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The Mohammedan Conquest of India is probably the bloodiest story in history. It is a discouraging tale, for its evident moral is that civilization is a precarious thing, whose delicate complex of order and liberty, culture and peace may at any time be overthrown by barbarians invading from without or multiplying within.
Will Durant
kr̥ṣṇa nī bēganē bārō ||pa||
bēgane bārō nī mukhavannu tōrō ||a.pa||
kālālanduge gejje nīlada bhāvuli
nīlavarṇane nāṭyavāḍuta bārō ||1||
uḍiyalli uḍugejje beraḷalli uṅgura
koraḷalli hākida vaijayantimāle ||2||
kāśī pītāmbara kaiyalli koḷalu
pūsida śrī gandha maiyoḷu ghamaghama ||3||
tāyige bāyalli jagavannu tōrida
jagadōddhāraka namma uḍupi śrī kr̥ṣṇa ||4||Raga: Yamuna Kalyani
Tala: Mishra Chapu
By: Vyasaraya Tirtha
“Jai Shri Krishna”, Anish sounded every ounce the Gujarati that he was. “So when are you coming to visit? Do make a plan soon, I have a house in Gokulam and a trusted driver with a cab; a North Indian cook, too, who makes soft thin chapatis, I know you like them thin”, and he cackled at his own joke.
“In fact that is why I called, I will be coming for the Mysuru Yoga Utsava, will spend a few days with you too, are you sure you are in town and not trotting off somewhere to one conference or the other?” Shodashi was excited to be making her first trip to the cultural capital of the country after almost thirty years. This undoubtedly was her favourite town, now a city, in all of Bharat.
Instead of answering her query Anish quizzed her again,“So what do you want to do here, anything in particular, any local trips you have in mind?” Shodashi did not want to be a burden on her ever-welcoming friend who was also very generous, he had just moved to Mysuru himself and she did not feel like taking advantage of his largesse. Yet, the question was asked and she blurted out, “haan…I was thinking of Somanathapura for sure, maybe Srirangapatna, of course Chamundi Hills…Kabini I wish but perhaps another time … this trip is too packed already…”
All she got in reply was, “See you then, take a cab from the airport not an auto please!” This parting shot was a jab at Shodashi’s penchant for cheap and public transport.
Thank god Shodashi had had a chance to simply gaze at the Dancing Sarasvati for a long time before Soorya ditched her. Soft and demure in stone, in tribhanga and six arms, which were surprisingly left intact by Islamic zealots who had not spared the other murtis. Shodashi had wondered why? There was Malik Kafur who plundered this place in 1311 and there was Muhammed Tughlak who came soon after in 1326. Considering the horrific damage they had committed on other temple towns, this temple, although having no murti that was left un-pillaged, was still quite intact, and continued to attract devotees and architectural enthusiasts from far and wide, for its superior aesthetics and functionality.
Did this overwhelming beauty wear down the Islamic hordes? Perhaps there were a few who appreciated the finer aspects of life, those who were not brainwashed by a book which incessantly insulted ‘idol-worshippers’ and called for their death at all times. Perhaps devi’s presence and grace had put some iota of wisdom in their uncivilized outlook. Would a people who were constantly fed on hate for the other and on crass perversions as the highest goal in life and afterlife ever be able to take in the subtle offerings of a superior culture with genuine appreciation and wonder; Shodashi knew the answer.
Did devi protect herself from harm here, did she recreate herself after the rampage. This Sarasvati before her stood holding in exquisite detail - was it an ektara? - along with a japa mala, and the vedas; representing knowledge and learning. Her clothes and ornamentation was heightened with ornate carving. Some statues depict her with musicians at her feet, this one did not. After all Sarasvati is sangeeta and natya personified, she did not need extras here.
