both the ground floor and the first floor to sunlight. The first floor would carry the main shrine, hall, secondary shrines and the primary spire – a tiered Dravidian superstructure, the farthest north this design had ever appeared. The elevated bottom storey, plinth included, would be decorated with imposing sculptures almost twice the height of a man, creating a dramatic aesthetic juxtaposing the raw cliff side, towering monolith and bright sky. The scale of the excavation needed to execute this plan was unprecedented in the subcontinent: 2 million cubic feet of rock had to be removed,5 leaving behind a temple that would be one of
the largest constructions of the eighth-century world, and certainly the largest free-standing structure in the Indian subcontinent at the time.

An undertaking such as the Krishneshvara could only have been imagined by an individual who had imbibed the knowledge of generations of cave temple makers, with logistical, sculptural and iconographic solutions for diverse patrons and religions. It could only have been paid for by the resources of a vast imperial formation with something to prove. And it could only have been made with the help of teams of talented priests, monks and sculptors, coming from rich artistic and religious traditions across southern India. All of these, which we have observed evolve over the last few chapters, had congregated in Ellora by the late eighth century.

But a temple is not merely the work of architect, patron, sculptor and labourer. As a gigantic curation of religious art, it also requires the services of the priest. A temple like the Krishneshvara offers hundreds if not thousands of surfaces for decoration, and there must have been teams of sthapatis and priests who worked together to curate and assign elements to each surface. These were layered in striking ways: the roof of the temple, for example, features four roaring lions facing the ordinal directions (northeast, southeast, southwest, northwest), their powerfully muscled paws gripping a large lotus. This was probably meant to reflect the Rashtrakutas’ military supremacy over the rest of their world, and may have had other meanings that have since been lost. The priests who worked with the sthapatis were most likely members of the school or monastery that was on the ascendant at the Rashtrakuta court at the time, and were plugged into the latest ritual, scriptural and mythological developments of Deccan Shaivism. The Krishneshvara’s sculptures thus also offer us a snapshot of Hinduism in evolution in the eighth century, a topic we will return to.

Finally, how did the Nameless Sthapati actually carve out this architectural sculpture? Contemporary architects tend to think he deliberately chose a part of the Ellora hills with a relatively gentle incline and turned it into a ramp. At or near its top, a football field-sized rectangle was carved into the rock so that it paralleled the ground, creating a ‘floor’ for sculptors to work on, hundreds of feet above ground level. This plane, including the top of the ramp, was then meticulously carved downwards towards the ground foot by foot, leaving, at every level, a large block of the correct size and shape in the middle for sculptors to carve. The slope was retained till the very end, to dispose of the debris of the carving.6 One can imagine that extreme care needed to be taken with measurement, alignment, demarcation and carving to ensure that the design of the temple remained intact throughout the process. This hints at a powerful grasp of mathematical, architectural and engineering principles.

The actual execution of the project was a logistical and managerial challenge unprecedented in the subcontinent, if one does not
count military campaigns. The Krishneshvara’s main designers and executors were almost certainly a multi-ethnic, multilingual, highly experienced and self-confident group of individuals. They had to figuratively dive downwards into the black rock, and trust that they could collectively deal with the challenges that were sure to arise7 in the years to come as they fashioned this 150-foot-tall monolith. And so sometime in the late 760s, this group of people set out to make a wonder of the world.

The excavation of the temple must have been an impressive sight. As the rough surfaces of the temple emerged, level by level, foot by foot, ever larger teams of master sculptors were brought in to work on more surfaces simultaneously. Meanwhile, toiling labourers removed chunks of rock around them in layers, rolling them down the gentle incline of the hill. No scaffolding was needed for the sculptors or the debris removal8 as the temple gradually took shape, every level being finished before the next was excavated. We can imagine that arguments and fights broke out as tempestuous master sculptors declared that they would do things their way and no other. Or, perhaps, new friendships and loves blossomed as they delighted in the creativity of their peers, and Ellora resounded with the sound of laughter and feasts and weddings between clans who would never otherwise have met.

By the time the Krishneshvara’s sculptors finally reached the bottom floor, the project had gathered together the greatest sculptors of the subcontinent and kept them rich and well fed and busy for around twelve years, allowing them to learn from and compete with each other. Together, they unleashed a flourishing of artistic ability9 that is among the most extraordinary legacies of the medieval Deccan. We will return to see this, alongside the Rashtrakuta kings who commissioned it, towards the end of this chapter.