Soorya was going down. Behind the tall coconut fronds, which could not hide his glory, much as they swayed and waved at him from afar. He changed his colour rapidly and his pace was rushed. Rising and setting he exhibited this hurry which was somehow not in character. Summer afternoons were a witness to his slow pace and unbelievable languor. As Shodashi tried to catch him in his full madder circle, he dipped down down and further down, and there, he was gone! Shodashi had performed parikrama more than five times by now, looking lovingly at each sculpture, feeling it with her palms, making a connection with nameless sculptors from aeons ago; there were animals and humans depicted here, mythical beings too, as well as devi devatas in full glory, there were panels on Ramayana and Mahabharata on the outside, inside there were perfectly symmetric and smooth lathed pillars holding up the roof, which itself was carved out as blooming lotuses. Indoors despite the darkness she could feel the chiselled finesse of art and architecture, of devotion and dance, of sculpture and song all coming together in sacred choreography. All from stone, all from pre-cut pieces of a jigsaw that fit seamlessly without needing cement. All she could do was enjoy the stroll in a solitary viewing of this gallery as decreed by the heavens. She hummed kr̥ṣṇa nī bēganē bārō mouthing the words, revelling in each letter and strolling languorously in the precincts.
She finally understood why her family outings as a child were always to temples. Anytime her father found time from his busy office schedule he would ask her mother, “ae gudiki veldaam…which temple today?”. Shodashi would groan and protest, couldn’t they go to Sam sand dunes for once? Could they camp out in Bharatpur please, this was winged migration time? No, their family always went to temples: Ekling ji, Nathdwara, Ranakpur, Dilwara, Osian, Karnimata, Thanot, Lodarva, Ramdevra… much as she had rebelled then, she had not failed to imbibe the beauty of these structures and what they brought along with them. The valour of those who protected them from destruction, the piety of those who indulged in daily heartfelt prayer, the wealth of those who constructed such works of grandeur and the toiling hands that carved these from hard marble or soft sandstone. The Jain temples especially took her breath away, despite her protestations in Mt. Abu and not wanting to go into Dilwara, once in, her parents had to literally drag her out after five hours.
“I cannot let you go madam, arre you pay me now only, then go”, the trusted driver that Anish had waxed eloquent about was not so docile on the road. “I don’t have any money I am telling you no, my bank account is almost empty, I am a student, here see my Adhar”, the girl in a t-shirt and jeans was holding back tears while fishing out her wallet from her backpack. “Oho, student aa? Nice, nice, student will have money for motorbike aa, who are you fooling appa?” Anish had probably never witnessed this avatara of his sarathi.
It was a very eventful trip in every sense, unplanned, and fully paid for. Shodashi was thankful to Anish for his generosity. He had hired the vehicle for himself but had asked her to go ahead and use it for the rest of the day at around 3.00pm. Unfortunately for her, a mild altercation at the Mellahalli circle delayed her arrival at Somanathapura, her dream destination for long. A lady biker, a young girl in fact, rammed into the boot of the car and the driver would not let go until the slight damage was paid for. On his part he kept saying that this was a racket and on her part the crying girl kept repeating she was a student and that she had no money. How does she have money for a motorbike, sneered the driver in Kannada. The sniffling female offered to Shodashi that men did not like girls riding motorbikes.
Shodashi was torn. She was standing by the roadside trying to calm both parties down but to no avail. She wanted to get to Somanathapura quickly before it got dark, she did not want to lose daylight. It was about 40 kilometres to the east of Mysuru, not too far but she was now stuck between an angry driver and a wailing young woman. Her heart went out to the girl, but logic and reason dictated that this biker should pay up for the damages. The driver was trying hard to be polite despite his evident anger at the evidently bent trunk. So she did what she thought was the next best option to deal with this fracas, she got inside the car and sat there pondering over civilizational matters. Letting the locals figure out a solution.
Sharada had always been her ishta devi. There had been Kali in her teenage years; fierce and punishing, and then there was Lakshmi briefly, when money was tight, but Sarasvati always won hands down most of her life. It probably had to do with being surrounded by her ilk - the street where she was born was called Vidyanagar, her first temple was Sringeri Sharada Peetham within walking distance (although elders murmured that her real house was in Kashmir), and her ammamma’s name was Vani. Though she had never seen her, her maternal grandmother had died when she was nine months old, Shodashi had subconscious memories of her lullabies in mellifluous Telugu, everyone agreed Vani garu sang like a Kokila. One who sang as sweetly as a Koel, or so they said, in whispers and tears at her untimely demise. So yes, there was mystery, pathos, reverence, access, and genes, all woven into a fine garland of bhakti around Sarasvati.
There had been a price to pay for her unwavering allegiance though; if you pursued Sharada at the cost of Lakshmi, then life of penury was a given, and although ideal for brahmanas and highly recommended as a practice for those in pursuit of knowledge, in 2024, and with exposure to the world and more, it was tough to make do with just knowledge and wisdom. Although she ranted about her relatives who had given up voluntary poverty in pursuit of riches that their richer genetics accorded them, she herself did not fare well in the larger scheme of economics and finances. But then if one is true to one’s calling there will be benefactors, who will want to indulge this calling with their own wealth and generosity. It had happened before and it was happening now, how else was Shodashi here but for the kindness of a friend. Anish had sent her off dexterously and with a sleight of hand, with a main hoon na mantra.
A trip to her mother’s agraharam, to her economically poorer cousins’ two room accommodation, with nine people sharing the bathroom and hall, had caused so much claustrophobia that Shodashi had decided that Lakshmi was needed after all, but respect for those pursuing the fine arts, the kalas, vidya and jnanam, at the cost of personal aggrandizement took root in her for good. She herself was unable to sustain such a frugal lifestyle but there were those who could and continued to do so, all the while praying for the well-being of the world. She had a long way to go. Meanwhile, she could definitely admire their handiwork.
It was to improve her own finer self, her own anubhava, that she had started going on yatras a few years ago. Many spoke of Somanathapura near Mysuru…the acme of Hoysala architecture…and so it was…It was evening by the time she landed - coconut fronds, hot granite, tall walls, no one in sight, whole temple for herself. She felt like a heroine whose song was being shot and the frame emptied of all extras. Shodashi wanted to dance, she wanted to hop skip jump, which she did much to the amusement of the lone guard. The driver had said, “two full hours it will take, see everything, I am here only”. She was running out of time.
Appreciating the myriad forms that were extracted from stone by dexterous shilpis cannot be cursory. Plus she was enjoying this quietude, for a change there was no one in the premises, giving her ample time to leisurely move from murti to murti, sighing and letting go of all the external pressures and stresses. There was a large inscription at the entrance in old Kannada script with a Kirtimukha guarding it, officially called a ‘stele’ - wonder what it says she thought, standing in front of it she imagined it must have been commissioned by the patron of this temple to document dates, times, expenses in building this temple.
Yes, that is what it was, the guard read it out for her hesitantly, all the while claiming, “…amma my Kannada not good, this is old old…we do not speak like this… ” told her that this temple was built during the reign of Sri Vishnu Vardhana, Pratapa Chakravarti, Hoysala Bhujabala, Sri Vira Narasimha, Maharajadhiraja, Raja Paramesvara, Sanivara Siddhi, Giri Durga Malla … apparently his name went on and on, and she was also informed that, “King Narasimha’s army commander, Somanatha had commissioned this temple, and had gone ahead and created a village around it calling it Somanathpura after himself”.
This trikuta temple with three garbhagrihas and three gorgeously beautiful Krishnas had swept her off her feet. Surpassing even Beluru and Halebidu in Hoysala architecture, the Venugopala here reminded her of the Belawadi’s Venugopalaswamy, who was equally mesmerizing. Keshava was missing, undoubted destroyed by the Islamic marauders for being the central deity, but Janardhana was left alone albeit damaged. All carved on soapstone which is soft during carving enabling elaborate detailing, but one that hardens over time with upacharas performed for the murtis such as sacred baths.
To think that in the 13th century before present, there were sculptors and architects with the know-how to create something of this exalted standard. No wonder it took sixty eight years to complete! Due to the damage inflicted by the jihadi armies, this was now no longer an active temple, what a pity. It was under the care of Ancient Monuments and Archaeological Sites and Remains Act, 1958, or ASI in common parlance, which kept the premises neat and tidy. The lady at the ticket counter in fact had been very pleasant, letting Shodashi go in without a ticket as she did not have adequate change on her, and the place was closing in two hours anyway, “go, go fast, sun is downing”, she had urged Shodashi sincerely.