In the year 792 the Rashtrakuta imperial family may have held a festival at the Krishneshvara.

The monumental temple, by now finished, was oriented almost perfectly to the west.47 Anyone standing in front of it in the darkness of the early morning saw the sun rise from behind the magnificent black cliffs like the temple’s halo, ascending to a great din of clanging bells and throbbing drums. Soon, crowds may have started to appear, thronging into the dozens of cave temples at Ellora, staring at the murals, silently praying, giving gifts to their gods, asking for blessings. As the sun climbed higher, Ellora’s cliffs must have grown noisier and noisier. In rowdy dirt arenas, animals fought and wrestlers wrangled as bets were made and audiences cheered; there could have been plays, dances and musical performances as well.48 Princes and ministers wearing patta fillets and coronets came with their retinues, preceded by the pancha-maha-shabdas – the Five Great Instruments, the horn, conch, drum, victory bell and something called a ‘tammata’ (whose meaning is unclear).49 These were granted exclusively to the highest ranks of the Rashtrakuta imperial network, and were loudly sounded to warn the crowds to stay out of the way of these lords of the great houses.50 If they were important enough, they would have had a small coloured parasol of their own, and perhaps one or two attendants with a chauri, the fly whisk made of a yak’s tail.51 Sometime during the day, the emperor Dhruva himself may have put in an appearance, in the company of vassal kings, ministers, chamberlains and attendants. His splendour eclipsed all his subordinates, marking him out as many times wealthier and more prominent. Dhruva might have looked in many ways like the classical Indian king we imagine; in other ways, he certainly was not.

Above his head was held aloft a huge parasol of white silk, adorned with gold and precious gems; on his head was a tall, heavy gold crown, perhaps encrusted with rubies and carved with fantastic creatures; his chest was covered with thick necklaces of pearls, gold, jewels, and fragrant garlands of rare flowers; his mouth was probably red with exotic betel.52 Behind him was a crowd of gorgeous female attendants in the finest of clothes, fanning him with chauris, fluttering around his shoulders like birds.53 Shila-Mahadevi may have been present, attended by the wives of Dhruva’s vassals,54 and her sons, the heirs,55 attended by the sons of Dhruva’s vassals. The Nameless Sthapati, his head covered with a turban and fillets of honour, was in all likelihood also part of this parade. All these people were probably resplendent in festive finery, with elaborate garlands and coiffures and make-up.

The crowds must have cheered, clapped and gawked at the procession, drinking in the sight of the tall, well-fed men and women, the handful of elite, sophisticated, ruthless families that ruled them now and would do so for generations after. They must have almost seemed to have descended from a heavenly world, perfumed water sprinkled before them, fans waving, music playing and women dancing before their splendid parade in the sweltering heat. Though the masses were unlikely to have been allowed into the priceless Krishneshvara, worth hundreds of millions of dollars in today’s currency, Dhruva’s retinue were welcomed obsequiously into its hallowed portal. They would immediately have been struck by the remarkable experience, the tangible presence of divinity, that the Nameless Sthapati’s design unfolded before their eyes.56

Let us join them as they step through the shadowed gateway of the monolithic temple. They see a sunlit panel welcoming them in, a relief of that same Royal Fortune whom Krishna Rashtrakuta had supposedly seized on the battlefield: the goddess Sri or Lakshmi, the emblem of Indian kingship, accompanied by royal elephants showering her with water – signifying the ablution that accompanied the royal consecration. She is seated on a field of lotus leaves, which the sculptor cunningly carved to give the illusion of perspective and depth to the relief: the pads at the bottom are larger than the ones higher up, thus drawing the viewer’s eyes towards the goddess. From darkness to light, the goddess seems to say. From the mundane world to the divine world.57 Dhruva would then have taken a left into the sun-drenched courtyard. There stands an immense statue of an elephant, carved by Tamil sculptor guilds into a figure of unmatched ‘grace, volume, and swiftness of movement’58 to delineate the space59 and act as a nod to the creator of the Rashtrakuta family’s fortunes: Danti-Durga, the Elephant Fort. On Dhruva’s left were stark cliff faces decorated with caves for worship, vanishing into the darkness of the living rock, decorated with torches and garlands. Above and around him were thousands of tonnes of sacred stone, suspended as if defying the laws of gravity, and above that the sapphire-blue sky. And we can imagine that Dhruva couldn’t tear his eyes off what was emerging on his right: the spectacular temple proper, rising like the peak of the sacred mountain Kailasha, painted white and decorated with vibrant colours. Here was the snowy abode of Shiva and his raucous retinue, recreated in all its glory, as though the Rashtrakutas had brought the heavens themselves to the Deccan,60 along with the Ganga and Yamuna banners.