Anish might be wondering where I am, thought Shodashi, it has been a few hours. It was one thing to be at the receiving end of a generous gesture but it won’t last long or continue if one starts taking advantage or is callous. She thought of calling him and letting him know that she was enjoying this wonderful treat from him, but decided against it. She did not want to break this magical spell. He of course knew very well that this was something she would be passionate about, else she would not jet set and go within minutes of her landing at the airport would she.
Plus she liked to use her phone to take photos only - or perhaps videos - not to chatter with it. Shodashi was of the firm opinion that phones were more of a bane and caused more damage than not to healthy relationships. This constant need to keep everyone ‘posted’ about what, where, and with whom one is, was not something she indulged in anymore. Unfortunately, her parents had only just discovered the joys of social media and wanted ‘proof in pictures’ of her travels, hence the few pictures she took was for their benefit.
Instead of texting Anish she simply thought it. Thank you Anish, you are a good friend. May you find what you are seeking. I wish you the very best.
Given that she was into shravanam these days, indulging in active listening to pravachanams and vedanta lectures by the dozen, Shodashi’s heightened sense of hearing caught some giggles from afar. Who might this be, at closing time? The voices sounded young. A peek from behind the Dancing Sarasvati opened up the idyllic evening to scholarly chaos. School children in uniform, mostly young girls - with flowers adorning their braids, bangles jingling on their wrists and bottus announcing their loyalties - all rushed in kicking off their rubber slippers in gay abandon and prancing in with anklet-ed feet for darshan, palms folded in sweet supplication. Their classmates, boys, not wanting to be left behind, called after them and ran into the garbhagriha too. Their teachers sat under the large canopied tamarind tree gossiping about the principal and his not too moral shenanigans, every few minutes they looked towards the temple entrance and shouted, “don’t make noise, do a quick round and come back, we have to go home”. Ha! School Excursions! Shodashi was past those days, if anything she was of the age where she could have been a principal of some school now, but she reminisced about her own school outings, sitting next to these sari clad women who were simply happy to be doing something that was not routine. They were content with their jobs that had brought them to such beautiful places like Somanathapura.
It was 1989. Shodashi had come up with an excellent plan to go to Gadisar, a place with many beautiful sandstone cenotaphs and temples around a beautiful lake, which was also known for its migratory birds from Bharatpur. Being an avid ornithologist - at least for that year - she had convinced her classmates and her juniors to agree to her plan. It had to be a school day since all her friends came from afar, from different campuses - Air Force, BSF, Fort, Civil Lines - and school buses would help them all congregate in one place; the school. And also her principal would not say no to her since Shodashi was, well, a persistent student who would wear him down with her planning. She had told him that she would arrange the transportation and that each student would get a picnic lunch from home and there would be orderlies from BSF (her friend’s father had promised both men and the machine) to look after them and that all she needed was an OK from school. So Mr. Palladia said OK, after all this meant one day off for himself as well. Except Mrs Sodhi, whose daughter was Shodashi’s junior (who by the by was all too eager to participate in a picnic with boys devoid of any ‘adults’), took offence and made sure that they were all chaperoned by ‘proper adults’ i.e., parents. Ultimately, Shodashi’s mother and Mrs Sodhi ended up joining the ‘fun picnic’ that Shodashi had oh so thoroughly planned as a way to mark her end of schooling, UGH! Shodashi was all of seventeen and in the 12th Std when this incident took place, and till date her heart burned at the unfortunate turn of events of that summer in Jaisalmer.
Looking now at the mature teachers seated next to her, who left their young wards to be on their own, her heart cooled a bit. And returned to Somanathapura from Rajasthan.
The premises were indeed well swept and well kept. The lawns trimmed and the plants flowered in full bloom. The toilets were clean and the taps in working condition. There were garbage cans at various spots too, what more could one demand from the Archaeological Survey of India? Perhaps regular worship of the deities; deities who had had to face the ignominy of destruction by those who appreciated neither beauty nor peace, and now rank neglect by those who categorized such devotional acts as unconstitutional and non-secular.
In fact what any sane person would want is for ASI to renew worship here. The young girls, the teachers, the workers, Shodashi herself, all of them had entered this space in reverence, they had brought in flowers, fruits, incense, change, to offer to the Krishnas within, such was their devotion. What can be done so that these are living spaces again for the devatas?