ere the retinue could have stopped to admire a relief of Durga slaying the buffalo-demon Mahisha, a representation of the indomitable, terrifying energies of the Divine Female61 with her weapons arrayed around her like a halo of blades. There they may have shuddered at the titanic carving of Shiva in his horrific form as the Slayer of the Elephant Demon. Everywhere they saw potent combinations of political and religious iconography, entirely new forms which are present only here at the Krishneshvara. For example, the plinth is made up of dozens upon dozens of powerful elephants
and lions in combat, evidently made by sculptors who had seen the beasts in action. They leap out of the monolith at the worshipper, bearing the weight of the imposing artificial mountain above, lifting it into the air and light. They could also be interpreted as an indicator of the importance of the royal war elephant to the Rashtrakutas,62 and another nod to Danti-Durga.

In the cliff sides on the ground floor were galleries cut under the line of the rock, which artificially increased the space of the courtyard and created a pillared colonnade through which light filtered into tall, framed sculptures. Here, the royal retinue may have admired a sculpture depicting Ravana sacrificing his ten heads to Shiva for unbounded power. Its quality may not have been comparable with some of the others in the temple, but it was probably interesting to any initiated Shaivas in the group because what it depicted was actually fairly new at the time.63

In literary works completed centuries earlier, such as the Ramayana and Raghuvamsa, Ravana is depicted as sacrificing his heads to Brahma, the Creator, in return for magical powers.64 Yet in literature composed a few centuries after the Krishneshvara was excavated, such as the Shiva Purana of eleventh–twelfth-century Varanasi, they narrated a tale of Ravana sacrificing his heads to obtain powers from Shiva instead, making him out to be an ideal Shaiva devotee – just as the panel in the Krishneshvara does.65 What this suggests is that we are seeing Shaiva theology and myth in motion, captured on the rock of the Krishneshvara. Similarly, scholars have noted that the Krishneshvara’s depictions of the lives of the hero-gods Rama66 and Krishna67 are not what we see in the classical texts, but seem instead to reflect contemporary south Indian narratives of the myths, which Dhruva Rashtrakuta and his retinue were probably most familiar with. The Krishneshvara temple is thus not only a political or artistic achievement: it is an invaluable historical artefact which could tell us a great deal about the evolution of Shaivism and Indian religions in the Deccan. It challenges our stereotype of unchanging Indian rituals and myths with a history where priests, kings and communities instead actively participated in making and remaking them.

Moving away from this gallery, perhaps Dhruva’s retinue next climbed up the stairs into the main hall, seeing its murals illuminated by flickering oil lamps, as gold leaf and semi-precious stones glittered in the dark. And there in the heart of the temple, in a cell blazing with light, was the splendid manifestation of Shiva Krishneshvara himself, a linga decked with ‘rubies, gold, and all other precious things’.68 The victorious Dhruva must have heaped it with jewels and prostrated himself to the chanting of priests and clanging of bells, decorating with the bloody spoils of war this representation of the awesome power of human creativity and determination.

At sunset an observer on the other side of Ilapura’s cliffs could have watched the sun’s red glow vanish behind the cliffs to the west, only to be replaced by the faint glow of the temple’s lamps, as if the sun ‘had descended of its own accord’.69 Day and night, it blazed like the subcontinent’s crown jewel, ‘billowing smoke and incense … courtyards sprinkled with pure scented water’70 – a heady, intoxicating, overwhelming religious experience. According to later inscriptions, gods flying above it stopped to stare in astonishment and concluded that a creation of such beauty could not have been the artifice of mere human hands but was a self-generated manifestation of Shiva himself.71