Shodashi sat on the panchayat, with four teachers from the school, and ruminated on these thoughts, while they opened their water bottles, and snack boxes to settle down. Before long another bus stopped at the entrance and this time college students came rushing in. Girls first, as always, and boys behind them, deciding which ladies group to follow. A few of them came towards Shodashi but she fidgeted, not wanting to talk, she wanted to watch, listen, and observe. She was not in a chatty mood. Maybe it was her go-away body language but thank god they did, and started posing for shorts and reels near the pillars. They did not go inside the temple though. From their Hindi it was clear that they were not in the know of the erstwhile grandeur of this temple. Maybe they were north Indians, maybe they were of other faiths. This is not a museum, why are they here, thought Shodashi to herself. On the other hand they could be Hindus too, just being teenagers interested only in selfies. Ah! Social Media, no one has escaped its fangs. Shodashi settled back into her thoughts partaking of the peeled orange that was offered to her by the smiling teachers, strangers but not really, she smiled back as a thank you. It was a genuine smile, from the heart. She could feel it bouncing in joy. No words had been exchanged but a whole culture had been experienced.
Shodashi did not feel like leaving this place.
The heretofore silent guard who had been ambling along listlessly back and forth from one high wall to another now found his voice and announced, “..temple closes in ten minutes, finish your darshan and come out, now!..”
Shodashi ran in for one last look at her Dancing Sarasvati. The goddess in stone seemed to heave a sigh of relief at the impending peace, or was it the shadow of the palm frond at dusk. There were flowers at her feet and a few inserted on top of her head and hands. One of these young girls had found her, worshipped her, and had left blessed, satiated. She would grow up to be a beautiful woman with taste in arts and aesthetics. Or the bhakta could have been this well-dressed lady teacher Shodashi had run into in the courtyard who was deflecting the sun for a selfie.
The world had just gotten better.
Shodashi ran out before the doors closed on her, and called Anish, “this was simply sacred and sublime, no words really…but thank you, on my way home”.
“So glad you enjoyed it there, I have so many albums of the temple, and a whole powerpoint on how to make it into a live temple, let’s chat over some hot thepla and chai” Anish answered in jubilation as though the temple was getting consecrated right away.
How did he do it, he had just come back from a three day road trip to Sringeri yet there was no sign of fatigue in his voice or his person. Where did he get so much energy from? And then she got a text from him and she smiled when she saw it, of course!
“Jai Shree Krishna, from my 2004 trip, isn’t he gorgeous, I am so happy you had his darshan too”
Kanakadasa’s composition Baro Krishnayya came to her spontaneously.
ಬಾರೋ ಕೃಷ್ಣಯ್ಯಾ ನಿನ್ನ ಭಕ್ತರ ಮನೆಗೀಗ ರಂಗಯ್ಯ
ಬಾರೋ ನಿನ್ನ ಮುಖ ತೋರೊ ನಿನ್ನ ಸರಿಯಾರೋ
ಜಗಧರ ಶೀಲನೇಅಂದುಗೆ ಪಾಡಗವು ಕಾಲಂದುಗೆ ಕಿರು ಗೆಜ್ಜೆ ಧಿಮ್ ಧಿಮಿ ಧಿಮಿ ಧಿಮಿ ಧಿಮಿಕೆನುತ
ಪೊಂಗೊಳಲನೂದುತ ಬಾರಯ್ಯಕಂಕಣ ಕರದಲ್ಲಿ ಪೊನ್ನುಂಗುರ ಹೊಳೆಯುತ
ಕಿಂಕಿಣಿ ಕಿಣಿ ಕಿಣಿ ಕಿಣಿರೆನುತ
ಪೊಂಗೊಳಲನೂದುತ ಬಾರಯ್ಯ ಬಾರೋ ಕೃಷ್ಣಯ್ಯವಾಸ ಉಡುಪಿಲಿ ನೆಲೆಯಾದಿಕೇಶವನೇ ದಾಸ ನಿನ್ನ ಪದ ದಾಸ ದಾಸ ನಿನ್ನ ಪದ ದಾಸ ನಿನ್ನ ಪದ ದಾಸ
Well, there was not much she could do now but return to Mysuru. The sun had set and her heavenly time was up. Kaveri was gurgling her goodbyes too.